Chapter Four (Sizzling Moment)

Clarissa Morgan

Clarissa stared at her phone, her thumb hovering over the email that simply read: Please report to HR’s office upon arrival. You’ll be assigned to work with one of our executive secretaries. That was it—no clue about her actual boss, just the shadowy promise of someone high-ranking. Gracie certainly wastes no time, she muttered, releasing a nervous breath. She’d dressed with purpose today, aiming to channel the confidence she hoped to project. A quick glance in the mirror reassured her—she looked the part. Fingers crossed for good luck, she grabbed her bag and headed out.

Pausing in the kitchen, she found her mother, Becca, sipping tea and looking up with a proud smile.

"Good morning, Mum. Feeling better?" Clarissa greeted, pressing her cheek to her mother’s.

"Look at you! You’re glowing, darling, and you smell fabulous!" Becca teased, eyes twinkling with approval.

“Really?” Clarissa’s hand went self-consciously to her collar. "I didn’t overdo it, did I? It’s my first official day, and...”

“Nonsense,” her mother chuckled, handing her a cup of tea. “You’re perfect. Overdressing isn’t in my dictionary.”

Clarissa laughed, albeit with a nervous edge. “Maybe I’m compensating for my...less-than-stellar start yesterday. The whole thing with Steve, the car—”

Becca winked. “Redeeming your image...was that all on your mind when you chose that dress?”

"Mum!" Clarissa shook her head, laughing. “Hopeless romantic! I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.”

"I told you, darling. Fit as a fiddle,” Becca said with a conspiratorial look.

“Alright, I’m off. And promise—no job hunting until your doctor clears you.”

Becca gave a mock salute. “Scout’s honor. Now go knock ‘em dead!”

Clarissa grinned, hugging her mom before making her way out the door. As she stepped outside, she took a calming breath. Alright, new day, fresh start.

Gracie directed her to the top floor, leaving her bewildered. The top floor? She’d avoided elevators like the plague during training, opting for the stairs whenever she could. But the fifteenth floor? She’d have to confront her claustrophobia and acrophobia—both in one go. With shaky hands, she pressed the button and waited, hoping the elevator would be empty.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” a voice called.

She turned to find a maintenance worker behind her. “We’re doing a quick check on this elevator. The one at the back should be ready.”

For a moment, she nearly hugged him in relief. But then the thrill faded as she realized she’d be using the elevator regardless.

“Thank you,” she murmured, a brave smile tugging at her lips.

When she stepped into the rear elevator, she gripped the handrail tightly, taking a deep breath to calm her nerves. The doors slid shut, and she closed her eyes, willing herself to stay calm.

But the doors suddenly reopened with a soft ding, and the next moment she heard a low, familiar voice. “Is this another one of your stunts? You know, aside from destroying taillights with stilettos?”

Clarissa's eyes flew open, and there he was—Steve Damon, gazing at her with a mixture of amusement and something else that sent her pulse racing. He looked… devastatingly good, his sharp blue eyes framed by an impeccably tailored suit that fit him just right.

“S-Steve?” She stammered, caught off guard. His presence in the small space was overwhelming.

“Surprised to see me?” he asked, an infuriatingly knowing smirk curling his lips. “You might as well get used to it.”

Despite herself, her gaze drifted down his face, tracing the strong lines of his jaw, the confident set of his shoulders. The air between them felt charged, every inch of space amplifying his magnetic pull. No, she told herself firmly—focus, Clarissa. She wasn’t about to fall for his notorious charm.

She managed a polite, “Good morning, Mr. Damon,” and turned back, clutching the rail tighter.

Steve Damon

Steve stepped into the elevator and, seeing the familiar silhouette, halted mid-step. It was her—Clarissa Morgan. Even before she turned, he knew; that poised, unmistakable figure was seared into his mind. When she finally looked up at him, those warm mocha eyes sent a bolt straight to his chest.

He was used to women eyeing him with interest, but Clarissa’s gaze—innocent yet intense—held him in a way that felt unexpectedly powerful. And just as quickly, she broke eye contact, her look shifting to polite indifference. She turned away, gripping the rail with knuckles white as chalk. Interesting, he thought.

As he studied her closer, it was obvious she was holding onto that rail for more than just balance. She was clearly uncomfortable, and it wasn’t just his presence. She’s afraid, he realized. He was about to ask if she was alright when the elevator jolted to a sudden halt, and the lights flickered out.

She gasped, stumbling forward and instinctively clinging to him. Her body trembled against his, and without a second thought, he wrapped his arms around her, murmuring softly, “Hey, it’s alright. I’ve got you.”

Her fingertips brushed his neck, sending a jolt through him that had nothing to do with the elevator’s malfunction. His mind raced, and for a second he flashed back to comforting his younger sister in moments of fright. He focused, speaking soothing words, though his heart was hammering in his chest.

“Better?” he murmured, though he could barely hold back his own reaction to her closeness. Her perfume—a delicate blend of something soft and floral—was utterly intoxicating.

Then, almost instinctively, his lips brushed against her temple. She whimpered softly, lifting her face to his, eyes wide with an unspoken invitation. He bent down, brushing his lips against hers. The kiss started gently, but when she melted into him, everything intensified, and he found himself giving in, every restrained feeling released in a rush of heat and longing.

The elevator jolted back to life, the lights flickered on, and they sprang apart, both catching their breath.

“I... I apologize for that,” he managed, though his mind was a tangle of emotions. But the truth was, he didn’t regret a thing.

Clarissa turned away, visibly shaken yet somehow more composed than he felt. She wasn’t even holding onto the rail anymore. Interesting, he thought again. His apology had been mostly for show. That kiss had been something else—a spark, a jolt, a promise of more. And though he wasn’t one for dwelling, he couldn’t ignore the burning memory of her lips.

Damn it, Steve. Acting like a lovesick schoolboy, he chastised himself, turning his back to hide the heated flush spreading up his neck. Get a grip.

But as the elevator dinged to a stop and they stepped out, he couldn’t deny that, with her, he might just be willing to break his own rules.