ONE INTIMATE NIGHT, ONE MISTAKE, ONE BOSS

CHARLEE

There've been moments in my life when I've wished too hard for the floor to grow a crater and swallow me in one swift gulp, since it's probably safer and less humiliating below surface level.

Today, I wished harder than ever.

Harder than that time in high school when Ken Williams told everyone I'd let him fondle my boobs in the music room and they were rock-hard, like big stones. We'd only just bumped into each other and his arm briefly grazed my chest, and that bastard knew my boobs were cushy soft.

Today, stinging tears scald the back of my eyes as I storm out of the Bridges, Inc. general meeting room, silently willing my legs to walk faster to the bathroom. People have already seen me disgrace myself today. There's no need for anyone to see me bawling like a heartbroken cat in the hallway.

It's my first day on the job and I've already blown it.

Why did I ever send that application in the first place? What on earth made me think I could deliver in such a high-tension environment? This place gives me vibes like a military head office–just a lot fancier since everything, including the golden door knobs, cost more than my entire net worth.

When I first arrived at the offices this morning, still reeling from the opulence of the architecture, I'd barely settled into my cubicle at the marketing general office before the manager walked up to me. Brief greetings exchanged, he handed me my first task. To create and upload a social media advertising campaign for one of their top clients. I was instantly given access to the Bridges, Inc. Instagram account and he left me with no further instructions.

It took a while but I finally got the hang of it and I was actually impressed with my work. The campaign sounded really good to me. I was still adding final touches when everyone in the general room started getting up from their desks, folding papers and clipping files like clockwork.

The manager turned to me. "Charlee, you're up in ten minutes. Your campaign will be presented first. Mr. Bridges himself will be there, so brace up."

My anxiety shot through the roof. Mr. Bridges? Bryce Bridges himself? I suddenly got a really bad feeling about everything.

Within the next half-hour, Mr. Bridges yelled at me and asked the manager of my division how they could have hired someone so green. He was a massively tall man, physically fit for his age, and his voice bellowed like an analog speaker. Apparently, I created the campaign with information that was supposed to be used in next week's campaign, not today. I'd been looking at the wrong column. It didn't matter that I did a great job with the post and infographic. I wasn't commended for great expression and convincing communication. All they saw was that I couldn't read dates correctly and had wasted their time.

I've dreamed for so long of leading my own marketing team, being head of a division, and someday, running my own advertising company. It's amazing how you can convince thousands of people to trust your business with mere visual aids.

How am I supposed to gain experience and achieve my dreams if I'm not even allowed a little room for mistakes? No one ever gives newbies a chance, and somehow, we are expected to come fully formed.

I fled once we were dismissed, and now, I'm almost at the bathroom, swiping at the tears that are already flowing. A whimper of shock escapes from my throat at the sight of the empty space. It's immaculately clean with the brightest white marble I've ever seen and hints of polished gold, and it makes me feel even smaller and more unworthy.

Dashing into a stall, I shut the door and lean on it, letting the tears stream in torrents as shame courses through my body. Why am I always so unlucky? Why didn't I just see the date clearly?

My body shudders vigorously with humiliation. I realize how loudly I'm sobbing when the main bathroom door opens.

"Hey, are you okay?"

It's the richest male voice I've ever heard. What's a man doing in the ladies' room? Did he see me crying as I ran down the hallway or am I embarrassing myself even more by crying so loud he could hear it from out there?

"I'm just checking in," he continues. "Not trying to pry. I can't really come in here but we can talk quickly. You look like you need someone to talk to."

The voice alone is instant therapy to my ears. He almost sounds like he's half-asleep or really tired. It should be bothersome that a man is in here asking to talk to me, but I am... drawn... like a big idiot. Wiping the tears from my face, I clear my throat quietly.

"What do you want?" My voice still comes out hoarse and broken.

"Why are you crying? Are you okay? I saw you come out of the meeting room after Bryce Bridges had been yelling at the top of his voice. That old man was mean to you?" If he knows Bryce Bridges, he might be an employee at this company.

"You can talk to me. I'm harmless and I won't tell anyone," he says, probably sensing my hesitation.

I inhale, exhale, inhale again, and then I'm fighting back the sobs as I tell him what happened at the meeting. He's silent as he listens to me. I pour out everything and how I probably don't belong here. Maybe I should just run away and never come back.

"I know how you feel, really," the stranger says, his voice inching closer to the door. "I get that feeling, like you're going to continue falling short and it's easier to give up. But from what you are telling me, you know your job. Just take today as a small loss and block out the negative energy. Pay close attention to everything you see here and never be afraid to ask questions. Don't be scared of walking up to your superiors. That should be your lesson for today. And always remember, your biggest weapon around here is confidence, so wear it like a second skin. In a short time, they'll regret ever laughing at you."

He stops for a long moment. "I've got to go. You take care of you now, okay? Don't let anyone break your spirit." I hear footsteps tapping on the marble floor, and then he's gone.

So, this is what empowerment feels like.

Feeling so much better, I breeze out of the stall, ready to start kicking some butt in this uptight place, and I know I'll never forget a word of what this stranger said to me.

I made a mistake, but that will not define me. I'll bring on my A-game from now on. They'll see what I am capable of.

HARRISON

FIVE YEARS LATER.

It's always the music at these ridiculously dramatic parties. Do they not pay the DJs?

The speakers are too loud, the songs are terrible slow choices, and I can feel the painful rhythms bouncing off the walls and into my head. I'm not sure where I want to focus my gaze on, but my eyes have now landed on Marissa Dubois Vanderwalz, a leggy blonde model from France that offered me a one-night stand last month–and I'd taken her up on it for three consecutive nights. Underneath that silvery shimmy dress is the body of a...

"Give it up for Harrison Bridges, the first CEO of Building Bridges!"

Shit. That's me.

Pacing my breath in counts of four, I wave mechanically as the crowd erupts in hearty applause. Everyone is clapping and cheering and I'm flashing my most charming smile. My palms are drenched in sweat and my heart is beating two hundred times per minute, but on the outside, I look as cool as a cucumber.

"Congratulations, Harrison. The keys to the new company are now in your hands. We trust you to ace this job, as always." The emcee finishes as another round of applause erupts and the DJ cracks up that awful song again.

Everybody who is somebody in the New York Financial District is here tonight. Top-dog CEOs mingling and making connections. Wall Street money beasts drinking and socializing. My father has always thrown the most opulent and personality-studded parties, and I often wonder if the annoying flair doesn't bore them like it bores me.

And what on earth was that bastard Roscoe thinking?!

My elder brother knows I've always thrived in supporting roles, so why did he think it wise to make me the CEO of his new company without my consent? Building Bridges is Roscoe's brainchild, adjacent to our father's Bridges, Inc., the number one billion-dollar private investment company in New York and number five nationally. As Bridges handles individual and corporate investment portfolios from all over the world, Roscoe launched Building Bridges to provide startup loans and resources to small businesses. He's the current CEO of Bridges, Inc., and obviously can't be CEO elsewhere, and for some reason, he thinks I'm the best man for the job.

Is he doing this just to see me fail? All I've ever wanted was for everyone to recognize my abilities and stop comparing me to my brothers. I want to prove that I can lead and build, just like they do, but I can't do it when I'm micromanaged and scrutinized all the time.

"Harry, the man of the moment! Congratulations, buddy."

Roscoe claps my shoulder from behind, causing me to spin with a tiny startle. His wife, Tess, is by his side, smiling at me. I often wonder how such a lovely angel could agree to marry a mischievous oaf like my brother.

"I'm proud of you, buddy. I know you can ace this and get things running in no time," Roscoe says, his eyes glinting with amusement.

"I take it you were either drunk when you chose me for this or you're just playing a really mean joke," I say, plucking a champagne flute from a passing server's tray. I desperately need to calm my nerves or I might throw up all over the glinting marble floor.

"Hey, you're going to be fine," Tess says, placing a hand on my shoulder. Her blonde hair looks even brighter under the dim chandelier glow. "You got this. You're thirty now, not seventeen anymore. You've taken on roles that have led up to this moment. You'll grow into it."

I smile as her words offer a little reassurance. My brother makes a joke about his wife being a sexy shrink and they both laugh. Weird couple.

Turning to the left of the stage, the tiny morale I'd gathered from Tess's words vanishes as I catch my father's scrutinizing, judgmental gaze on me. Lips pursed, eyes narrowed, and head slightly shaking, I recognize that look of disappointment he always dons when I'm around.

I know my father thinks I'm incapable of pulling this role off. He thinks I can't do anything right. I know I didn't make flying-color grades at school, but in the field, I'm a beast with numbers. My division's income at Bridges has nearly tripled in the past year. I'm hella good at this job, but too bad, I'm not as good as Roscoe so I'll never be good enough for my dad.

Swallowing my champagne in one hard gulp to wash away the nagging thoughts, I shove my hands in my pockets to keep from biting my nails. My head starts banging in a slow rhythm. I want to ditch this party right now.

"Uh, hi. Hi Harrison."

Charlee Fox.

I'd recognize that clear little voice anywhere. It sometimes fills my daydreams.

"Hey, Charlee, looking good." Turning to face her, I flash her a hearty smile as I take in her outfit. The little black dress with small cut-outs on the waist is hugging her soft figure, showing off all those lush curves and pale white skin. She can't be more than five-foot-six even with the heels on, but damn. She's thick in all the right places.

"I... I just wanted to congratulate you on your new appointment. So sad we won't be seeing you at BB27 that much anymore, but this is a great step up. I'm happy for you." She nervously tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and my eyes fixate on her hair, forgetting to acknowledge her felicitations.

Charlee has the most stunning flaming red hair I've ever seen in my entire life. Her hair color is perfect. She's a brilliant marketing executive and has been with the company for five years, doing an amazing job on every task.

I've always had a bit of a crush on her, but I've never made a move. Not only because we work together but she's just too... decent for me. I'm not the best at sticking with one woman and I would never want to hurt such a soft heart like Charlee's.

Tonight, however, the champagne gives me a really bad idea.

"Would you like to go sit at the bar with me, Charlee?"

I am ready to chest a rejection from her, but she nods and smiles.

CHARLEE

This is a dream. There's no way it's really happening.

Maybe I should pinch myself to snap out of it, but then he'll think I'm weird.

Harrison Bridges is sitting at the bar with me, talking to me, flirting sweetly, making me laugh, and joking about the billionaires who brought their wives to the party and invited their model side chicks. He's giving me all his attention and I'm trying not to swoon.

Harrison is my modern-day idea of what the Greek god Adonis must have looked like. He is physical perfection, with dark hair exactly matching his dark eyes and the most decadent white smile ever. He pairs that with the body of a GQ model and wears this gruff stubble that would normally be a put-off, but on him, it gives a woman some really freaky ideas.

Some of the girls he's been associated with in the past are right here in the crowd tonight, edging for his attention, but he's focused solely on me. I know it's the champagne, or maybe he's just being polite. Talking to boring Ms. Fox with my unnecessarily fat ass and hair the color of decaying iron ore. I look like a bloated plum compared to some of these leggy, perfect blondes.

"Are you here alone?" Harrison asks, propping his head up on one palm.

"Yeah, I came alone."

"Why? You should have brought your plus one."

"Maybe, but then, I'm single." A blush creeps into my face.

"You're single? You? Wow. Men are real idiots."

My heart flutters at his words and I see a look in his eyes I've never seen before. A primal, needy look, like I am a soft deer and he's a hungry lion. He reaches out to tuck that stubborn strand behind my hair and my face goes bright red at his warm touch.

Get ahold of yourself, idiot.

My phone dings at that moment and I pick it up too quickly. It's a message from Tess, wife of the boss and my childhood best friend and soul sister.

"We're leaving early. A little couple's thingy to attend to. You could totally catch a ride with someone else (wink)"

I look over just to catch Tess waving at me as she links arms with her husband and ducks out of the party. That... spoiled brat. How dare she do this to me? She was my only hope of getting home without ride-sharing.

"Hey, is everything okay?" Harrison asks, watching me closely.

Heaving a sigh of resignation, I dump my phone on the counter. "I was supposed to hitch a ride with Tess and Roscoe since I didn't drive here, and now they are leaving too early for God knows what."

Smiling, he feigns a thinking moment with a shake of his head and turns back to me. "Those two can be so annoying sometimes. Well, I don't mind giving you a ride at all. Just tell me when you're ready to leave."

My nerves start acting up at his offer. "Uh, I don't want to trouble you. It's okay. I can find..."

"I'll take you home, Charlee," he insists, and I exhale, nodding too rapidly. What is wrong with me?

Thirty minutes later, we're in his black convertible, a shockingly stunning luxury car, speeding through traffic as he drives to my tiny apartment. Love songs play from the speaker as he says sweet things to me all through the ride-complimenting my skin, loving on my hair, and I am suddenly comfortable with my gown riding up and showing my pale thighs. He makes me feel... sweetly warm and soft.

Too soon, we pull up at my apartment building and he parks the car, turning off the music. He takes off his seatbelt and turns to face me. At that moment, it dawns on me. He also doesn't want the night to end. I should say goodbye right now. Put an end to all this tension. Set us both free. But for some reason, I can't.

"Uh, Harrison. Would... would you like to come upstairs for some coffee?"

I really thought he would say no, but in less than a minute, we're riding the elevator to my apartment, my heart pounding in my chest as I fiddle around for my key. It's late and there's no one in the hallway. I wonder if anyone saw me getting out of that mad clean car.

I let us both into my humble space.

"Beautiful home you have here," Harrison says, spinning in a circle to take in my modest apartment. I've always liked my Nordic tones of milky-white, dark brown, and lines of black in the decor. Suddenly, the room is too hot and small for me. The AC is blaring but I can feel the warmth coursing through my body. I'm supposed to be making coffee but I can't move anymore.