Inappropriate

~Hermes~

I should’ve transferred her.

Yesterday, at my urgent schedule session, my therapist, Alan advised me to, and I agreed, because it was the right move.

But I didn’t, more like I couldn't.

She’s still here, sitting in front of my office, breathing in my space, and making it hard for me to think straight.

So, I form another strategy, if I can’t stop wanting her, I’ll burn the want out, not with distance, but with discipline.

Obsession only has power if you let it stay soft, so I'll make it sharp, cold, and controlled.

I’ll turn it into something I can use. Something like hate.

This morning, she brings me coffee like I can't make mine.

She’s wearing a navy shirt dress, tailored and tasteful. Office-approved, but it hugs her waist too well, and when she leans forward to set the cup down, the top button tugs, just a little, and just enough to show the soft swell of her breasts, barely caged in.

I should be thinking about the numbers on my desk. The lawyer's meeting is in an hour, but all I can think is that if that button gives out, I’d finally get a clean look at what I already fucking remember.

Her breasts.

The feel of her under my hands. The way she gasped when I pushed inside her. The heat of her mouth, her skin, her body.

I take a sip.

Fuck wrong.

"This isn't what I asked for," I scowl, building the anger in me.

"Dark roast, almond milk, one sugar," she says, trying to sound confident.

I don’t look at her. "Then you weren’t listening,"

"Try again. This time, use your ears."

My cock twitches in my slacks and I want to put a bullet through my own temple.

She leaves again. Good.

I rake a hand through my hair, trying to get the blood out of my groin and back to my head.

But it doesn’t help.

She comes back with a new cup, and same dress, same fucking button. It’s hanging on by thread and I hate it. Hate that I want it to give up.

Her brown hair is curled today, tucked clean behind her ears. It's neat and polished, and all I can picture is how wild it looked splayed on a hotel pillow.

I don’t touch the coffee.

"No. This isn’t what I want. I guess I’ll be making my own coffee from now on, since my secretary can’t get it right."

That’s cruel.

She flinches, which is good. Let her feel it.

If she stays afraid of me, maybe I won’t end up pinning her to my goddamn desk.

She leaves again.

Eventually, she brings one that smells exactly right. Exact temperature, and roast. She got help, I know she did. She probably cornered some employee in a panic. I should say thank you, but I don’t. Instead, I check my Rolex.

It’s time for that damn meeting — the first step in saving this goddamn company.

I should go alone.

But I won’t be able to think if she’s not near me.

So she’s coming. "Meeting. Come." I say

She blinks. "But I thought—"

"You’re coming." I stand and walk out, because if I don’t, I’ll say something filthy.

Or worse, I’ll beg to touch her again.

***

We're at the restaurant.

I leave her outside, for my sanity, and so I can talk to Gavin about the next step in saving this company before it burns it to the ground.

"You look like shit," Gavin says as he stands, adjusting his cuffs.

"And a good day to you too, Gavin." I mutter sliding into the seat. I scan the room. "Where’s Jake?" I ask, remembering I was supposed to meet with my two lawyer friends.

"Running late. Something about a deposition running over."

Of course. Jake’s always late.

Gavin pulls out a folder, and tosses it on the table between us. "You sure you want to do this here? In a restaurant?"

"It’s a private room," I mutter, loosening my collar slightly. "Besides, I wanted a neutral setting. Somewhere we don’t look like we’re plotting a hostile acquisition."

Gavin snorts. "Because we’re not?"

I say nothing.

He opens the file. "So, Virex. I’ve gone through every page of that internal leak again, and it’s surgical. No timestamps, no metadata, no traceable senders. The whistleblower knew exactly what to wipe."

"And the press?"

"Circling again. Someone’s feeding them."

"From inside?"

"Possibly. But Virex has more rats than a sewer system. It could be one of theirs trying to drag Apex down with them."

I run my tongue across my teeth. "Xyren-4 was their trial, their dosage, and their approval pipeline."

Gavin nods. "And yet, your father’s name is on the release forms."

A silence drops between us.

"He didn’t say a word," I mutter. “Before the stroke, he just… stared. Like he already knew what I’d find."

"And you think he’s guilty?"

"No." I look up at him. "I think he was protecting someone, which is worse."

Another pause.

"You know the board’s going to push for a scapegoat," Gavin says. "They want someone to bury, and right now, all arrows point to Lucien Grande."

I lean back in the chair, flexing my jaw. "They’ll get someone. Just not my father."

Gavin watches me. "And who, then?"

The door opens, and Jake walks in, late and unapologetic in his usual tailored chaos.

"Apologies," he says, brushing his sleeves as he takes a seat. "Murderous traffic."

"Always is when you drive like an eighty-year-old in a Bentley," Gavin mutters.

Jake shrugs. "I like my life."

Then Gavin smirks, like he’s been waiting. "So... Did you hear? Hermes got a new secretary. Apparently, he brought her to the restaurant."

Jake laughs softly. "Don’t tell me it’s the brunette chatting away outside."

I freeze.

He goes on, unaware. "Pretty thing, loud, and wearing a shirt that’s fighting for its life.”

My hand curls into a fist against the table.

Jake blinks. "Wait... is that her?"

I stand without a word, because of course it’s her. She’s out there, smiling like nothing happened, like I didn’t spend the morning tasting the ghost of her skin every time I blinked.

The door swings open under my hand.

I see she’s laughing at something an idiot in the hallway just said, standing too close to him, while her shirt hugs her too tight.

“Inside,” I say, voice low.

Her head snaps toward me, and she blinks. "But you said—"

"I changed my mind." I snap, entering inside the room, and she follows, because she has to.

Because if she stays out here another second, I might do something not worth it.

"Damn, she really is the one," Jake hoots, adjusting his collar as he stares after her.

"Good–good day, sirs," she says shyly, eyes down with a soft voice.

"Come, come, sit with us. We don’t bite," Gavin says, pushing back his chair to let her squeeze in.

I sigh. It was better when she was outside. I’ve just dragged her into the wolves' den.

She glances at me, waiting for some kind of nod, some cue to sit. I don’t look at her. I keep my eyes on the folder like it holds my self-control.

"What’s your name?" Gavin asks.

"June. June Alexander."

Her voice is small, and careful. This wasn’t how she sounded the night she said I was huge.

"June?" Jake repeats. "Huh. Sounds familiar."

I curse under my breath.

He’s trying to flirt.

I lift my head and look—

And nearly throw the damn folder across the room.

The button. That button I watched strain all morning like it was holding on for dear life—has finally given up. Popped open. Just enough to show the swell of cleavage that should only be for me.

Good, but wrong fucking timing.

Jake’s already ogling, but she... she’s fucking oblivious.

I feel the heat crawl up my neck, and I lose it.

"Alright. Meeting’s over. Let’s go." I stand so fast the chair screeches.

Gavin blinks. "Wait—what?"

Jake stares like I just slapped him.

But June’s already springing to her feet, bag in hand, scrambling to follow me.

"But, we’re not done with our discussion," Gavin calls, but his voice fades as we leave the room.

Outside the restaurant, I can’t bring myself to look at her.

She rushes to the curb, opening the back door just as my driver pulls up.

I move to slide in—then stop. There’s no way I’m sitting in the same car with her. Not today.

"You’re not going back to the office with me," I say.

She blinks. "What—are you…?"

"You can have the rest of the day off," I cut in, signaling the driver.

"Give her your jacket."

The driver doesn’t ask questions. He’s seen it too. Hell, everyone sees it.

Everyone but her.

She takes the jacket, confused, until she looks down. Her face drops, and a small gasp slips out. Then she throws the jacket on, scrambling to cover herself.

"I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize that—" she starts.

I cut her off again. I can’t hear that voice right now. It’s torture.

"Tomorrow," I say, coldly, "wear something more appropriate."

Then I get in the car, and I leave her behind.

It’s better this way.