Chapter 13 Late Night Call
June
The music’s loud. Stupid loud. It's vibrating-my-spleen kind of loud.
Yes everyone. I'm in the club.
That’s where I decided to seek solace tonight.
Because apparently, tequila and noise are the only things strong enough to shut my brain up.
The wet dreams are getting too real. And the messed-up part?
I like them.
That’s the problem.
So here I am. Touching grass, which, in my dictionary, means three shots in and halfway to forgetting my name.
What about work tomorrow? You might ask.
Good news: Mr. Grande is on some "executive business leave" or whatever vague rich-man mystery that means.
Translation: no early morning, no coffee runs, no death stares from my emotionally constipated CEO.
So yeah. Good timing.
If I’m lucky, I’ll drown deep enough in tequila to maybe — just maybe — sleep with someone else.
And if I do? Maybe it’ll reset my brain.
Maybe I’ll stop dreaming about him.
It’s math, right?
First guy I sleep with equals multiple wet dreams.
New guy equals overwrite old dream. It's simple and efficient.
Because right now?
I’d rather dream about a faceless, nameless stranger than keep seeing Hermes Grande’s jawline in high-definition and 4K every damn night.
I down another shot.
It’s pathetic.
He doesn’t even look at me.
I thought he remembered — I felt it, that first day in his office. The pause and the tension.
But now? Nothing.
He’s probably wiped that night clean from his memory.
Meanwhile, I’m the idiot over here, fantasizing about a man who probably sees me as a stapler with legs.
Ugh.
I am such a fool.
I should sleep with someone. I need to sleep with someone to forget Mr. Hermes Gra––
“Brrrrzzzz. You killin’ girl!”
Even with the music blasting, my ringtone slices through.
What the hell?
Why is he calling me? Why is he calling me?!
My head spins like he’s maybe in this very club, watching me from a dark corner.
Because why else would Mr. Grande call me at this hour?
Shit.
Pick up, June. Pick up before you become unemployed.
I fumble and swipe fast. "Mr—"
"To the office. Now."
Click. Line dead.
"What the—" I blink at the black screen.
No explanation, no time, just a command and a hang-up.
Did that just… happen?
Did my boss — the emotionally constipated CEO of Apex — just summon me like it’s part of my job description to report for duty in the middle of a Thursday night?
Should I ask why?
Nope. I like rent. I like food. I like not being unemployed.
Honestly, this is better than what I was planning anyway. Saved from making another bad decision. Yay, professionalism.
I grab my leather jacket from the bar counter and rush out to the street to find a cab.
As I slide in, I glance down at my dress — the clingy pink dress, the too-short hem, the dangerous neckline, and freeze.
Maybe I should go home and change—
Nope. Not happening.
There’s no time. And more importantly, he doesn’t like lateness.
I’ve already been on thin ice this week — and showing up late and dressed like a cocktail? That’s unemployment speedrun material.
Still, he said now.
So… here goes nothing.
"Apex Corp. Fleet Bridge," I tell the cabbie.
And just like that, tequila-soaked decisions become CEO emergencies.
"Here's your change," the cabbie says, handing me a few crumpled bills as I step out.
Thankfully, I wore sneakers to the club instead of heels. Weird choice, right? Yeah. I’m weird like that.
I watch the cab drive off, the taillights blending into the city blur, and then it hits me.
Oh shit. My leather jacket.
"My jacket!" I yell into the night, knowing damn well he can’t hear me. He's already vanished into traffic, probably listening to Afrobeats and not giving a single damn.
Just like that, the only thing keeping this dress from screaming “I’m not here for work” is gone.
I look up at the Apex building — specifically, the floor I should not be entering looking like this — and sigh.
"Here goes nothing."
The elevator ride used to be fast. This time? It’s faster.
I step inside, still breathing heavily — not for dramatic flair, but to look like I sprinted here the second I got his call. Which I did. Hence, the outfit. No time to explain.
"God, it’s cold in here." I shiver, rolling my shoulders as the AC blasts straight up my spine. I really need that jacket.
"Mr. Grande, I’m coming in," I mutter toward the office door. Not sure if he hears me, or even if he’s inside.
But the second I step in—
Oh. My. God.
If this is casual Mr. Grande, then Lord have mercy.
He looks way hotter than from that night at the bar/hotel.
His hair — it’s down. Like down-down. Messy and unfair and domestic. That black shirt? It's barely buttoned or legal. And those slacks?
No. No, June. Do not go there.
He raises his face — and I watch him go pale.
Yeah. I know, sir. The dress. I'm sorry.
"I’m sorry, sir. I was at the club when you called and I thought it was urgent so I didn’t have time to change, and I left my leather jacket in the cab that brought me here in a rush. I’m so sorry."
The words pour out like a flood. Fast. Too fast, because I'm scared he’ll cut me off before I explain everything.
His eyes drop slowly, and it's dead quiet. He doesn’t say anything. But I can see it.
He’s thinking.
I’ve studied his expressions too much to be wrong. The jaw flex, the pause, the breath he holds like he's biting down a reaction.
I lift a thumb over my shoulder. "I can go back, if you—"
"You don’t need to apologize," he cuts in, already striding toward the monstrous stack of files.
He squats down, flips open one of them without looking at me.
"I called you when you were out having fun. That’s on me. Not you."
I should feel relieved.
But I don’t.
Because his voice, his tone, doesn’t sound like understanding. It sounds like scolding wrapped in silk.
I don’t know what to say.
It’s dead quiet. Again. Just the low hum of the AC and the soft, rhythmic slap of paper as he flips through the files.
"Alright," he says suddenly, in a tone so deep and rough it makes me flinch.
It doesn’t even sound like he’s talking to me — more like to himself.
"These files…" he continues, eyes still down, "this is why I called you. I need help sorting them out."
He doesn’t look at me. Not even once.
Here I am, mentally gushing over his casual outfit like an idiot — and he can’t even spare me a glance.
Of course not. He’s better than you, June.
You should let go of that night too.
There’s a pause.
"You’re cold."
His voice softens. Just a little, but enough to make my stomach flip.
I glance up, surprised, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. He just nods toward something behind his desk.
"Go to the cabinet over there,” he says. "I think I left my coat in it. Wear it. Then come sort these files."
"Thank you, sir."
I waddle to the cabinet like a penguin, find the coat, and throw it on.
It fits like a long, oversized dress — sleeves swallowing my arms whole.
Now I look like a penguin.
Then it hits me — a wave of his cologne. Sharp, clean, masculine, and it slams into me like a truck on a highway.
I stagger a little. My brain short-circuits.
And just like that, the image on my mind is him again — that dangerous, hungry gaze he wore when he finished sucking my clit dry.
"Take your dress off," I hear him say in a low and commanding voice.
But wait—no. That was that night.
He can’t be saying that now. Can he?
I blink, shake my head to reset my brain.
"Roll up the sleeves. You’ll need your hands," he says.
Oh. That’s what he’s saying.
His voice is taut with impatience, like he’s said it five times already and I was too busy hallucinating.
This coat is diabolical.
Then — footsteps. He’s walking toward me.
And then his hands are on my arms. Rolling up the sleeves, briskly, like I’m a mannequin, and he doesn’t look at me.
But I feel him. The way his fingertips skim my skin.
And I—
Shit. Is this the effect of the tequila I drank or–
Suddenly the room spins.
Next thing I know, I stumble — and fall straight into his chest. Hard into his chest.
He catches me.
My heart is thundering in my ears. And his chest? It’s not calm either. It’s fast , really fast.
Is he nervous too?