Chapter 35

Chapter 35

Poppy

"Knock, knock," Levi's voice precedes him as he peeks his head into my office.

Startled, I glance up. "Hey, come in." My reply is hesitant, my eyes flicking back to the computer screen displaying a complicated web of international time zones. I enjoy some of my new tasks. Dare I say, orchestrating Julian's schedule can be relaxing at times. However, other parts feel like a Tetris game that I'm desperately trying to beat. Take this current project, for instance. He has a meeting requiring me to knit together people in four different time zones. It feels as complicated as learning a foreign language at the moment.

Levi wheels in a mail cart, a casual shrug on his shoulders. "Mail's here for the boss."

"Oh." I stand abruptly, a knot of confusion forming in my stomach. Debbie never mentioned handling the mail. Debbie never mentioned a lot of tasks. A new task isn't the issue. I need to add it to my schedule and ensure nothing is pressing about it.

I glance back at the screen, examining the time zones for partners in London, Sydney, and Los Angeles. Ugh, I need to finish this by today.

"Debbie usually sorts through it," Levi says, catching my puzzled expression. "It comes on Mondays and Fridays unless anything's marked urgent. There's always a bunch of fancy handwritten invitations for charity events. The ones the boss can't attend, Debbie hands to me for replies."

I round my desk and pick up the first envelope. Its thick, heavy paper feels like luxury under my fingertips. "Thanks for the heads-up," I say.

Glancing at my watch, I feel a pang of annoyance. This unexpected task is going to throw a wrench in my meticulously planned schedule. Resigned, I decide to skip lunch, nibbling on the leftover croissants instead, to sort through this pile.

"Thanks, Levi. You can take your lunch break. I'll cover your phone and get started on this."

"Okay. Thanks." Levi's voice trails off as he exits.

I grab a croissant, the flaky crust crumbling deliciously with each bite. Guiltily, I imagine the calories piling onto my hips, but the taste is too divine to resist.

Sitting down, I dive into the mail cart. It feels invasive, opening someone else's mail, but it's part of the job.

Methodically, I separate the junk mail from the important mail that requires scheduling a meeting with Julian. I'll need a few weeks to fully grasp what commitments he prefers.

The bottom of the cart holds a few packages. I open the first and can't help but laugh – it's a magazine offering custom interior selections for private jets.

"This is insane," I mutter to myself.

It strikes me then – I have no clue about Julian's net worth. Not that it should matter, but considering the billion-dollar government contracts his family business holds, it's intriguing. And now, here he is, being targeted by high-end jet sales like it was just another Wednesday afternoon shopping spree.

Curious, I grab the magazine and hastily Google the price of the jet model being advertised. My eyes widen in disbelief. "Base price $80 million. Just take my soul, why don't you." I mutter.

"Is it up for sale?" Julian's voice, smooth yet startling, causes me to whirl around. He's leaning against his office door, one leg casually crossed over the other. I feel a sudden hot flash as if menopause has hit me like a freight train.

If you are the devil, then yes, it's for sale.

I stand up, holding the magazine out towards him. "This company seems to think so. Do you have $80 million? Because if you do, I want to hitchhike along on this private jet shopping trip?" I try to joke, but his serious face makes my heart race.

"Yes." He deadpans.

"You mean the company has $80 million lying around."

"No, the company has a lot more."

I roll my eyes, then pause, realizing he's not joking. My gulp echoes in the suddenly tense air.

"Does that scare you?" he asks a hint of challenge in his voice.

"It should scare you," I retort, shoving the magazine against his chest. "You shouldn't go around telling people that."

"I'm not. You're not anyone, and I know you're not after my money. Plus, you mentioned you had a trust fund of your own."

"What if my trust fund is worth only ten thousand?" I challenge, my lips curling into a sassy grin.

"It's not," he counters, radiating utter confidence.

"What are you, the IRS?"

He laughs, a deep, hearty sound that fills the space between us.

"How do you know?" I push.

"Because you paid cash for your apartment," he says, a twinkle of mischief lighting up his eyes. "I overheard your realtor discussing your contract on the phone before you moved in. The door was open; they were still painting. I remember the pungent smell of paint fumes that day. I came to look over what my interior designer did and where I was going to move my stuff into her schemes."

"Oh," escapes my lips as I uncross my arms and shift my gaze away, a wave of sadness washing over me. It's a trust fund I'd willingly relinquish in a heartbeat to bring my parents back.

"Hey," Julian steps forward, extending a hand in empathy, but I instinctively recoil.

I flash him a look that screams, 'What are you doing? We're at work, and you're the boss, not the nice guy with twinkle lights.'

"I'm just sorting your mail, Mr. Sterling."

He gives me a sharp look. "Remember, it's Julian here. ‘Mr. Sterling' is for my father," he says, with an underlying seriousness.

He doesn't want to be compared to his father, which makes me wonder if he has a daddy issue. Not that it's a big deal, but it makes me want to dig and find out why.

"What bothered you about my statement? Is it that I overheard?" he asks, his tone softening.

I shake my head, avoiding his penetrating gaze. My eyes drop to his shirt, and I start counting the buttons, a feeble attempt to divert my thoughts.

Eventually, I muster the courage to respond. "Just the memory of why I have the trust fund," I whisper, the words barely audible.

The silence that follows is palpable, filled with a breath of understanding. He reaches out again, his touch light on my forearm, a wordless expression of empathy. In the confines of our workplace, a hug isn't feasible, but I sense his intent, knowing his embrace would have been immediate in a more private setting.

Swiftly shifting gears, I say, "I never expected to get a magazine like this. They're marketing custom jets like they're just everyday items."

"How would you market a private jet?"

I think of an ad with a sexy pilot and a private island. I bite back a laugh, feeling my cheeks warm.

"Well, not in a magazine. It's got to be unique and exclusive. Like a secret club for the insanely rich."

His gaze intensifies, almost undressing me. I clench my legs together, fighting the urge to just melt into him.

"What's your pitch to someone who can have anything?" He responds.

Are we still referring to the jet? Of course not. Julian could get any woman he wants, yet he's set his sights on little old me.

Does he want me to pitch myself to him? Jesus, I can't handle this. I need a mental line to Harper so she can give me a witty reply.

I continue talking about the jet because my brain is about to become putty. "I'd offer a gift from somewhere exclusive, a place not everyone can get to, Something rare and interesting."

"What if what they really want is right across the hall?" His words are heavy with double meanings.

My heart pounds. "Julian," I whisper.

What is he playing at? We're supposed to be keeping this a secret because of his request.

He leans in. "I can't wait for the day I can kiss you outside my office or act out fantasies behind closed doors."

"You wanted to keep us hidden," I remind him.

"This is me trying. But every time Ryan from HR looks at you, I think of firing him."

"Jealousy is a red flag," I tease, peeking down the clear hallway.

"A flag I wave proudly," he declares.

A flag I'll pledge to. I think.

There are two types of jealous men. Type A is jealous because he is proud; he wants other men to know you belong to him, like a trophy but also like a treasure. He wants to protect you. Type B is jealous because he is insecure; he feels threatened, and that often leads to emotional abuse reflected onto the woman.

Julian is Type A, the kind I've never experienced. He's the type I've read about, the type movies are made about.

Julian whispers, his voice seductively low, "Does that scare you?"

"It's terrifying," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Why?" His question lingers, charged with curiosity.

"We're at work," I respond, but it's more than that. It's about trust, vulnerability, and past scars.

He leans in, reducing the space between us. "Consider this a five-minute break. I can't wait for our date on Wednesday."

I snort, a nervous habit, and my tongue darts out to moisten my suddenly dry lips.Note to self: Buy lip balm.

"It scares me because I'm afraid you might change, that you'll transform from my white knight into the monster," I confess, the words lifting a burden from my chest.

Julian's reaction is immediate: he straightens, planting his feet more firmly on my office floor, his body language reflecting his understanding of my reference to a troubled past.

After a pause, he speaks with a steady, reassuring voice. "Give me time to prove myself to you. I might be a CEO now, but my heart's still that of a soldier. I've spent my life slaying monsters, not turning into one, Poppy," he assures me.

"Men don't say things like that."

"Real men do. An honest man shouldn't shy away from showing his heart along with his defenses."

I glance up, meeting his intense grey eyes, and feel a surge of emotion welling up. "We should get back to work. I didn't know you still received snail mail," I deflect in an attempt to regain some composure.

He takes the magazine, a thoughtful expression shaping his features. I'm grateful he doesn't push the conversation further. "The company owns seven jets; our largest is old and outdated. Kent's listed it for sale, and we're scouting for a replacement," he explains, rolling the magazine in his hand as if it's nothing out of the ordinary.

"It's just business. I'd like you to vet the companies. Choose one that offers our company anexclusive edge," he suggests with a playful tone.

"You want me to vet a jet company?" My eyes widen in disbelief. "Julian, I'm the kind of girl who can't tell the difference between a commercial jet and a Concorde."

He throws his head back, laughter booming in the room. "They stopped making the Concorde in 2003, Poppy."

"You just proved my point. Whenever I need something that involves technology, I give that task to Harper, and I highly doubt you want me to seek her help on this. She'll install a stripper pole in the aisle."

"Okay, I'll select the company, but you handle the details. You, not Harper. You do know much of your work is under an NDA, right? What goes on here can't be morning gossip to Harper."

"My lips are sealed," I reply as I gesture the act of locking my mouth shut.

He gives me a questioning look before replying. "If Harper didn't work for the NSA, then I would be worried about having her as your friend, but she must be able to keep a secret. I'll provide layouts of the other jets to guide you, but please, no stripper poles."

"You're entrusting me with an $80 million project." I place a hand over my heart. I knew this job was a step up from my last job, but a multi-million-dollar project should require another degree. "What if I choose a completely pink interior?"

He shrugs nonchalantly. "It would certainly be a conversation starter with our partners." His gaze meets mine squarely. "You can handle it. It's part of your job. Just ask if you have questions."

"Good lord," I mutter, my mind racing. "My family's company was successful, but Henry doesn't have a private jet."

Julian leans against my desk, massaging his injured shoulder. "You never talk about your other brother."

I turn my back to him, creating a physical barrier. "Five-minute break is over, Julian." There's a hint of lightness in my voice, an attempt to steer away from the gravity of our conversation. Deep down, I'm not ready to delve into that subject today. In the back of my mind, a nagging fear persists: while I've been scared of him becoming a monster, what if he starts to view me as one? I'm the woman responsible for her other brother's death.

He clears his throat, "You're right. I apologize."

I bend to grab the next package, my hands shaking slightly. "We need to fit this mail into your schedule. That stack," I gesture to my desk, "is what I didn't consider junk. It's mostly party invitations and charity galas."

"Fantastic," he grumbles. "Just forward them to Kent. Whatever he doesn't plan on attending, I'll try to make."

"I'm sure Kent will love that," I kid, reaching for the contents of the next package.

"He's better at social events than me. I can't stand suits, but Kent can't stop custom ordering them."

I open the next package and look inside. There's a bunch of photos. As I sort through them, my heart skips a beat. "Why is someone sending you pictures of Kent?" I blurt, flipping through candid shots of the youngest Sterling brother. One photo shows Kent in an intimate moment with a woman at a bar.

"Lovely," I grimace, anger flaring at the thought of Harper seeing these.

Julian leans in, his gaze turning sharp and intense, like a soldier ready for battle. He flips through the photos, his expression darkening.

"What box did this come from?" His voice is cold, sending a shiver down my spine.

"What box?" His head snaps up, his hand clutching the photo tightly in the air.

I flinch, then immediately regret my reaction. Julian isn't Andrew. He's not a monster.

"Poppy," his anger evaporates, replaced by concern. "Did you think I was going to hit you?"

I shake my head, unable to speak.

"Don't lie to me."

"Hey, I'm back," Levi interrupts, poking his head in, but Julian and I remain silent. Sensing the tension, Levi quickly retreats.

"Poppy," Julian persists.

"It was nothing," I insist, pointing to the photo in his hand. "Please, Julian, it was just a reaction. I know you wouldn't hurt me." My eyes plead for understanding.

"I'd kill anyone who tried," he vows, his gaze locked with mine, filled with a storm of emotions. His eyes glance at the door, and then he crowds my space, cupping my cheek in his warm, strong hand. "I know we're at work, but I need to do this," he whispers. "I need you to know I'd never hurt you, Pumpkin."

He lowers his lips to mine before I can talk sense into either of us. His kiss isn't slow and sweet. My soul? He just claimed it, plucking it from my body with his lips. It's hot, passionate, moan-inducing.

My hands wrap around his wide, muscular back. I forget our location; I forget everything. I part my lips, our tongues connect, and my body ignites into a roaring flame.

"Julian," I moan as his hips press into mine. Hardness meeting softness. A perfect contrast. That's exactly what Julian Sterling is, the opposite of everything I have known. His touch is sweet, tender, and respectful. His words are encouraging and always reassuring. He's never tried to make me fear; he reinforces how he's going to keep me safe.

I pull back from the kiss, and those three magical words, "I love you," almost escape from my lips. It feels true—I do love him. Not all love has to be slow to build. Love comes in many forms, and with Julian, it's sudden, like connecting the correct puzzle piece on the first try.

He glances at the door, which is still clear, then back at me. "Anytime you think of whoever hurt you, I want you to tell me. I'll make you forget, Poppy." He bends down quickly and steals one more kiss from my swollen lips.

I look down, so flustered I might take flight like a hummingbird, as I tuck my hair behind my ear. "The pictures," I whisper, trying to refocus.

He nods. "Which box?"

I point to it.

"I need you to go get Kent and Theo. Tell them it's urgent."

"Do you want me to call them? It's fastest."

He shakes his head. "No, I don't want to risk someone else listening."

I eye the box again. The situation weighs heavily on me. The unmarked box and the detailed photos all tie in with the threat Julian mentioned. I realize then that I'm not just a secret to him; I'm someone he's trying to protect from becoming a target. He's always been telling me the truth.

I begin to turn and head to the elevator. Julian's gaze follows me, his eyes conveying a mix of fear and determination.

"Poppy," he calls out. "I don't want this to scare you away from me."

"It does scare me, Julian," I admit, my voice trembling with the weight of my past fears. "But it's not making me want to run from you. I want you and your family to be safe, and I wish I could help."

His smile, though strained, flickers with a glimmer of hope. "You're helping me more than you know. You make me forget and feel normal again." His posture is like a protective shield as he steps between the box and me. "So you're not canceling our date for Wednesday?"

I manage a weak smile. "No, but the food had better be amazing. You've got twinkle lights to live up to."