Chapter 2: HR Wouldn’t Like This

Monday came with the faint static hum of fluorescent lights and a thick, post-weekend quiet that settled over the office like fog. I arrived early—too early, really—and spent longer than usual adjusting the height of my chair, the alignment of my monitor, the placement of my stapler. My thoughts weren’t on emails or schedules. They were with Sean.

Since Friday night, I hadn’t been able to stop replaying that meeting. The closeness of his body. The glass of scotch. The brush of his thigh. And that file with nothing in it—an invitation disguised as protocol. The way he made a question feel like a proposition. The way he looked at me.

But Monday brought only distance. Sean passed my desk mid-morning, offering a nod so casual I almost wondered if Friday had happened at all. I had just stood to stretch when he paused beside me.

“Hey, Blake,” he said, glancing at his phone, “I’ve got a call at noon and I promised I’d grab something from La Fenice. Would you mind picking it up for me if you’re heading out anyway?”

His tone was light, polite. It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t even framed as a favor. Just a question with plausible deniability. I wasn’t heading out. But I said yes.

“Of course,” I replied.

“Thanks,” he said, his eyes lingering on mine a beat longer than necessary. “I owe you.”

La Fenice was a twenty-minute walk and notoriously slow with takeout orders, but I made it back just in time. I placed the box on his desk, careful not to interrupt what looked like focused work. He looked up, took it, and smiled faintly.

“Appreciate it,” he said. “You’re a lifesaver.”

His words were simple. But the way he said them—and the way he didn’t look away—left something in the air between us. His eyes were metallic blue, the kind that didn’t just look at you, but through you. They held their own language—quiet, confident, always just shy of flirtation.

The rest of the week followed a quiet pattern. Nothing overt. Nothing inappropriate on its face. But each interaction carried a weight, a question.

Tuesday afternoon, I passed his office and found him crouched by his desk.

“Dropped my pen,” he said without turning. “Mind?”

I crouched automatically. As I reached beneath the desk, I felt his gaze on my back, a pause just long enough to register. When I handed the pen to him, his fingers brushed mine.

“Thanks,” he said. There was that smile again—small, deliberate, unreadable.

Wednesday morning, he stopped by my desk in a fitted navy suit that seemed tailor-made to show off the taper of his waist, the width of his shoulders. Even the way he held his coffee cup—effortlessly elegant—made my stomach flip.

“There’s an old box of trial exhibits down in storage—I was going to ask Peter to grab it, but he’s tied up. You wouldn’t mind?”

I hesitated. The task was beneath my role, everyone knew it. But Sean’s tone was disarming, his expression earnest.

“I know it’s not your job,” he added quickly. “I just figured you might have a moment.”

He turned before I could respond.

I went anyway.

The file room was cold, dimly lit, and stacked with unlabelled boxes. It took longer than expected to find the right one. When I returned, Sean was leaning against the corner of his desk, sipping his coffee, chatting with one of the articling students.

He didn’t say anything when I entered—just gestured lazily toward a low cabinet beside his desk. “There’s fine,” he said, mid-conversation.

I crouched to place the box, acutely aware of how low I had to bend to set it down gently. I could feel his eyes on me. Not just watching—appraising.

When I stood and turned, the articling student had already gone. Sean gave me a faint smile and nodded toward the door. “Perfect. Appreciate it.”

That same half-smile that said everything and nothing at once.

By Thursday, I was unraveling. My body had become attuned to him—his footsteps, his voice, the scent of his cologne drifting through the air like a promise. I caught myself watching him from my office doorway, mesmerized by how he carried himself. Every movement was composed but casual, as though the world tilted to accommodate him.

The worst part wasn’t the things he asked me to do—it was how much I wanted to do them. Not because I had to, but because each one felt like an invitation. A signal.

Every time I bent to retrieve something for him, I wondered if he was watching. Every time he smiled at me, I felt stripped bare.

That afternoon, he passed my desk and paused. “Got a couple of things I’d love your thoughts on. My office, 5:45?”

“Sure,” I said, my voice too quick.

When I arrived, he was already seated, jacket off, sleeves rolled. His forearms were lightly tanned and dusted with golden hair. There was a confidence in the way he sat, legs apart, one ankle resting on his knee like he had nothing to prove.

A folder sat on the table between us, but he didn’t touch it.

“You’ve been really helpful this week,” he said. “I notice things like that.”

I nodded, unsure how to reply.

He studied me, his eyes dragging slowly over my face, then down—unapologetic. “I like working with people who understand subtlety.”

I swallowed.

Then, finally, he opened the folder. Inside were a handful of pages—client notes, billing details, nothing urgent and nothing he couldn’t have reviewed without me. He flipped through them slowly, reading aloud a few items, asking for my opinion on things I had no direct involvement in.