Midnight On The Bayou by Eden Moon

The first time Sloane Hart ever met Grayson Astor, she spilled an entire cup of triple-shot caramel macchiato on his ten-thousand-dollar suit.

She hadn't meant to. Obviously.

She'd been late. Obviously.

And her brother had forgotten his lunch. Again.

So there she was, breathless, sprinting out of a downtown Starbucks with caffeine in one hand and resumes in the other, when the universe decided to trip her via a rogue courier on a scooter. She collided, hot coffee flying in a glorious arc right onto the chest of a man who looked like he'd been carved from cold marble and scowled like it was his birthright.

"God," she gasped, stumbling back. "I am so, so"

He held up a hand, silencing her.

"Don't finish that sentence."

Sloane blinked. His voice was deep, clipped, and annoyed. His perfectly tailored navy suit now wore a caramel stain across the lapel. Her name was on the cup, mockingly clear: Sloane.

Of course it was.

He looked at it. Then at her.

She gave a weak smile. "In my defense, I only hit billionaires on Mondays."

No laugh. Not even a twitch.

Just a cold, narrowed stare.

And then he walked away. Not a word.

Gone, like an ice storm in human form.

It wasn't until the next morning that she realized she'd spilled coffee on Grayson Astor, CEO of Astor Enterprises, king of Wall Street, and her new boss.

Sloane hadn't meant to land this job.

She'd applied for a temp receptionist role at Astor Enterprises after months of interviewing, nannying, and freelance design gigs to support her younger brother, Liam. But when the executive assistant to the CEO went into labor two weeks early, HR panicked. A resume was pulled. An interview was scheduled.

And twenty-four hours later, she found herself in a glass elevator shooting toward the top floor of one of the tallest buildings in Manhattan, wondering how she'd fake it long enough to pay rent.

Mallory Chen, the interim Chief of Staff, greeted her at reception with a tight bun and tighter smile.

"You're late," she said, looking at her watch.

"It's 8:01," Sloane replied.

"And Mr. Astor likes precision."

"Well, I like sleep and carbs, but here we are."

Mallory's lips twitched in the tiniest hint of amusement. "Let's hope your mouth doesn't get you fired by noon."

Sloane straightened her shoulders. "Let's."

Grayson Astor's office was sleek, minimalist, and intimidating. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a commanding view of Manhattan, as if the city itself bowed at his feet. The desk was glass, spotless. The man behind it?

Impossibly composed.

He didn't look up when they walked in. Just flipped a page on a report and said, "This is the temp?"

"She's the most qualified candidate on file," Mallory said. "Graduate from Parsons. Design background. Former EA to the CEO of"

"She spilled coffee on me yesterday," he cut in.

Sloane's stomach plummeted.

Grayson finally looked up, and their eyes met.

His were stormy gray, unreadable, and far too observant.

Sloane swallowed. "In fairness, you walked into my spill radius."

His lips twitched. Just a fraction.

"Name?"

"Sloane Hart."

"You have siblings, Miss Hart?"

"Why?"

"I need someone who can manage chaos with grace."

Sloane lifted her chin. "I raised my little brother on Pop-Tarts and sarcasm. I can handle chaos in heels."

He studied her for one long, unnerving moment.

"Trial period. One week. Don't be late again."

By day three, Sloane had memorized his entire calendar, anticipated his caffeine cravings, and found four polite ways to tell people no. By day four, she'd blocked three reporters, intercepted a bouquet from an ex-fiancée named Camille, and dodged personal questions with Olympic-level skill.