Chapter 7
Monday morning hit like a hurricane with a clipboard.
There was no warning.
No calm.
Just chaos.
At 9:02 AM sharp, every team lead received a brightly formatted email from Blake Sterling titled: Let’s Mix It Up.
By 9:10, the office floor looked like the set of a very stylish apocalypse.
Desks were being unplugged. Monitors dragged across carpet. Plants abandoned. People wandered the bullpen holding their office chairs like lost luggage. Somewhere, someone had started a playlist called “Desk Shuffle Vibes.”
Jamie read the email three times and still didn’t know whether to panic or fake an injury.
Amnesia was still on the table.
Ryan was halfway under his desk, unplugging cables. “This man is dangerous.”
Shona was already labeling her stapler. “Honestly? He’s not wrong. This place was frozen. Now it feels like… alive chaos. Stylish chaos.”
“Stylish chaos is still chaos,” Jamie muttered, trying to rescue his half-dead succulent from being trampled.
Blake was everywhere.
He wasn’t barking orders – he was collaborating. Helping carry whiteboards. Rearranging seating plans. Laughing. Gesturing. Inspiring.
He moved through the mess with that terrifying, effortless ease – part hurricane, part motivational speaker, part GQ cover model with very strong opinions about ergonomic chairs.
Jamie tried not to watch.
He failed immediately.
By noon, the departments had melted into new clusters – sales beside creatives, marketing near operations, everyone tangled up in new combinations like a very ambitious jigsaw puzzle.
Jamie had managed to keep his desk mostly intact.
His brain? Not so much.
He needed coffee.
Desperately.
He escaped to the break room like a man on the run, hoping for thirty seconds of silence and caffeine.
Instead, he found Blake.
Already there.
Sleeves rolled. Tie loosened. Shirt slightly rumpled like he’d actually lifted something heavy. He stood by the espresso machine, carefully steaming milk.
Jamie froze in the doorway. “I – I can come back…”
Blake didn’t look up. “You could. Or you could let me finish making your coffee.”
Jamie blinked. “My… coffee?”
Blake glanced over his shoulder, smiling slightly. “Latte. Regular milk. Foam. No sugar. No oat.”
Jamie stepped in, stunned. “You remembered?”
Blake turned, holding out the mug with a small, unnecessary flourish. “You literally called it your ‘secret shame’ while crying over turbulence.”
“I wasn’t crying,” Jamie muttered, taking the cup and inhaling like it was sacred.
“You were misty-eyed with flair.”
Jamie took a sip – and made a small, involuntary sound. “This is so good.”
Okay. This is dangerously good.
Blake leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Foam’s the key. Gotta get it right. I worked part-time at a café in uni. Steamed more milk than I care to admit.”
Jamie raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were born in a suit.”
“Not quite. Though I did wear one to prom. My date wore Converse. She made me loosen up.”
Jamie smiled, picturing it. “You have a ‘loosen up’ setting?”
“Only on weekends.”
They both laughed.
It was a small thing. A short, quiet exchange in the middle of madness.
But it felt… grounding.
That was new.
Jamie looked down at the latte, then back at Blake. “You really didn’t have to remember this.”
Blake’s voice softened. “I wanted to.”
Jamie stilled.
Their eyes met.
For a moment, everything else – the desks, the emails, the Spotify playlist looping in the bullpen – faded into the background.
Just them.
Just this.
Oh. That was…
Blake cleared his throat and turned back to the machine. “I should make another round. Everyone’s running on fumes.”
Jamie nodded, still holding the warm mug, pulse racing for entirely different reasons now.
As he left the room, he heard Blake say, almost casually, “Good socks today.”
Jamie looked down.
Bananas. Bright yellow. Cheerfully absurd.
He groaned, smiling despite himself.
Of course he noticed.
The man noticed everything.