Chapter 11

Tuesday morning, I find myself in the unusual position of dreading going to work for the second day in a row. At least today I'm not squeezed into chafing clothes.

I wave at the security guard as I swipe my badge and head down to the basement. I'm not as early as yesterday, so a few people other than Maria are already in.

"Hey," I give her a quick hello, surprised not to find K-2P by her side.

"Morning, boss."

"Where's your minion?"

Maria jerks her chin toward my office. "He's in there with your new roommate." She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. "Apparently, they hit it off."

I do my best not to groan, and mouth-whisper, "Thomas is already in there?"

"Yep, dropped in about twenty minutes ago." Maria fake-fans herself. "Looking as palatable as a mini chocolate ice cream cone on a hot summer's day."

There's nothing mini about that man. Not his stature, not his charm, not his ego… and not his brain, if he's to be believed.

I shake my head and gingerly walk into my office. When I stick my head in, I immediately notice the new small desk pushed in the corner and the large man sitting at it with his back turned to me.

He's wearing another expensive-looking suit that stretches over his broad shoulders like a glove—probably tailor-made.

K-2P is standing near him next to the desk, emitting a series of angry beeps. Thomas laughs in response, the sound alarmingly pleasant.

I clear my throat. "Good morning, everyone."

Thomas jolts in the chair and spins around to face me. He smiles and my heart nearly stops. It's the same warm, easygoing smile I saw him toss around yesterday as I introduced him to the people around the lab. But the grin he flashes me now is accompanied by a hunger in his eyes that wasn't there for the others. An eagerness that seems reserved for me.

I swallow.

"Morning," he says, standing.

I frown. "Hi."

"I hope you don't mind that I made myself at home." He gestures to the small working station.

I cross the office to my desk, dropping my messenger bag on the floor. "The entire place is literally yours, so make yourself at home however much you want."

He tilts his head. "Not a morning person?"

"More not a babysitting-billionaires person."

Thomas laughs at my lame jab as if I've said something funny and charming.

I sit down, my face heating when I notice the way he's looking at me. As an excuse to look away, I open a drawer at random. I rummage inside for a pen with shaking hands. This man makes me irrationally nervous. I'm a level-headed person. But not around him, apparently.

Out of the corner of my eye, I track Thomas as he approaches my station and stops in front of me.

I find a pen, slide it onto my desk, then slam the drawer shut and peek up at him. Thomas is hovering next to my desk, his imposing figure too close for comfort, staring at me like he's undressing me with his eyes.

Sorry, buddy, you're not getting a repeat show of yesterday.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"Fine." Not really, given the uncomfortable tingling in my stomach.

K-2P wheels closer, breaking the tension. "Good morning to you, too," he says, peeved. "It's always nice to be cherished by one's maker."

I suppress a smirk. "Morning K-2P, apple of my eye, my pride and joy, light of my life…"

The droid lets out a slow beep. "Better."

I bow my head ironically, not sure the robot will get the sarcasm, Thomas's gaze still burning heavily on the side of my face.

I ignore the still-hovering billionaire at my side and concentrate on the robot in front of me. "So," I say, straightening up. "Anything to report?"

K-2P doesn't answer. Instead, his head rotates 180degrees, almost in slow motion, to stare at Thomas. "Mr. Mercer?—"

"Please call me Thomas," the too-tall billionaire replies with a gentle smile.

It's strangely disarming.

"Thomas… Reese just said this entire place is yours, does that mean you can do whatever you want around here?"

"Err… quite the opposite, I think." Thomas squats down to be eye to eye with K2-P—or eye to sensors. And why do I find the gesture incredibly sweet? "Since I'm the one who sets the rules, I have to follow them to the letter. Lead by example, you know?" His eyes dart to me and, in a wishful tone, he adds, "Even when it's hard."

My heart melts a little, then the words "anti-fraternization policy" flash in my mind in a bright neon color.

Prince Charming down there doesn't even have to try. Whatever he does or says makes my knees go weak. If I keep swooning this hard, I wouldn't put it past woodland creatures to barge into the office and start singing a song as they clean—and this space is already crowded enough.

"And how concerned are you with optics?" K-2P tries a different angle.

Thomas frowns. "What do you mean?"

"He's just trying to trick you into taking him home with you over the weekend," I explain.

The robot sputters his lights in my direction. "This is outrageous! I am a highly sophisticated autonomous being with free will. I do not need your help in the matter of finding myself a home, thank you very much!"

"Is there any particular reason he can't leave the lab?" Thomas stands up, stifling a smile. "Is his battery not durable enough?"

"My battery can last a week when fully charged."

"He's an uncommon presence in here," I explain. "He's my project. My IP. Nothing to do with Mercer Robotics. I keep him here because it's where I spend most of my time and so that he can spend time with different people as well—evolve. But I wouldn't particularly like to advertise his presence, and marching him in and out of the lab every weekend would attract too much attention."

Thomas frowns and sits in front of me, finally relieving me of having to crane my neck to make eye contact. "Why?"

"Optics, as he kindly explained."

Thomas gives me a strange look, mercifully shifting his inquisitive, gold-flecked gaze to the droid.

K-2P continues on his quest for liberation from the lab. "You're the owner, the boss, you don't care about optics, do you?"

"Technically, my father is all those things."

K-2P emits the most pitiful of beeps. "Does that mean I still have to spend my weekends segregated here, alone, in the dark?"

"I don't see why you should."

K-2P spins around beeping happily, lights blinking. "So, I can come home with you?"

Thomas seems taken aback. "Don't you want to go home with Reese?"

The droid gives me his shoulders. "She didn't care about my well-being enough to risk her precious reputation; I don't think she deserves my company."

Thomas looks at me, baffled.

I just shrug in a you made your bed now sleep in it way and smirk.

He shakes his head and turns to the droid. "Then, yes, I guess we'll be roommates."

"Wheeeeeeeee." K-2P speeds back and forth around the office, blipping.

Thomas stands up, looking at me in a way that not only could melt underwear but vaporize it. "He's extraordinary, you know?"

I swallow past the thundering of my heart. "Thanks."

"How did you make him?" Thomas takes a seat in front of me.

"Well, the hardware is pretty basic. Vintage, even, but I'm a big Star Wars fan and couldn't resist building my own droid."

"Please," K-2P interjects. "I'm far more handsome than those TV droids."

"Of course." I roll my eyes. "Anyway, his motion drive is basically off the shelf, same as those vacuuming robots you can program, but with a few improvements so that he doesn't have to bump into things to change direction and can also have intent when he's moving."

"You did not just compare me to a vacuuming robot."

Thomas laughs. "And the sassy personality? Does that come from you?"

"His mind," I make air quotes, "is a complex development on a language model I developed, and, yes, basically the only proprietary thing alongside a few tinkers on how he coordinates. The rest is all off-the-rack: sensors, speech functionalities, AI voices. He could speak in any accent, with any AI voice, in any language, even."

"But you've kept him with a general American accent and a mechanical voice."

I lock eyes with Thomas. "Apparently not mechanical enough if you mistook him for me yesterday."

The dimpled smile I get in return is devastating. "I had wondered if I was about to walk in on someone wearing a Phasma helmet."

Something tightens deep in my core. Thomas Mercer can't have those eyes, that smile, that face—okay, Maria, that butt, too—and also be a Star Wars fan. I'm just not equipped to cope.

I'm saved from answering by K-2P spatting. "At least he didn't compare me to C-3PO."

"Well, great." I drum my fingers on the desk. "Now that your superiority has been established, can we all get to work?"

Thomas claps his hands enthusiastically. "What's the plan for today?"

I raise an eyebrow at him. "Did you already read all the material I sent you yesterday?"

Thomas's face falls. "Well, no."

"Then I suggest you start there, and ask me any questions should you need to."

"Aye, aye." The smile is quickly back on his handsome face.

Oh my gosh, he must be one of those insufferable, perennially cheerful people.

He stands up and returns to his station, to power up his laptop.

I try hard to ignore the fact that he is in the same room as me, but the tingle in my stomach is a constant reminder. Also, I can hear him breathing and occasionally, I glimpse him shifting in his chair out of the corner of my eye, but I do my best to pretend he isn't there.

At least until he asks, "What's a Fourier transform?"

I flare my nostrils. "Can't you just google it?"

"I tried but the formula that came out isn't exactly a clarification."

"In simple terms, it's a mathematical operation that converts amplitude as a function of time to amplitude as a function of frequency for non-periodic signals." I let out a huff of air. "But you don't need to go that technical, just get a general idea of the products."

"Well, your research report is all about the technical problems you're trying to solve."

He might have a point.

"Okay." I stand up and go to the book rack in the office corner. "Maybe a general brochure would be a better starting point. I had one just over here…" I stretch on my tiptoes to get the brochure from the top shelf where I've stacked it atop technical manuals.

My fingertips are just skimming the plastic spiral binding, but I can't quite reach it. Before I even realize he's moved, Thomas is behind me, his breath hot on my neck. His chest almost pressing against my back but not quite as he stretches over me. I know I'm the one who asked for clear boundaries, but right now, I'd happily cross them. It takes all my self-control not to lean backward, close that final inch, and ease into him, giving way to his gravitational pull.

When I whirl around, our eyes lock in an electrifying moment that lasts an eternity before he takes another step back and hands me the brochure.

I hand it right back. "This should be easier to understand; it's made for clients."

His eyes never leave mine as he takes the binder. Then his gaze lowers to the document, and my heart hammers in my ears as I watch him flip the pages.

"Thanks," he says finally in that gravelly voice of his.

"No problem," I manage, before I plod back to my desk. Flee back would be a more appropriate term.

I tap furiously on my keyboard and try my best to focus on anything but Thomas "So Flipping Tall" Mercer.

But then he says, "I'll have this finished by the end of the day. Then maybe tomorrow you can introduce me to the remaining teams?"

"Tomorrow, sure."

Because he'll be here tomorrow, and the day after, and the one after that…

Yay, me.

With a deep breath, I turn back to my work, trying to black out Thomas's presence. With him busy reading, a peaceful silence finally settles over the room. Grateful for the quiet, I even concentrate and finish a few tasks. From time to time, I sense Thomas's gaze fixed on me, but thankfully he doesn't make conversation again. Still, I'm hyperaware of his every movement. When he's still. When he's typing. When he's whispering conspiratorially with K-2P.

After a few hours of this routine, Maria steps inside with a bright and inviting smile.

"Hey Reese," she says cheerfully. "A few of us are going to the Mexican place around the corner. Garrett proposed it but he was too scared to come in here and ask you along."

"Why?"

Maria's eyes dart to Thomas. "He was petrified of Mr. Alpha over there after their tussle-diddly-dee of yesterday…"

"We can't have that," Thomas chimes in, standing up. "I'm not that scary once you get to know me."

Maria gives him an intense, coquettish once-over. "Oh, I never thought of you as scary, big boss."

I can't believe she'd so openly flirt with him.

He flashes her a toothy grin that lights up the entire room and feels like sunbathing on a hot summer's day—warm, intense, and slightly dangerous if enjoyed for too long. "So you wouldn't mind if I joined you, too?"

I shoot him an incredulous look, but he just grins back at me.

"Not at all. The more the merrier."

In an almost too-fluid motion, Thomas dons a cashmere coat that drapes over him with an effortless elegance. The dark, thick fabric, accentuating his broad frame, hints at a luxury that's both understated and undeniable. As he turns, the coat's smooth satin lining catches the light, sending my way a faint, yet distinct whiff—part woodsy, part spice. Mouthwateringly dangerous. Divine doesn't quite capture it. The man's scent is intoxicating.

Apparently unaffected, Maria takes his arm and gently leads him out of the office and across the lab toward the elevator, chatting about the restaurant as they go.

I have no choice but to grab my puffer jacket and follow. I catch up as they step into the elevator and join them. In begrudging silence, I listen as Maria tells Thomas how the restaurant's burritos are to die for, but that they have some superb tacos, too.

The others are waiting for us in the lobby. There are about fifteen of us. Garrett turns pale when he spots Thomas and does his best to hide within the group. But the others don't seem too fazed our prospective CEO has joined us. Well, they don't know yet he's going to become CEO, but they do know Thomas is the heir apparent to the entire kingdom.

After a short walk down the street, we arrive at the small Mexican restaurant tucked away in a side alleyway near our office building.

Immediately upon walking through its doors, I am embraced by an array of colors and aromas. Traditional Mexican decor with vibrant tints pops off every wall and intricate patterns sneak along the restaurant's floors and ceilings. The smell of freshly cooked tacos wafts out from within, making my mouth water in anticipation.

We make our way inside to a table near a window with bright yellow curtains framing our view of the street. I've barely finished perusing the menu when a server arrives to take our preferences.

Once our orders are placed, conversation flows freely. We talk about work projects, current events, and other less serious topics—anything but what happened between Garrett and Thomas yesterday. They are studiously seated at opposite ends of the table while I ended up sitting right across from Prince Charming, making unexpected eye contact a frequent repercussion. My stomach drops out every time our eyes meet, and it seems I'm not the only victim of his boastful charisma.

The other ladies present are all but salivating over him. Over his broad shoulders, magnetic eyes, and chiseled jawline. Even Lizzie, who's not interested in men, as far as I know, seems enchanted, giggling at his every word and blushing when their eyes meet for even a fraction of a second. So much so that I wonder if I should've placed a side order for smelling salts with all the swooning going around. Not that I can talk. I should probably start bringing the salts to work for myself, anyway.

The guys also seem to like Thomas and are eager to talk about sports with him. All except Garrett, who sulks in his corner. While no one speaks directly about what happened between them yesterday, everyone can sense the tension radiating from Garrett's end of the table.

Thomas attempts to ease the tension between them and male-bond over their shared love of basketball—Garrett is wearing a Knicks sweatshirt, but nothing works. Thomas is met with cold-shoulder replies or monosyllabic grunts in response as Garrett mostly remains silent and aloof toward him for the duration of the meal.

The future CEO handles it with grace, never losing his enthusiasm or charm as he continues to make witty comments, crack jokes, or ask questions that draw out responses from everyone else at the table.

The server arrives with our food shortly after, and the conversation stalls for the first few bites while everyone is busy chewing until Thomas holds the stage again.

As he speaks, I'm captivated by his golden hazel eyes and cute dimples that show when he grins in amusement at something someone says. He laughs easily and often, which only adds to the warmth of his presence. His voice is strong and resonant against the soft chatter of the restaurant background noise and it carries across our table easily as he talks animatedly with Maria about the most recent episode of her favorite show while I discuss a recent article I read in a research journal with Lizzie.

As I'm talking, Thomas reaches across the table and plucks an olive from my plate. He pops it into his mouth with a twinkle in his eye that makes me blush so hard I forget what I was saying mid-sentence. The gesture is too intimate, simple but unsettling.

I have to drag my eyes away from his full lips where my olive just went to heaven and go back to my conversation.

But the entire meal continues to be littered by stolen glances, the occasional, unintentional brush of our knees under the table, and the random waft of his cologne I'm able to pick up even among all the food spices. Like in my office, the scent lands straight in my lower belly with the harrowing side effect of reminding me I'm a woman who hasn't been touched by a man in a long, long time. Too long, perhaps.

Being in Thomas's proximity, I experience a strange mix of contentment and unease. Torn between two conflicting desires: to play and to run away. Thankfully, the choice is not mine. The anti-fraternization policy makes it clear that "to play" is not an option.

By the time desserts arrive, everyone seems relaxed in each other's company despite Garrett's cool demeanor toward Thomas still lingering in the air like a stale fog. Thomas's magnetic charm has created a strange camaraderie in the group I never quite pulled off as department head.

Although I'm still not convinced he should have such a prominent role in our division, I have to admit that this man has something special. He can charm anyone with his wit and charisma but still maintain a genuine sense of humility while never coming across as overly boastful or arrogant.

When it's time for the check, Thomas doesn't let anyone pay. With the casualness of someone who's buying a cup of coffee—as opposed to paying for a fifteen-person meal—he takes a black credit card out of his wallet and slips it into the leather bill folder.

I'm not even sure the card is company issued. And I'm no pauper, but the invite-only black card that comes with hundreds of thousands of dollars of minimum spend sure is a wake-up call to the fact that Thomas might act like a regular guy, but he's anything but. He might not be a real prince, but he's probably richer than royalty.

Everyone thanks Thomas, including a semi-muttered thank you from Garrett, and we head back down the street to our building where everyone disperses—Garrett being the quickest to dart away. But before he does, he turns around and gives me a knowing look as if trying to convey a silent warning.

Thomas and I linger behind the others in the lobby.

Hands shoved in his pockets, he rolls on the balls of his feet. "Lunch went well, no?"

Toowell. I'm still in turmoil over conflicting instincts, so instead of acknowledging the good hour of team building, I give him a snippy reply.

"Yeah, yeah, you're quite the charmer."

Tilt of the head. "You don't look too charmed."

"I find your bubbly personality irking."

"I find your constant scowls cute."

"Knock off the charm, it doesn't work on me."

Cute frown. "Not even a little?"

I'm charmed all right. But I can't admit that. "Nope. Anyway, if you want to be ‘one of the guys' I suggest you dress more casually from now on. You already are a suit, you don't need to remind us constantly. This is a technology company, not a financial one. And we're more laid-back in the lab." I pull at my sweatshirt as a demonstration.

He raises his hands in mock surrender. "I get it: no suits necessary in the robotics lab." He stares at me for a moment too long before his lips curl into a smirk. "But just so I'm clear, what kind of casual wear are we talking about? Jeans? Button-down shirt?"

"You're smart, figure it out."

Thomas tilts his head. "Oh, I plan to." He crosses his arms over his chest, almost belligerently. "You're very hard to please, Campbell, but I'll do my best to meet your impossible standards."

I remain stuck on the hard-to-please part of his reply. The way the words hard and please roll off his tongue is sensual enough to do all the work for him, which makes my treacherous brain conjure up an image of how it'd feel to be pressed against a wall by him while he whispers sweet nothings in my ear. A shiver runs down my spine. Turns out I'd be super easy to please if he was the one doing the pleasing.

Despite what Maria says about handsome men, I've no doubt Thomas Mercer would be stellar in bed and would have no problem pleasuring any woman. Because life is unfair.

With a final smirk, he heads off toward the elevators.

My heart races and my cheeks flame as I watch him walk away with an air of confidence. Why, why of all the spoon-fed rich kids out there did I have to be saddled with a gorgeous, provocative charmer who, except for his expensive wardrobe, doesn't act even a little self-indulgent. And who annoyingly looks just as good going as he did coming. Watching the curve of his ass move against his tailored pants doesn't help sort myself out.

For a moment I stand there completely still, unable to walk or to process the conflicting emotions raging inside of me. Finally, gathering enough strength to cross the lobby, I head for a side hall and take the stairs to the basement. It's a precaution since I'm not sure just how unprofessional I'd turn if I were locked inside an elevator with Thomas "Sexy Butt" Mercer right now.