Chapter 4

4

Kinsley's first week as Mr. Westerhouse's personal assistant had been a whirlwind of learning new systems, remembering names, and trying to anticipate his needs before he voiced them. But nothing had prepared her for the way her heart would race every time he called her into his office.

“Kinsley,” his voice carried through the phone’s receiver. Hearing her name roll off his tongue warmed her on this uncharacteristically chilly summer morning. “Can you come in here for a moment?”

She had just sat down at her desk seconds before. “Yeah, I’ll be right there,” she said, wrestling the eagerness out of her voice. Each time she was in his presence, she felt herself losing in a battle between attraction and sticking to a professional boundary.

Laptop in hand, she headed to his office. The steady rhythm of the click of her heels against the wooden floor helped calm her nerves. Her small office was only a few doors down, yet the walk to his felt like a mile. She found Mr. Westerhouse standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his broad shoulders outlined against the morning sun. He turned, and for a moment, their eyes met.

“I need your help with something,” he said, motioning her over. As Kinsley approached, she caught the faint scent of his cologne—woody and masculine. “These proposals,” he gestured to several folders spread across his desk, “need to be organized by priority. But first,” he paused, running a hand through his dark hair, “I need coffee.”

“Isn’t that what the coffee cart is for?” she teased, raising an eyebrow.

“Not today,” he said. “I need something better. There's this little coffee shop down the street. They make the only espresso in town worth drinking.”

“And you want me to get it for you?” She struggled to keep the amusement out of her voice, but he didn’t make it easy.

“Actually,” a small smile played at the corners of his mouth, “I thought we could both use a break. Walk with me?”

“A break? We just got here.” She glanced at the stack of proposals, then back at him. “Are you sure that's appropriate, Mr. Westerhouse?”

“Daegan,” he corrected her. It wasn’t the first time he’d insisted, but Kinsley was trying very hard not to think of him as anything else. “And what's inappropriate about a boss and his personal assistant grabbing a coffee before a busy day?”

Everything , she thought. Especially when her boss made her pulse quicken just by standing near her. But she found herself nodding, anyway. She wasn’t na?ve. Letting her guard down, even for something as innocent as a coffee run, felt like playing with fire. But something about Daegan Westerhouse made it impossible to keep her walls fully intact. He wasn’t just her boss—he was magnetic, and that scared her.

The morning summer air was crisp as they walked. Kinsley hugged her arms against the chill, wishing she'd grabbed her coat.

“Here.” Mr. Westerhouse shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over her before she could protest. His fingers lingered on her shoulders for the briefest moment, and Kinsley hoped the cold could explain why she’d shivered. Though he pulled back quickly, his usual composure had slipped just enough to make her wonder if he’d felt it too. His scent wrapped around her with the exquisite lining of his jacket like a dangerous promise. This was exactly the kind of gesture that could fuel Laurel’s gossip for weeks—the kind that could destroy everything Kinsley was working for. Yet she couldn't bring herself to shrug it off.

“Thank you,” she managed, trying to ignore how intimate the simple gesture felt. She should have protested, should have insisted she was fine without it, but he’d disarmed her.

He smiled, small and hesitant, as if offering his jacket wasn’t something he did often. It left behind a crack in his otherwise composed demeanor. “The weather is certainly atypical today. Usually, summer mornings aren’t this cold. It must be that front that passed through last night, plus the breeze coming off the coast. It’s one of those days where you drive to work with the heat blasting, and then have the air conditioning on high on the way home.” He chuckled.

“I guess I wasn’t expecting this.” Both his jacket and the weather.

“So,” he said as they walked, “tell me something about yourself that isn't in your resume.”

Kinsley considered for a moment. “I collect vintage teacups. My grandmother started the collection, and now I can't pass an antique store without looking for them.”

“Teacups?” He looked at her with genuine interest. “I wouldn't have guessed that.”

“What would you have guessed?”

“I don't know,” he admitted. “People are full of surprises.”

They reached the coffee shop, and Mr. Westerhouse held the door for her. The warm air inside smelled of coffee and freshly baked pastries. As they waited in line, Kinsley became acutely aware of how close they were standing, and how his presence seemed to fill the space around her.

His shoulder brushed against hers as they stood in line, and the contact sent another shiver down her spine. Kinsley tried to focus on the displays, but all she could think about was how close he was. How easy it would be to lean into the contact, if she only said she was still cold.

“What can I get you?” the barista asked, restocking a few pastries in the display case.

“Large Americano, extra shot,” Mr. Westerhouse requested, then looked at Kinsley expectantly. When their eyes met, there was a flicker in his gaze—something that made her breath hitch. Was it curiosity? Interest? She couldn’t be sure, but it made her heart skip.

“Oh, I can get my own?—”

“Kinsley,” he cut her off gently, “let me buy you a coffee.”

The way he said her name—like silk sliding across her bare skin—made her resolve crumble. “Vanilla latte, please. Medium.”

This was just a coffee run, she reminded herself. Nothing more. But every time Mr. Westerhouse smiled at her, or said her name in that low, velvet tone, the line between professionalism and something more became harder to define.

As they waited for their drinks, the aromatic scent of espresso met her nose. Mr. Westerhouse leaned against the counter, studying her. “You know, most assistants would have run screaming by now, especially after that client I had you deal with yesterday. I'm not exactly known for being easy to work for. I’ve given you a lot over these few days.”

“Maybe you're not as intimidating as you think,” she replied, immediately wondering if she'd been too bold.

But Mr. Westerhouse just laughed, a rich sound that made her stomach flip. “Maybe you're braver than you think.” For a moment, he looked as if he wanted to say more, but he stopped himself, expression shifting to something more guarded. His eyes flicked to her hands as she adjusted his jacket, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face before he turned back to grab his coffee.

When her latte was ready a minute later, Mr. Westerhouse grabbed it. As he handed it to her, their fingers brushed, and a warm spark ignited beneath her skin, surprising and exhilarating.

The walk back to the office seemed shorter than the walk there, filled with comfortable silence and sideways glances. At the building entrance, Kinsley began to shrug off his jacket.

“Keep it for now,” he said. “You can return it later.”

As they walked through the reception area, Kinsley caught Laurel’s raised eyebrows. Laurel's gaze shifted from Kinsley's borrowed jacket to their boss's relaxed demeanor. As they passed her desk, Laurel picked up her phone, quickly dialing a number. The unspoken question in her gaze made Kinsley’s stomach twist. Office gossip wasn’t just inevitable—it was dangerous. She couldn’t afford to give them anything to whisper about.

As they rode the elevator back up, Kinsley caught their reflections in the mirrored walls—her in his too-big jacket, him with his shirtsleeves rolled up despite the chill, both holding coffee cups. They looked right together—almost too right. The thought terrified her; things could never be that simple. The closer they got, the messier it would inevitably become.

Back in his office, Kinsley handed him the files she'd quickly organized while he hung up his phone. Their fingers brushed, and that same electric current she'd felt on the first day surged through her.

“Thank you, Kinsley,” Mr. Westerhouse said softly, his eyes holding hers for a moment longer than necessary.

“For doing my job?” she laughed.

He smiled. “For doing your job well. Now, let's see what we can get done before the day ends.”

As she returned to her desk, wrapped in his suit jacket, Kinsley realized she was in dangerous territory. This man was her boss; she needed to maintain professional boundaries. This job was her chance to rebuild her life, to fund her dreams. But every moment with Mr. Westerhouse pulled her closer to a line Kinsley wasn’t sure she could walk back from.

One coffee run wouldn’t change anything. But as she draped his jacket over her chair, the lingering warmth and scent told a different story—one she wasn’t sure she could ignore. As she settled back into her chair, she realized this wasn’t just about her and Mr. Westerhouse. Others were watching, and she couldn’t afford to give them anything to talk about.

When Daegan returned from lunch a few hours later, his suit jacket was neatly draped over his chair. On his desk beside it were the files he had requested earlier, along with a handwritten note on company stationery. It read: “Thanks for the coffee. I’ll be back from lunch at 1.” Kinsley’s signature was at the bottom.

He picked up the jacket, and the faint scent of her sweet perfume caught him off guard. It lingered on the fabric, a reminder of how the oversized garment had made her seem smaller and somehow even more alluring. He found himself holding it longer than necessary, breathing in that subtle fragrance before he draped it back on his chair.

He didn’t know what had come over him earlier. It had felt natural. Innocent, even. Yet it was dangerously close to crossing a line. This wasn't like him—losing focus over an employee. Especially not over an assistant he barely knew.

But even as Daegan tried to focus on the files at his desk, his mind kept drifting back to their coffee run. The way she'd raised her eyebrow at him, challenging his authority with a playfulness that made him want to earn more of it. The slight flush in her cheeks when he'd insisted on paying. The way she'd unconsciously leaned closer to him in line, as if drawn by a magnetic pull.

A knock at his door broke through his thoughts. Kinsley stood in the doorway, a package in her arms. Her hair was slightly tousled from the summer breeze, and that candy-sweet scent drifted toward him again.

“Welcome back,” Daegan said, hoping his voice didn't betray how much time he'd spent thinking about her.

“Miss me?” she grinned, her eyes sparkling as if daring him to admit it as she walked toward his desk.

Daegan couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips. “The office was certainly quieter,” he teased, though the truth was he'd felt her absence like a physical thing. Even though I shouldn’t. He loosened his tie slightly, the office suddenly feeling warmer. His pulse quickened whenever she was near—a reaction he hadn't experienced in years.

“Quieter isn't always better.” Their hands brushed as she set the package down, a brief, electric moment that neither acknowledged but both seemed to feel.

Daegan opened it to find a few pairs of socks sent from Aunt Tilly.

“Socks?” Kinsley asked, eyebrow raised. “I thought CEOs only received fancy pens or new gadgets, not cozy footwear from their aunts.”

“I have a tendency to mismatch socks. I usually keep a few extra pairs in this drawer, just in case,” he said, opening it to deposit them before swiftly shutting it again. He’d never told anyone that.

“So you asked your aunt to send you socks?” she laughed.

“No,” Daegan grinned, “she just knows.”

Kinsley looked confused for only a moment, before her eyes locked onto his suit jacket behind him. “Thanks again for earlier. Though I think you might have started something dangerous—that coffee shop’s iced vanilla lattes are addictive.”

“Sounds like I'll have an excuse to take more coffee breaks then,” he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them. The implication lingered in the air.

Their eyes met, and for a moment anything seemed possible. Kinsley's lips parted slightly as if she might say something, but then she seemed to think better of it.

“Actually,” Daegan said, eager to keep her in his office a little longer, “I could use your help with something.” He reached for a stack of paperwork on his desk, fingers brushing against a legal thriller he'd been reading during lunch. “These need to be...” His voice trailed off as he noticed her eyeing the book.

“John Grisham?” Kinsley asked, interest sparking in her eyes. “I wouldn't have pegged you for a legal thriller fan.”

She leaned forward over his desk, as if she was genuinely curious, not just making idle small talk. There was that gentle smile again; it was something he’d begun to look forward to seeing. But it could also unravel everything he’d worked for. The way his heart was still beating faster as he spoke terrified him more than any business deal ever could.

“What would you have pegged me for?” Mr. Westerhouse asked, challenging her, though his gaze seemed to drift.

She paused. “Someone who reads business journals for fun? Or maybe biographies of other billionaires?”

“You must think I’m boring,” he joked, adjusting the stack of paperwork he’d been in the middle of passing off to her. “I’ve read every Grisham novel. This is just the newest.”

“I don’t believe that.” Kinsley eyed him. The soft rustling of papers and the faint scent of the man’s cologne filled the room.

Mr. Westerhouse looked up. The warmth of his gaze made her heart race, until those brown eyes went back to the papers. “I really have. Typically, I enjoy them during flights and whenever I’m traveling. I guess it gives me something to look forward to when I’m stuck in the sky for several hours.” He paused. “Sometimes I sneak it in during lunch, or before bed.”

“If you enjoy legal thrillers so much?—”

“—why didn’t I become a lawyer?” he finished for her. “Law was never something that interested me in a realistic sense. I saw an uncle—a high-profile lawyer—drink himself silly over decades of working on extreme cases with nutty defendants. It was clearly too much for him; he did it for the money and notoriety. But it took a mental toll on him. I wanted nothing to do with that side of things, and when you take on a job, you take on all aspects of it, good or bad. I read legal thrillers and mysteries for the enjoyment, but I’m not looking to turn them into my life.”

“Makes sense.” Kinsley paused. Mr. Westerhouse inspired a lot of mixed feelings in her. This time it was curiosity and admiration. His love for reading and his candidness about his uncle’s struggles made him seem more human and relatable, less like an out-of-touch billionaire. She cleared her throat. “I read a few of his books in the past, but never got around to all of them.”

Mr. Westerhouse opened a drawer in his desk, searching for something. “It’s an undertaking at this point.”

“I’d love to read another one of his books,” she said.

His brow furrowed as he rummaged through the drawer. Kinsley couldn’t help but study the sharp line of his profile. She should look away. Maintaining professional distance meant not noticing how his shirt stretched across his shoulders when he leaned forward, or how his fingers moved with careful precision. But she couldn't seem to look anywhere else. His face relaxed as he found what he was looking for. She hoped her face wasn’t completely red when he glanced up at her.

“You know,” he said, his eyes meeting hers with a hint of uncertainty, “I’ve got a small library at home. If you’re interested…maybe you could borrow one, or whatever you would like. Tonight, after my dinner meeting. I should be home by seven-thirty.”

A smile came over Kinsley’s face, though she tried to tone it down into something more professional. “I’ll see you then,” she said, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest.

The thought of going was equal parts thrilling and terrifying as she left his office. It was just about books—nothing more. Like the coffee. But the way her heart raced told a different story.