Chapter 1
The alarms I've set are useless, I hit snooze at least three times. Which means now I'm paying for it. I'm late, again. My blouse is half-buttoned, and my hair is barely pinned up. My bag keeps slipping off my shoulder as I rush down the sidewalk while trying to fix my buttons. The cold morning air burns my cheeks, and I curse at myself for forgetting my scarf, if I had just got up when my alarm went off I wouldn't be rushing right now.
I try to push past people in the street. "Excuse me! Sorry!" I shout as I weave through the crowd of commuters. My heels clack against the pavement as I rush, each step is a frantic drumbeat that feels like it's counting down the seconds. I glance at my phone. 8:49 AM.
"Damn it!" I mutter under my breath as I weave through more people. Mr Greaves is going to murder me if I'm late again. His lectures are legendary, complete with dramatic sighs and eyebrow arches that could rival a Shakespearean villain.
I speed up my walking, my thoughts racing just as fast as my feet are moving. Maybe I can blame it on the subway, or say there was traffic? Of course both are lies but I need something to say to avoid his wrath.
I'm so distracted, I barely register the light turning red. My mind is too distracted and I step off the curb, my bag again sliding down my arm. Sounds explode. Screeching tires and a car horn.
I freeze in the middle of the road as a sleek black car screeches to a stop inches from my legs. My heart slams against my ribs, my breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a scream.
“Are you out of your mind?” The driver’s voice is deep and sharp, cutting through my panic. The car door swings open, and the man steps out, slamming it shut behind him.
He’s tall, dressed in a navy suit that looks like it costs more than my entire wardrobe. His tie is loosened, his dark hair slightly messy, like he’s been running his hands through it all morning. When his stormy gray eyes lock on mine, I feel like I’ve been hit after all.
“I—I’m so sorry,” I stammer, my voice shaking. My bag dangles uselessly from my arm as I stand there, rooted to the spot like a naughty toddler given a lecture. “I wasn’t paying attention. I—”
“You think?” he snaps, running a hand through his hair. He exhales sharply, and for a moment, I think he’s going to yell at me again. But then his expression softens. His eyes narrow slightly as he looks me over—my messy bun, my unevenly tucked blouse, the sheer panic probably written all over my face.
“You could’ve gotten yourself killed,” he says, quieter now.
My face burns. I want to sink into the pavement, maybe crawl into a storm drain and never come out. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, staring at the ground. “I’m just… late for work.”
There’s a pause, and I force myself to look up at him. His gaze is still on me, but now there’s something else in it. Curiosity? Amusement?
“Late for work isn’t worth dying for,” he says, his tone lighter now. He glances back at his car, then at me. “Where do you work?”
I blink. “W-what?”
“Where do you work?” he repeats, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile.
It’s such a strange question that I can’t form a proper answer. I blurt out, “Harper & Grant Consulting.”
His brows lift slightly. “That’s two blocks from here.”
I nod dumbly.
“Get in. I’ll drive you,” he says.
“What?” I stare at him, convinced I’ve misheard, why would he tell me to get in?
“You’re already late, I assume if you're running into traffic,” he says with a shrug. “Might as well get there faster, and safer.”
I hesitate, glancing at the car—sleek, expensive, and probably cleaner than my entire apartment. This is insane. Getting into a stranger’s car is the kind of thing they warn you about in every self-defense class ever.
But when I look back at him, he’s watching me with a raised eyebrow, like he’s genuinely waiting for my answer. And something about him—maybe the way his expression has softened, or the faint trace of a smile playing at the edge of his mouth—makes me believe he’s not dangerous.
Still, my voice comes out small. “I don’t even know your name.”
He smirks, the first real smile I’ve seen from him. “It’s Nathan. And you are?”
“Emma,” I say, my heart still pounding, though now for a very different reason. “The person who likes to almost get run over.”
“Well, Emma,” he says, gesturing to the car, “are you coming, or are you going to keep risking your life in traffic?”
I hesitate for just a second longer. And then, against all logic, I nod.
I slide into the passenger seat, my bag clutched tightly against my chest like a security blanket. The interior of the car smells faintly of leather and something clean, like cedarwood or cologne. Everything inside is spotless—polished surfaces, not a single crumb or coffee stain in sight.
Nathan gets in on the driver’s side, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He glances at me, the faintest trace of amusement still lingering in his stormy gray eyes.
“Seatbelt,” he says, his voice calm but firm.
“Oh, right. Of course.” My hands fumble with the buckle, my nerves making even this simple task feel like rocket science. The belt clicks into place, and I sit stiffly, unsure what to do with myself.
He shifts the car into gear, and we glide forward. The engine purrs softly, and I can’t help but notice how effortlessly he handles the car, like it’s an extension of him.
“So,” he says after a moment, his eyes flicking toward me before returning to the road. “Harper & Grant, huh? What do you do there?”
“Consulting,” I say automatically, then realize how vague that sounds. “Well, I’m an analyst. Mostly spreadsheets, reports, and trying not to drown in emails.”
“Sounds… exhilarating,” he says, one corner of his mouth tugging upward.
I laugh despite myself, the sound awkward and slightly breathless. “It’s not. Trust me. But, you know, it pays the bills.”
He nods, his expression unreadable. “And it’s worth risking your life in traffic for?”
My cheeks flush. “Okay, I deserved that,” I mumble.
Nathan glances at me again, his eyes softening. “I’m just saying, maybe next time, look before you leap. Not everyone’s going to stop in time.”
The weight of his words sinks in, and I nod, my stomach twisting at the thought of how close I came to disaster. “You’re right. I wasn’t thinking. I’m just… I’ve been so stressed lately, and this morning completely got away from me.”
“To be fair,” he says, his tone light, “you’re not the only one having a rough morning. I was running late too. You just happened to throw yourself in front of my car to make it even more exciting.”
I bite my lip, torn between embarrassment and the urge to laugh. “Well, I aim to please.”
He chuckles, a low, warm sound that makes the tension in my chest ease just a little.
The downtown buildings blur past us, the car weaving smoothly through traffic. He drives like he does everything else—calm, controlled, like he knows exactly where he’s going and how to get there.
“Here we are,” he says, pulling up in front of my office building. He shifts the car into park and turns to look at me.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice softer now. “I mean it. For stopping. For not running me over. For this.” I gesture vaguely at the car, feeling like words aren’t enough to express how grateful—and mortified—I am.
“You’re welcome,” he says simply.
I reach for the door handle but hesitate, glancing back at him. “I’m sorry again for… well, everything.”
He smirks, his gaze steady. “If it means I get to rescue someone like you, I’d say it’s worth it.”
My breath catches, and I’m not sure if it’s because of his words or the way he’s looking at me, like he’s trying to read something written just beneath my skin.
“Emma.” My name on his lips feels like a question, though I don’t know what he’s asking.
“Yes?” I manage.
He pulls a business card from the console and hands it to me. “In case you ever need another ride. Or if you decide to throw yourself in front of my car again.”
I take the card, my fingers brushing against his. It’s heavier than I expect, the kind of card that screams expensive. His name is printed in bold, elegant lettering: Nathan Carter. Carter Holdings. CEO.
CEO. Of course. Because my morning wasn’t surreal enough.
I stare at the card for a moment before looking back at him. “You’re a CEO?”
“Guilty,” he says with a shrug, like it’s the least interesting thing about him.
I shake my head, laughing softly. “Of course you are.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“No, it’s just … fitting.” I wave the card slightly, trying to ignore the way my heart is still pounding.
He leans back in his seat, a small smile playing at his lips. “Have a good day, Emma.”
I nod, opening the door and stepping out onto the sidewalk. The cold air hits me, but I barely feel it. I tuck his card into my bag and glance back at him one last time.
He’s still watching me, his eyes unreadable, his expression calm. But there’s something in the way he looks at me that makes my stomach flip.
I turn and head into the building, my heels clicking against the marble floor. My pulse is still racing, but now it’s for an entirely different reason.
And as I step into the elevator, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever actually use that card, or if this morning will just remain one of those strange, fleeting moments that feels like it could mean something … but never does.
