Deskbound Desires

The fluorescent light over my desk flickered once, twice, then settled into its usual low hum. I'd been staring at the same spreadsheet for twenty minutes, watching numbers blur into a gray smear, when the door to the corner office swung open.

"Ms. Chen."

Not *hey* or *got a minute* or any of the normal human greetings. Just my name, clipped at the end like he was already moving on to the next thing.

I looked up. Marcus Vale stood in his doorway, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loosened a half inch. He'd been in there since seven. I knew because I'd been here since six forty-five, and his car was already in the lot when I pulled in, a black Audi parked diagonally across two spaces like it owned the asphalt.

"Sir?"

"My office."

He didn't wait for a response. Just turned and disappeared back into the glass-walled room that overlooked the entire floor. The blinds were half-drawn, which meant something was either very wrong or very confidential. Possibly both.

I saved my work, stood, smoothed the front of my blouse. My hands were steady. That surprised me. Three years at Vale Capital and the man still made my pulse jump every time he said my name, but I'd gotten good at hiding it. Good at pretending he was just another executive. Just another suit.

The walk from my cubicle to his office took eleven steps. I'd counted. The carpet was the same industrial gray as everything else in the building, but his office had a different smell. Cedar and something sharp, like the rind of a lemon. I noticed it every time, and every time I hated that I noticed.

"Close the door."

I did. The latch clicked into place, and the sound of the office floor disappeared. Just us and the hum of his computer and the city spread out behind him, all those windows reflecting the afternoon sun.

"Sit."

There was only one chair across from his desk. Low. Deliberately low, I'd always suspected, so whoever sat in it had to look up. I sat. He didn't.

For a long moment he just looked at me. Marcus Vale had a way of looking that made you feel like he was reading a file somewhere behind your eyes. Dark hair, graying at the temples. Faint lines around his mouth that suggested he used to smile more. He was fifty-one, I knew from the company bio, but he moved like someone younger. Restless. Hungry.

"I've been reviewing the Q3 projections," he said.

"I submitted those last week."

"You did." He picked up a pen, rolled it between his fingers. "They're wrong."

The word landed like a slap. I kept my face still. "Which part?"

"Page fourteen. The revenue assumptions for the eastern division. You used last year's growth rate."

"Because the market conditions are similar."

"Are they?"

He set the pen down and leaned forward, both hands flat on the desk. The pose pulled his shirt tight across his shoulders. I focused on his tie instead. Navy blue. Slightly crooked.

"The eastern division lost two major clients in August," he said. "You know this. I know you know this because you're the one who processed the termination paperwork."

"I did."

"So why would you project twelve percent growth when the revenue base just shrank by eighteen percent?"

I felt heat climb my neck. He was right. I'd been rushed, distracted by the audit prep, and I'd grabbed the template without thinking. A stupid mistake. The kind that got analysts fired.

"I'll fix it."

"I know you will." He straightened, walked around the desk, and sat on the edge of it, closer to me than before. Close enough that I could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his collar had creased from a long day. "But that's not why I called you in here."

No. Of course not. Because Marcus Vale didn't summon people to his office for spreadsheet errors. He sent emails for that. Terse, punctuation-perfect emails that made you feel two inches tall.

"Then why?"

He studied me. The silence stretched, and I became acutely aware of my own breathing, the rise and fall of my chest under the thin fabric of my blouse. The air conditioning kicked on, pushing cold air across my arms. I resisted the urge to rub them.

"How long have you worked here, Ms. Chen?"

"Three years. Four in March."

"And in that time, how many conversations have we had that lasted longer than ninety seconds?"

I blinked. "I don't know."

"Neither do I. But I've noticed." He tilted his head. "You're good at your job. Careful. Precise. You don't make mistakes like page fourteen."

"I'm human."

"You are." Something shifted in his expression. Not a smile, exactly. Something more private. "That's what interests me."

My mouth went dry. I should have said something professional. Should have steered us back to spreadsheets and revenue projections. Instead I sat there, frozen, while he reached out and touched the edge of my collar. Just his fingertip against the fabric. Barely a touch at all.

"You're nervous," he said.

"I'm not."

"Your pulse is visible right here." He traced the line of my throat without actually touching skin. "You can't hide that."

I swallowed. "Mr. Vale."

"Marcus."

"I don't think I should call you that."

"No?" He withdrew his hand, but his eyes stayed on mine. Dark and steady. "What do you think you should do?"

The question hung between us. I knew what I should do. Stand up. Excuse myself. Report him to HR. Go back to my cubicle and finish the projections and pretend this conversation never happened. That's what a smart woman would do.

But I'd spent three years watching him from across the floor. Three years of noticing the way he rolled his sleeves, the way he said my name like it meant something, the way he never looked at anyone else the way he looked at me.

"I think," I said slowly, "that you're crossing a line."

"I am."

"And I think you know exactly what you're doing."

"I do."

He stood, and the movement brought him so close that I had to tilt my head back to keep eye contact. This close, I could see the flecks of gray in his irises. The faint scar above his left eyebrow. The way his breath came a little faster than it had a minute ago.

"The question," he said, "is whether you want me to stop."

I should have said yes. Every rational part of my brain was screaming it. But my body had other ideas. My body was noticing the heat coming off him, the smell of cedar and lemon, the way his hand had felt hovering near my throat, so close I could almost feel it.

"I don't know," I whispered.

He smiled then. A real smile, the first I'd ever seen from him, and it transformed his face. Made him look younger. Dangerous in a different way.

"That's not a no."

"It's not a yes either."

"No." He stepped back, giving me room to breathe, and I hated how much I missed his proximity. "It's not."

He walked to the window and stood with his back to me, looking out at the city. The sun caught the silver at his temples. I watched his reflection in the glass, the way his shoulders rose and fell with each breath.

"Page fourteen," he said. "Fix it by tomorrow morning. We'll discuss the rest then."

The dismissal was clear. I stood on legs that felt unsteady, smoothed my blouse, and walked to the door. My hand was on the handle when he spoke again.

"Ms. Chen."

I turned.

"You're not the only one who's been watching."

The words followed me out of the office, down the hall, past the rows of cubicles where my coworkers typed and talked and had no idea that the ground had just shifted under my feet. I sat down at my desk. The spreadsheet was still open, numbers glowing on the screen.

I fixed page fourteen. I fixed it perfectly.

And then I sat there for a long time, staring at nothing, wondering what tomorrow morning would bring.