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My heart performed an Olympic-level somersault straight into my throat. I nearly fainted, my legs were actually wobbling like a newborn foal...because for one wild, traitorous second my brain supplied an image of him meaning our home, together, clothes optional.
Reality crashed back in a millisecond later: he meant his home. Alone. Away from the omega who’d just verbally thrown himself at his boss like a horny frisbee.
"Y-yes, of course!" I stammered, stepping back so fast I nearly tripped over my own feet. The sudden distance felt arctic after all that warmth. "I’ll—I’ll call your driver right now. He’s probably on standby. Or I can get you a cab or an Uber Black or a helicopter. W–whatever you need."
Xavier gave a short nod, expression unreadable again, and turned toward the bar...probably to settle the tab or retrieve his jacket or perform some other dignified exit ritual.
He moved through the crowd with that effortless authority, people parting without even realizing they were doing it.
I stood frozen for a second, watching his broad back disappear into the low light, then whipped out my phone with shaking fingers. My inner monologue had devolved into pure panic:
Congratulations, Theo.
You lasted three years as Xavier Fairchild’s P.A. without spontaneously combusting from unprofessional lust, and tonight you blew it all on three shots and a slow dance. Enjoy your new career in retail. Or unemployment. Whichever comes first.
I scrolled frantically to the driver’s contact, Mr. Harlan, who probably had a direct line to HR and a folder labeled "Theo’s Final Paycheck" and hovered over the call button. Across the floor I could see Jessie and Miles still dancing, both of them throwing me wide-eyed "what happened?!" faces now that the song had ended and the lights were creeping back toward chaotic strobes.
I offered them a weak thumbs-up that absolutely fooled no one.
Xavier returned a minute later, jacket draped over one arm, looking annoyingly composed while I was over here mourning my job for the second time tonight. He stopped in front of me, close enough that my traitor instincts perked up again despite the impending doom.
"Ready?" he asked, voice perfectly neutral.
I swallowed hard and nodded, already rehearsing my resignation email in my head.
This was fine. Totally fine.
I was so fired.
The drive to Xavier’s mansion was painfully quiet, the kind of silence that felt thick enough to chew. The city lights blurred past the tinted windows of the sleek black town car, and I sat there clutching my phone like a life raft, trying to convince myself that maybe...just maybe, he was simply tired. Exhausted from his first-ever club adventure.
Overwhelmed by bass and peach schnapps and my terrible influence. Not furious. Not drafting my termination letter in his head. Just... sleepy.
Mr. Harlan drove with his usual stoic professionalism, eyes fixed on the road, probably sensing the tension radiating off me in waves. Xavier sat beside me in the back seat, jacket folded neatly over one arm, staring out the window with that unreadable expression that made my omega instincts want to both hide under the seat and curl up in his lap for reassurance.
I kept stealing glances at him, sharp profile lit by passing streetlights, jaw set, not a word escaping his lips and every time I opened my mouth to say something light or apologetic, my brain screamed "abort" and I clamped it shut again.
Eventually the car turned off the main road and wound up a private drive lined with tall evergreens, their branches heavy with fresh leaves that glistened under discreet ground lighting. The mansion came into view like something out of an architectural magazine spread with sleek, modern lines of glass and steel softened by warm wood accents, three stories of floor-to-ceiling windows glowing softly against the night.
It wasn’t ostentatious in the old-money way; it was quietly, intimidatingly perfect. Minimalist landscaping, a reflecting pool out front that probably turned into an ice rink in winter, and a front entrance that looked like it required a retinal scan and a blood oath to open.
We pulled up under the porte-cochère, and Mr. Harlan killed the engine. Xavier stepped out first, murmuring a quiet "thank you" to the driver. I fumbled with my seatbelt, ready to mumble goodnight and bolt to whatever rideshare would take me home so I could begin my new life as a cautionary tale.
But as I reached for the door handle, Xavier’s voice stopped me.
"Theodore. Come inside, help me get settled."
I froze, one foot already on the gravel. My brain blue-screened so hard I’m pretty sure the car’s dashboard flickered in sympathy.
He’d never invited me inside before. Not once. In the three years of fetching his dry cleaning, scheduling his life down to the minute, and occasionally bringing him coffee strong enough to wake the dead, I’d never crossed the threshold of his private domain.
I’d dropped things at the gate, sure. Waited in the car. Once even stood awkwardly on the front steps while he signed something. But inside? No. That was sacred ground.
I swallowed hard and climbed out, legs feeling like overcooked noodles. "O-of course, sir."
He didn’t wait, just strode toward the massive front door that unlocked itself with a soft click...probably facial recognition or some billionaire wizardry and disappeared inside. I followed, trying not to gawk as the foyer opened up into a cathedral of modern luxury: double-height ceilings, polished concrete floors warmed by underfloor heating, a floating staircase that looked like it defied physics, and a massive abstract sculpture in the center that probably cost more than my annual salary.
He led me through to the sitting room...a sprawling, open-plan space with low-slung leather sectionals in charcoal gray, a fireplace that stretched the full length of one wall and crackled softly with real flames, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the dark expanse of his property.
Soft recessed lighting cast warm pools across sleek marble side tables, and a bar cart in the corner gleamed with crystal decanters that I was definitely not allowed to touch.
If I managed to sell this house, myself and my future generations would be set for life!
Xavier shrugged off his jacket, and I jumped forward automatically...
P.A. instincts kicking in, reaching to take it from him.
"I’m so sorry," I blurted the second my fingers brushed the fabric, the words exploding out of me like I’d been holding my breath for the entire drive.
"About earlier. Everything earlier. The flirting and the challenging and the—whatever that was. I didn’t mean to overstep, I swear I wasn’t trying to be inappropriate. I love my job, like, really love it. You’re the best boss I’ve ever had and I don’t want to lose it over one stupid tipsy comment. Please don’t fire me. I’ll never drink peach schnapps again. I’ll alphabetize the entire archive if you want. I’ll—"
I kept rambling, hanging his jacket on the back of a nearby chair with shaking hands, words tumbling faster and faster as panic took the wheel. "I just got carried away because you were actually having fun and it was kind of amazing and I—"
Xavier turned from the bar cart where he’d been pouring himself a glass of something amber and expensive. He set the decanter down with a quiet clink, expression unreadable, and started across the room toward me.
My voice faltered. He didn’t stop until he was right in front of me, close, too close and then one hand came up to brace against the wall beside my head, the other settling at my waist, effectively pinning me there.
My back met cool plaster, and suddenly every ounce of air left my lungs in a whoosh.
...Huh?
His scent hit me then...it was rich, warm, unmistakably alpha, just a hint of pheromones released into the space between us like a warning and a promise all at once. Not overwhelming, just enough to make my omega instincts sit up, whine, and roll over begging for belly rubs.
I stared up at him, mouth still half-open mid-apology, my brain completely gone offline.
And then Xavier Fairchild, my stoic, terrifying, impossibly controlled boss leaned down and kissed me.
It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t polite. It was firm, deliberate, and so perfectly executed that every frantic word in my head evaporated instantly. My hands flew to his chest on pure reflex, fingers curling into his shirt, and the only sound in the room was the soft crackle of the fireplace and the distant thud of my heartbeat trying to escape my ribcage.
When he finally pulled back, just far enough to let me breathe, his voice was low, rough around the edges in a way I’d never heard before.
"Be quiet, Theodore." He said, "You talk too damn much."
I nodded dumbly, still pinned against the wall, lips tingling, career miraculously intact.
Best. Worst. Night. Ever.