I’ve worked for Damien Holt for exactly nine months, sixteen days, and—if I check the time—forty-two minutes. Not that I’m counting or anything.
Not that I’m counting the days I’ve spent biting my tongue and breathing through clenched teeth while he sits behind that glass desk with his jaw tight and his glacier-blue eyes colder than a January frost.
I used to think I could break through his ice.
I used to think the way he looked at me—like he was holding something back—meant something.
Not anymore.
I clicked my heels down the corridor toward my desk, fresh from a coffee run. The iced Americano in my hand was sweating just like I was—courtesy of this ridiculous silk blouse I wore to impress him. Again.
Ridiculous. It wasn’t like he noticed.
“Morning, Miss Vale,” came a snide voice fr
