Monday morning at the "Arctic Shelf" was unusually quiet. The rumors of the gala had spread like wildfire—how the "Iron Lady" had walked out on the Board of Directors arm-in-arm with a lowly analyst. Michael sat at his desk, staring at a stack of shipping manifests, but his mind was stuck on the feeling of Lizbeth’s hand in his on that balcony.
She’s going to be so embarrassed today, he thought. She’ll probably double my workload just to overcompensate for being "human."
"Smith."
The voice wasn't a snap. It wasn't a growl. It was soft, almost tentative.
Michael looked up. Lizbeth was standing there, but she wasn't in her usual grey or charcoal armor. She was wearing a soft, knit cream sweater over a white collared shirt and a simple skirt. Her hair was down, falling in soft waves around her face.
"My office," she said. Then, she added a word that made the entire floor gasp: "Please."
Michael stood, his heart thudding against his ribs like a trapped bird. He followed her into the corner office, and for the first time, she didn't pace. She didn't hide behind her mahogany desk. She stood by the window, silhouetted by the morning sun.
As the door clicked shut, Lizbeth turned. Her face was already a brilliant, glowing crimson—her Level Thirteen Social Panic.
"I didn't sleep," she blurted out. "I spent six hours trying to write a memo to explain my 'unprofessional conduct' at the gala. I wrote fourteen drafts. I deleted them all."
"Liz, you don't have to explain anything," Michael said, stepping closer. "Those guys were jerks. Anyone would have walked out."
"It's not about them!" Lizbeth burst out, her voice trembling. She balled her hands into fists at her sides, her knuckles white. "It's about the logistics of... of this. Of us. I’ve spent my whole life calculating risks, Michael. I calculate the cost of every ship, every crate, every liter of fuel. But I can't calculate you."
She took a shaky step toward him. "You saw me at my worst. You saw me meowing at a cat. You saw me freeze in a meeting. You saw me panic in a cafe. And every time... you didn't look at me with pity. You looked at me like I was... enough."
"Liz..." Michael started, his voice thick with emotion.
"I'm not finished!" she squeaked, her eyes squeezed shut as if she were jumping off a cliff. "I'm shy. I'm awkward. I’m a disaster at parties. And I’m your boss, which makes this statistically a nightmare for human resources. But if you walk out that door and just go back to being 'Analyst Smith,' I think my heart is going to experience a total system failure."
Michael opened his mouth to tell her that he wasn't going anywhere—that he’d been in her "party" since the cat cafe. But before he could utter a single word, Lizbeth lunged forward.
It wasn't a graceful, cinematic move. It was a desperate, panicked, "Iron Lady" strike.
She grabbed the lapels of his casual jacket and pulled him down, her eyes squeezed shut so tight her glasses were slightly askew. Her lips crashed against his in a kiss that was clumsy, breathless, and filled with ten years of repressed loneliness.
Michael’s brain short-circuited. His eyes went wide, his hands hovering in mid-air as the world around him dissolved into a blur of cream knit wool and the scent of vanilla and expensive stationery.
The Boss... just kissed me?
As the shock wore off, a warmth flooded his chest that no amount of office coffee could ever replicate. He felt her trembling—she was still terrified, even now. Slowly, Michael let his hands settle on her waist, pulling her closer and deepening the kiss, turning her frantic energy into something soft and sure.
When they finally broke apart, Lizbeth didn't pull away. She buried her face in his chest, her forehead thumping against his sternum.
"I... I just did that," she muffled into his shirt, her voice vibrating against his ribs. "I just kissed an employee in my office. I’m going to be fired. I’m going to be a viral scandal. I’m going to have to move to the mountains and live with goats."
Michael laughed, a deep, joyful sound, as he wrapped his arms around her, finally taming the dragon for good.
"Well," Michael whispered into her hair. "The goats might be disappointed, because I’m pretty sure my sister already invited you to dinner. And she’s very strict about her RSVPs."
Lizbeth peeked up at him, her glasses fogged, her face a masterpiece of bashful joy. "Dinner? With the 'Golden Retriever' sister?"
"With the family," Michael corrected, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "Including the dork brother who thinks his boss is the bravest person he’s ever met."
Lizbeth smiled—the real, beautiful smile that had started it all. She adjusted her glasses and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, the "Iron Lady" finally finding her peace.
"Fine," she whispered. "But tell her... tell her I'm bringing the dessert. And I've already practiced how to say 'Pass the salt' twenty times."
Michael grinned, taking her hand. The "Workplace Time" was officially over. From now on, it was their time.
[END]99Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKmcusi4rkP
and then Add to home screen.