Chapter 4
Jamie stared at his screen like it owed him money.
He’d been working on the same French translation for twenty-five minutes. The assignment wasn’t even that hard – just rewriting a short product tagline into French for an international client. A couple of lines. Nothing dramatic.
If, of course, he actually spoke French.
He did not.
Not fluently. Not even conversationally. Not even – if we were being brutally honest – functionally.
But did he list it on his résumé?
Yes.
Was he now panicking and typing each sentence into a translation app, then copying the result into Google to double-check it wasn’t accidentally advertising underwear for ghosts?
Also yes.
He scowled at the screen. “Nos produits parlent pour eux-mêmes.” Did that sound right? Did it even sound good? Why was French so smug?
This feels wrong. This feels aggressively wrong.
“Jamie.”
He jumped.
Ryan stood over him with a protein bar and a raised eyebrow.
“You’ve been typing the same three lines for half an hour. Are you writing a poem or sending a fax to the Louvre?”
Jamie minimized the window like a criminal. “I’m just… perfecting the tone. The nuance. The poetry of branding.”
Ryan squinted. “Are you using Google Translate again?”
“No,” Jamie said, lying so hard his voice cracked.
Ryan grinned, tossing the protein bar onto Jamie’s desk. “You’re adorable when you’re flailing.”
“I’m not flailing,” Jamie muttered.
“Oh really?” Ryan leaned in conspiratorially. “Because you’ve also been watching the sales team meeting like it’s an episode of The Bachelor and Blake Sterling is your problematic front-runner.”
Jamie turned red. “I’m not watching him.”
“You’re watching him right now.”
Jamie yanked his eyes away from the glass-walled conference room across the floor. “I’m just – curious. He’s new. He’s the COO. I’m learning.”
Ryan crossed his arms. “You’re yearning. There’s a difference.”
Jamie glared. “You’re not funny.”
Ryan nodded toward the meeting room. “He kind of is, though.”
And he was.
Blake stood at the head of the table, sleeves rolled up, tie gone, laughing with the sales team like they were old friends. The room buzzed with energy, whiteboards covered in fresh pitch ideas, half-drunk coffees everywhere.
He was magnetic. Confident. Completely in his element.
And more than that – he listened. He threw out ideas. He challenged people. He made them better.
It wasn’t just business.
It was art.
Jamie hated how much he noticed.
And loved how much he noticed. Which was worse.
At one point, Blake leaned back, resting against the table, and looked out into the bullpen.
His gaze skimmed the room… then paused.
Right. On. Jamie.
Oh no.
Jamie ducked his head immediately and pretended to be deeply invested in a very blank Word document.
He could feel the smirk through the glass.
Ryan gave him a look. “Okay. You know him.”
Jamie sighed. “No.”
Ryan stared.
“Yes,” Jamie admitted. “Kind of.”
“Define kind of.”
Jamie leaned closer, lowering his voice. “He was the guy next to me on the plane.”
Ryan blinked. “What.”
Jamie buried his face in his hands. “I panicked. There was turbulence. I had a full-blown identity meltdown. I told him everything. About the oat milk. About the socks. About the – everything.”
Ryan gasped like he was at a sleepover. “Oh. My. God. Capulet. You trauma-dumped on your boss?”
Jamie groaned. “He didn’t say anything. He just smirked and winked and now he calls me Capulet like we’re in a Shakespeare-themed nightmare.”
Ryan practically squealed. “You’re living a fanfic. I hate you.”
Jamie peeked up over his hands… just in time to see Blake walk past the glass, glance in, and flash him a knowing smile.
Jamie froze.
This is a horror movie. This is a corporate horror movie.
“I think I’m going to freeze,” he whispered.
Ryan leaned in, delighted. “You’re going to fall in love.”
Jamie glared. “I already hate it here.”