Jolting, I look up to see the blurry reflection in the office window of someone standing behind me. I wildly turn, my headphones slipping off to land on the carpet by my feet. Mr. Sharpe looks surprised as he stands a few feet away with his hands up, laughing under his breath as he says, “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you. I didn’t realize you had headphones on.”

It feels like there’s a drum under my ribs as my heartbeat goes crazy. I’m panting as I try to calm my breaths, but there are too many thoughts rushing through my mind. The first and foremost being: What did he mean when he said, ‘well, this is quite the view’? Did he mean… me? He couldn’t have. I must have misheard him. 

I swallow, sucking in a shuddering breath as I look him over. His tie is a dark wine red today. It makes me think of blood and I subconsciously lick my lips. I blush as I realize he’s watching me and probably saw me do that. 

“I, uh… I didn’t hear you. I’m sorry. Can you repeat that?” I hope it doesn’t come off as me being lost in thought, or worse, lost in staring at him, again. I bend down quickly to retrieve my headphones, pointing to them animatedly as I say, “I was just distracted by the audio, I should probably turn down the volume.” I laugh awkwardly. 

He smirks a little, stepping forward. He has such a sultry stride, I find myself sinking back against the glass window; it’s cold through my clothes. 

Instead of coming to stand in front of me, he walks to my side, staring out the window. He leans his forearm against the glass, sighing as he murmurs, “I was just saying how tiring it is to work late all the time but, well… this is quite a view. The city’s pretty at night, isn’t it?” 

My heart feels squeezed as I look at how his dark eyes glitter with the city lights. “Yeah… pretty,” I breathe. 

His gaze slides to me and I’m immediately put into a panic. 

“I mean, the city! Yeah, it’s really pretty!” It’s like when he looks at me any hope of being cool or collected evaporates instantly. I clear my throat, gesturing awkwardly to the windows as I say, “Sam asked me to clean them. There was a mix-up with the usual crew, apparently… I hope you don’t mind. I don’t want to distract you.” My face is red as I look up at him, worried that I’ll be an annoyance or interruption to his work. 

Mr. Sharpe smiles at me before he steps away from the window and takes a seat at his desk. “Not at all. Please do whatever you need,” he says, and opens up his laptop. 

I don’t look at the screen, not wanting to snoop. I listen to the quiet tapping of the keys on his keyboard. It feels as loud as my pulse, interrupted only by the spray of chemicals and squeaking of the rag in my hand as I clean the windows. 

The silence feels unbearable. I’m so aware of him behind me, it takes every ounce of willpower not to look at him. 

For a minute I’m relieved. It seems like a fine interaction. He didn’t bring up the social media comment, I didn’t say or do anything totally humiliating. 

I think I’m safe…

Putting on my headphones, I hit play on the audio book and the volume blasts my eardrums. I yank them off on reflex, fighting to hit the pause button, but my touch screen refuses to cooperate with me. 

“WITH A FORCEFUL THRUST, HIS ROCK HARD ALIEN **** SLAMS INTO ME. I CRY OUT IN RAPTURE, GRATEFUL I CRASH-LANDED ON THIS PLANET—” 

I hit pause, slowly lifting my gaze to see Mr. Sharpe is staring at me with a hand over his mouth; I can’t tell if it’s to hide a laugh or his abject horror. The room is so silent my breathing sounds loud. My heartbeat is like cannon fire. 

Slowly, Mr. Sharpe lowers his hand and clasps his fingers together on his lap as he turns in his chair to face me. “...Do I want to know what exactly you’re listening to?” he asks at the same time I blurt out, “I’m not a pervert!”

I feel so very small and nauseous. Things just keep getting worse and worse for me. 

Mr. Sharpe makes a spluttering sound and I can tell he’s choking on his own laugh, trying to keep a serious face. He clears his throat, staring at me as he says, “You don’t have the best luck, do you?”

“No. I don’t.” I can’t take it, I’m about to burst with humiliation. All my nervousness melts away and I feel defeated as I candidly admit, “I’m so sorry, sir. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I honestly really care about this job and I want to make a good impression, though I know I’ve done anything but that.” I close my eyes so I don’t have to look at him, hanging my head in shame. “I’m sorry about yesterday, with the recycling. And then today I was just interested in the company and I found your social media profile. I know it sounds like I’m making things up, but I actually didn’t mean to comment anything at all! My alarm went off and I was texting my mom. I don’t even know how it happened! My technology keeps betraying me! I just… I just want to do my job as a janitor. I’m so sorry I’m coming off so unprofessional. I really don’t mean to, I swear.” I open my eyes to peek up at him and gauge his reaction. 

He looks thoughtful as he says, “I believe you.”

“You do?” I’m stunned. About three seconds ago I was certain I’d be fired or at least written up for a review. I’m still on probation after all. 

“Should I not?” Mr. Sharpe asks sternly, lifting a brow at me. 

I swallow, shaking my head as I try to sound level. “No, you should.”

He smiles at me, though it’s not as dazzling this time, and that hurts my heart. He nods a little to himself before he says, “Alright. Then going forward, perhaps choose a different book to listen to when at work. Or music. Music is always nice.” It’s an obvious suggestion, one Sam already made, and that makes me feel like an idiot. 

I’m despondent as I murmur, “Right. Of course. I’m sorry, sir.”

“I thought I told you to drop the ‘sir’.” He sounds harsher now. 

It makes me stiffen, wondering if I really have done it this time. “Sorry,” I mutter. 

He doesn’t look at me, fiddling with papers on his desk. He changes the subject, saying, “Sam tells me you just moved here.”

My heart stutters as I think about Mr. Sharpe talking about me with Sam, for whatever reason. Was he curious about me, or just being polite? Maybe Sam was the one that mentioned me and he didn’t ask at all. 

“That’s right,” I say, fidgeting nervously with the cleaning supplies in my hand. 

“It must be quite stressful, being in a new city with a new job. Do you have family here?”

The question stings more than I was expecting. “No. I don’t.”

He makes a thoughtful sound before he says, “On your next day off you should check out some of the sights. Familiarize yourself a bit with the area. Sam’s friendly, I’m sure she’d take you around if you’re worried about going alone.”

“It’s fine. I’m used to doing things alone.” I realize that my choice of words sound mildly suggestive and add quickly, “I appreciate the understanding. I’m just going to shut up and clean the windows. Thank you, Mr. Sharpe—”

“Vincent.” His deep voice hits my ears and makes me shudder. 

“Sorry?” I ask, taking deep deliberate breaths as I stave off any thoughts of my dream. 

He holds my gaze with those dark eyes as he murmurs, “I told you to call me Vincent.”

“Sam doesn’t call you Vincent,” I counter, wondering if I’m being too forward now. 

Mr. Sharpe drums his fingers across the table surface, taking a moment before he replies, “Well, that’s her choice. She can if she wants to. You can if you want to.”

I do want to, I think, but it’s not what I say. I’m already in enough of a mess and in way too deep. “Thank you, Mr. Sharpe. I’ll keep that in mind.”

I try to focus on my task and pretend that Mr. Sharpe isn’t there.

His office is different from the other rooms I’ve cleaned. Here, the windows go up to the ceiling, and I realize I need a ladder for the top portion. I think about asking Mr. Sharpe where the ladder is, but I can’t even think of looking at him, let alone talking to him again. Besides, he’s the CEO. He’s probably doing something far more important, and he might not even know where the ladder is stored. 

I text Sam instead and wait for her reply.

My phone buzzes and I look down to see her text:

Oh that’s back in the supply closet! Sorry, I should have shown you earlier. Let me know if you can’t find it.

I respond to her text, typing: 

It’s fine!

Then, I brace myself to politely inform Mr. Sharpe in a soft mutter, “I’ll be right back.” 

A shudder runs up my spine the moment Mr. Sharpe’s dark eyes flash up at me from his screen. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah! Yes! I just need to grab the ladder for the top part of the windows.”

He looks back at his laptop, saying almost absentmindedly, “Alright. Let me know if you need any help.”

I absolutely will NOT let you know. I’ll let Sam know, I think, though the offer is rather tempting. I can imagine him with his suit jacket off and his sleeves rolled up. It makes me think of that vacation picture where he’s in a tank top. 

Micah, stop it. As if I haven’t embarrassed myself enough. 

Walking down the hall, I call the elevator and quickly make it to the supply closet. I grab the ladder, hurrying back up to Mr. Sharpe’s office. The ladder’s heavy, but I manage to carry it under my arm without assistance or stopping for breaks. 

Mr. Sharpe looks rather impressed as I haul the ladder into his office and set it up. 

“Want me to hold it for you?” he asks, craning his neck up to the top. I fight not to misinterpret the words as “want me to hold you” because I very much would want that… Just like when he saved me at the pharmacy.   

My heart sinks as I look at him. I wonder if things would be different if I’d told him we had met before. Probably not. Probably not for the better, anyway. 

Maybe if I fall off the ladder he’ll catch me in a cosmic moment and then I can feel his arms around me again. But I don’t need the ladder to realize the brutal, painful truth of my reality. 

I’m already falling for him. 

I wish I wasn’t. I wish I could just tell myself not to feel this way about an absolute stranger. 

Holding the ladder steady, I say, “That’s alright. Thank you, Mr. Sharpe.”

“Micah…” Mr. Sharpe saying my name makes me look over at him, and I see he’s turned in his chair again, gazing at me. He looks like he wants to say something else, but he clearly thinks better of it, just muttering, “Be careful,” as he turns away from me and goes back to work.

That’s exactly what I should do. I should just try to delete all of this from my brain and go back to work…

So why can’t I stop thinking about him?!