DANGEROUSLY ATTACHED

The first thing I see when I crack one eye open is the blinding sunlight piercing through my shallow blinds.

Springing upright immediately, I whip my head toward the nightstand, my heart already pounding.

8:17 a.m.

Holy fucking shit.

The bloody alarm didn't go off.

Or maybe it did, and I slapped it into silence in my sleep. But either way, I throw back the covers and fling myself out of bed so hard I almost fall face-first into my dresser.

It'll take me twenty-eight minutes or more to get from Brooklyn to Midtown Manhattan. On a Monday.

"Shit, shit, shit…"

I pull open my closet and grab the first thing my fingers touch—a cream silk blouse with sheer sleeves. Next comes my tightest black pencil skirt, because it's the only clean one left.

I throw my phone into my bag, snatch my heels from the floor, and stick a granola bar between my teeth as I dart out the door, running like my life depends on it.

Because my life actually depends on it!

The subway is packed and hot by the time I squeeze myself inside. I end up crushed between a man's disgusting armpit and a baby stroller, watching the time tick by on my phone and silently cursing my entire existence.

This is such a terrible morning.

Remind me never to stay up late on Sundays, drinking wine and binge-watching Stranger Things like I don't have a job that requires being alive by eight.

By the time the towering office building comes into view, my left heel snaps off in the middle of a sprint.

Perfect.

Just perfect.

I dial Beverly's number with shaking fingers as I hobble forward.

She's barely said hello when I blurt into the phone.

"Beverly, please, tell me you still have the emergency heels at your desk."

A whispered hiss of panic answers me. "Girl, where are you? He's already here."

I pause in the middle of a hobble, trying to figure out who 'he' is… then it clicks.

Oh, shit.

"What do you mean he's already here? He wasn't due until next week!" I whisper-shrill back, picking up my pace even though my heel is barely hanging on.

"Wait till you hear who it is." Beverly lowers her voice. "It's Lawrence freaking Moore himself, currently touring the floor."

I stop dead. "What?!"

What the hell is the founder of our tech company doing at this branch?

The headquarters is in London. That's where he stays, runs the empire, and hides from peasants like us.

Richard Fox, our New York branch director and a friend, was supposed to be replaced by someone else. A normal corporate guy. Not the actual founding CEO.

Not Lawrence freaking Moore.

And next week.

Not today.

Not NOW.

My stomach twists. I'm Richard's executive secretary. Which means if Moore is taking over, I'm his secretary next.

And being late on the first morning with a man like Lawrence Moore is career suicide.

"I'll bring the heels and meet you downstairs," Beverly says over the line. "Get here now."

I hang up, kick off both shoes, pick them up, and start running barefoot.

Why did this have to happen to me today of all days?

By the time I reach the building, I'm a complete mess.

I flash my ID at George, the security guard, without even slowing down.

Beverly is already waiting a few meters ahead, holding a pair of black pumps.

"You are a goddess," I say breathlessly, snatching them.

"Why are you late?" she hisses as we speed-walk toward the elevators.

"I overslept," I mutter, hopping on one foot while trying to slide the new heels on without falling over. "What the hell is Lawrence Moore doing here?"

"Girl, I'm just as shocked as you." She falls into step beside me. "And he's been here for forty-five minutes."

I nearly stumble. "Oh my god."

"He already pulled the attendance report himself."

"He did what?" My eyes widen even further.

"Wait, wait… but Richard's transfer wasn't due until next week."

"It got moved up." Beverly lowers her voice to a whisper. "Don't tell anyone, this is secret information for now, but there was a major security scare. Someone almost hacked into one of our biggest systems."

My face blanches. "What were they after?"

"I don't know much. They're keeping it tight. But I heard it was bad, like, encryption-layer bad."

I gasp.

"When Moore found out about it, he cancelled his business trip and flew to New York himself to fix the mess."

She presses the elevator button. The doors slide open.

"Oh my God," I whisper.

"Yeah. Now move." She shoves me gently inside.

When we step off onto the executive floor and get to the main office, the entire staff is lined up like soldiers waiting for inspection.

I slide into the only empty spot at the end, my heart beating wildly as I smooth my skirt and brush strands of hair away from my face.

Less than two minutes later, the double doors at the far end open, and Lawrence Moore strides in.

Holy. Fucking. Hotness.

I've seen his face everywhere; on business magazines, TV interviews, even the massive portrait in Richard's office and the main lobby, but seeing him in person is on a completely different level.

No one mentioned the new boss comes with six-foot-two, heart-stopping perfection.

He moves like he owns the world.

His impeccably tailored designer black suit, which I bet costs more than my annual rent, hugs his lean build and accentuates his wide shoulders.

A crisp white shirt peeks out underneath, with a tie knotted so tight I feel strangled just looking at it.

His hair is dark brown, deliberately imperfect, falling across his forehead and brushing against the frames of his glasses.

Thin black frames.

Behind them, his eyes scan the line of people.

Green. The colour of forests at dusk.

And suddenly, my heart is ready to leap out of my mouth.

His gaze drops to the slim tablet in his hand, then slowly lifts and locks on me.

"Scarlett Thorn," Lawrence says, his voice cold, but professional. "Executive secretary to the branch manager, a role that, as of this morning, reports directly to me."

"Yes, sir." I manage, my voice raspy.

I clear my throat to remedy it.

The lobby is so quiet I can hear my own pulse. Everyone's eyes are on me.

"I was told standard hours begin at eight, with a fifteen-minute grace period. Correct?"

I nod once, fighting the panic in my chest. "Yes, sir."

He glances at the gold Rolex watch on his wrist, then at me again. "Yet you walked through the doors…" He pauses, his gaze cold and intimidating. "Thirty-two minutes late. And from the state of you…"

His gaze runs over me: my wind-blown hair, dishevelled blouse, everything.

"...I'd estimate you sprinted in roughly ninety seconds before I did."

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry.

"Yes, sir. I…"

"I'm not interested in the excuse." He cuts in smoothly, his eyes making another slow, unimpressed pass over me. "I'm interested in punctuality."

Those green eyes behind black frames pin me right where I stand.

"Tomorrow you'll be here at 8:00. The day after that, 7:30. We'll keep moving the goalpost until you learn what punctuality means in my company."

Beverly's eyes widen.

"Do I make myself clear?"

Wow. What an asshole.

"Crystal," I reply, trying to sound composed.