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CHAPTER THREE — COFFEE STAINED CONTROL
ELENOR
The office buzzed around her like a hive. Glass walls. Clicking heels. Phones ringing in sleek, polite tones. Everyone moved with purpose — fast, confident, borderline robotic.
And Elenor?
She was faking it like her life depended on it.
"Printer code?" someone asked over her shoulder.
"4397," she replied without looking up.
Three hours into the job and she already had half the floor thinking she'd been there for months. Not bad for someone who spent the night tossing between I hate him and how is someone that rude that hot?
She made it through the first batch of emails, organized two meetings, and even managed to memorize three executives' coffee orders. Her blouse stuck to her back from nerves, but she smiled through it all.
Then it happened.
The coffee spill.
She was carrying two paper cups when one of the interns bumped into her near the corner office.
Hot liquid splashed onto her blouse.
The white blouse.
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry!" the intern stammered.
"It's fine," Elenor lied, pressing napkins to the damp spot while her face burned. "No harm done."
Except now her blouse clung to her skin, and the outline of her bra was way too visible. Great. Just great.
She spun around—and walked straight into a wall of muscle and expensive cologne.
Alexander Wolfe.
Of course.
His hand shot out to steady her, firm on her arm. "You alright?"
Elenor stepped back instantly, heart in her throat. "I'm—yes. Just… coffee. It happens."
His eyes dropped to the stain.
Then to her chest.
Then back to her face.
A long, charged pause.
"You should change," he said, voice low.
"I don't have a change of clothes," she replied, trying not to sound defensive.
He studied her for a beat longer, then turned. "Follow me."
"What?"
"To my office."
Her stomach dropped. "I didn't mean to spill it, if this is about—"
"It's not. Just follow me, Miss Vale."
She followed.
He opened a sleek black closet in the corner of his office — a place she hadn't noticed before — and pulled out a neatly folded button-up shirt. Crisp. Light blue. Still in its dry-cleaning bag.
"I keep spares," he said. "Boardroom emergencies."
She hesitated. "You want me to wear your shirt?"
His brow arched. "I'd rather not have my assistant walking around looking like a coffee advertisement."
Elenor took it without another word and slipped into the private restroom beside his desk.
The shirt was oversized, of course. His scent lingered in the fabric — subtle spice and wood and something she couldn't name but would absolutely not admit she liked.
When she stepped out, his gaze flicked up from his screen and paused.
"I won't stretch it," she said flatly.
"You're not that fragile," he replied, and something about the way he said it sent heat up her neck.
She cleared her throat. "Thank you. For the shirt."
He leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable. "Try not to spill anything else. I'm running out of clean clothes."
She gave him a tight smile. "I'll send yours to the dry cleaners. I'm not in the habit of stealing men's shirts."
"Pity," he murmured. "You wear it well."
Elenor blinked.
He was already back to typing.
And she — blouse stained, pride dented, and still very much flustered — quietly walked out, trying not to trip on her own heartbeat.
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ALEXANDER
She looked better in his shirt than she had any right to.
And it annoyed him.
Not because she spilled coffee. Not because she walked into him. But because when she stepped out of the restroom — sleeves rolled, shirt half-tucked, damp curls still clinging to her cheek — something in him stalled.
It was just a shirt.
It wasn't supposed to feel like anything.
But it did.
It felt like the beginning of a very complicated mistake.
And for once in his life, Alexander Wolfe wasn't sure he wanted to stop it.