Harper
"Mr. Gallo?"
The name squeaked out of me before I could stop it. My boss. In the bathroom of a nightclub like this? Scandalous.
Stanley blinked at me like he couldn't quite process the sight of me there. His eyes swept over me again, slow and deliberate, as though cataloging every detail. The smudged lipstick I hadn't bothered to fix, the wild mess of my hair from too much dancing, the scandalous black dress clinging to me like a second skin. His gaze was cool, controlled, but it lingered a second too long at the dip of my neckline before snapping back up.
"What the hell are you doing here, Harper?" His voice was sharper than the edge of glass. "Is this what you're supposed to be doing on the night of your day off?"
I bristled immediately, arms folding over my chest. Who the hell was he to question me outside the office? This was my night. My night of tequila-soaked freedom. I was so tired of him always bossing me around. Can't he just ignore me?
"Excuse me? What am I doing here? What are you doing here? You're the one who told us all to go home and rest. So why are you in an underground club?"
His brows shot up. "That's my question to you."
I threw my hands up. "I was resting. This is resting. Well… with tequila."
We stared at each other, my brain scrambling for a dignified comeback and finding none. Finally, I jabbed a finger at him. "You're judging me. Don't deny it, you're judging me. You work me like a slave, Mr. Gallo. A slave. If I want to dance with strangers and drown myself in shots, I've earned the right."
His lips pressed into a thin line, unreadable. He looked annoyed? About to fire me? My stomach twisted, heat prickling under my skin.
"You're drunk," he said finally.
"Tipsy," I corrected, chin tilting stubbornly. "And celebrating my freedom. My boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—and my so-called best friend are both out of my life for good."
The confession slipped out before I could stop it. The weight of it pressed on my chest, but I forced a crooked smile. "So yes, I'm here. In the men's bathroom. At a hotel club. In a very impractical dress. You're welcome for the explanation."
For a moment, the only sound was the muffled bass thundering through the walls. Then Stanley did something I never expected, his mouth twitched. Not a full smile, but close enough to one that my breath caught. I wonder how he would look with a full smile. I have never seen him smile since I started working for him. The closest thing to a smile I've seen on his face was a smirk just before he fired someone.
"Go home, Harper." His tone was firm. "Before you regret being here."
Regret? I almost laughed. Why would I regret this? The music, the dancing, the freedom coursing through my veins, they were all so intoxicating. For the first time in forever, I wasn't being the dependable, boring Harper.
I leaned against the sink, tilting my head as I studied him. He was still in the tailored suit from the airport, but the jacket was gone and two top buttons were undone, exposing the strong column of his throat and just enough of his chest to make my stomach flip. He must have come straight here. Straight here instead of home.
"What about you?" I asked sweetly. "Don't tell me Mr. Married-to-His-Job came here to… what? Dance?"
The thought of Stanley, the ever stone faced man dancing to club music makes me want to bend over in laughter. The sight would be shocking and hilarious.
His jaw clenched. "That's none of your business."
"Oh, but it is." The tequila made me bold, reckless. I smirked. "Because if you're allowed to be here, then so am I."
The air between us tightened, hot and humming with something dangerous. His eyes locked on mine, unflinching.
Finally, he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose like I was a migraine he couldn't shake. "You're impossible."
"And you're uptight." I pushed off the counter, smirking. "Guess we're even."
"You need to leave now."
"No." My heels clicked softly as I sauntered over, slow, deliberate. Every step I took brought me closer to him.
I stopped only when we were nearly chest to chest, his heat and the scent of his expensive cologne seeping into me. Tilting my head back, I stared into those storm-gray eyes, watching the wariness flicker there.
"I don't want to go home."
"You have to, Harper. This place isn't for someone like you."
"Someone like me?" I scoffed. "What's that supposed to mean?"
I already knew. He was going to call me boring. Predictable. Safe.
"You're a good girl, Harper." His voice was lower now, like gravel scraping silk. "This place is for bad girls."
Irritation sizzled beneath my skin. Always the good girl. Always the reliable one. And where had it gotten me? Betrayed. Cheated on. Left humiliated.
Not anymore.
I let a slow smile curve my lips. Then I raised my hand and trailed a finger across the open part of his shirt, down the hard plane of his chest. His body went rigid, muscles tightening under my touch. Satisfaction curled in me. Gotcha.
In an instant, his hand shot out, capturing mine, his grip firm. "What the hell are you doing?"
I tilted my head, my voice dropping into something softer, silkier. "Do you like bad girls, Mr. Gallo? Is that why you're here? Looking for one?"
His gray eyes darkened, a storm rising in their depths."You're drunk, Harper."
"I told you." I stood on tippy toes and leaned closer, until my lips hovered near his ear, brushing warm air against his skin. "I'm tipsy. And I can be a bad girl for you… if you want."
His hand tightened around mine, almost painfully, but he didn't let go. He didn't push me away. His breathing was heavier now, chest rising and falling against mine.
"You don't know what you're asking for," he ground out, voice rough.
"Maybe I do." My gaze dropped to his mouth, that firm, disciplined line I'd seen in endless boardrooms. God, I wanted to see it break. "Maybe I've been thinking about this longer than I should."
His nostrils flared. His free hand flexed at his side, as if fighting the urge to touch me.
I dared another inch closer, my body brushing his. The tiniest contact, but it was electric, sending heat rushing through me. My pulse hammered in my ears. "Tell me to stop," I whispered. "Say it, and I'll walk out that door."
For a long, charged second, he said nothing. His jaw was clenched, his eyes burning into mine, his hand still wrapped tight around my finger like if he let go, something unstoppable would happen.
The bass from the club thudded through the walls, matching the wild rhythm of my heart.
But Stanley Gallo—my impossible, uptight, maddening boss—did not tell me to stop. I pressed even closer, allowing my hard nipples to rub against his chest.
I have just discovered my bad decision for tonight.