She just stood there, motionless, on the corner of Oak and Whitley, foam-topped latte in hand, as warm, unmistakable pigeon crap oozed down her curls like divine punishment from a very petty sky.
A businessman walking past slowed his steps. Gawked. Then-oh no-made the sign of the cross.
"Wow," he whispered, eyes wide. "Right on the crown. That's gotta mean something."
Emery narrowed her eyes. "If you take a picture, I swear on Beyoncé's entire discography, I will haunt your family."
The man bolted like she'd threatened to curse his descendants.
She stood there a moment longer, paralyzed by the sheer absurdity of it all. She was late. Her coffee was cooling. Her scalp was now a war zone. And it was her first day at her new job-a job she desperately needed after getting laid off from her last one for "unauthorized use of company glitter."
It was supposed to be a reset. A fresh start. But now?
She looked up at the cloudless blue sky. "Screw you, universe."
The universe, unsympathetic, sent a breeze that smeared the poop deeper into her hair.
With a choked groan, Emery dumped the rest of her latte into the nearest trash can, marched into the pristine glass lobby of Whitestone Consulting, and bee-lined toward the elevator.
Bird crap or not, she was not blowing this opportunity.
Even if her hair smelled faintly of shame.
By the time the elevator dinged on the 32nd floor, Emery had wiped herself down with a pack of emergency baby wipes (thanks, Claire), reapplied her lip gloss, and forced a fake smile so polished it could land her a toothpaste commercial.
Hi, I'm Emery, eager to work, tragically poor, and possibly cursed by birds.
She took a steadying breath, turned the corner into the executive lounge-
-and slammed straight into a wall.
Correction: a wall of expensive cologne, tailored gray wool, and six feet of masculine intimidation.
Her half-empty backup coffee (she always bought two because caffeine was cheaper than therapy) exploded on impact. Dark brown liquid splashed across the man's crisp white shirt and slid down the front of his charcoal suit like abstract art made of regret.
Time froze.
So did Emery.
"Oh. My. God."
The man looked down at himself slowly. His expression unreadable. Then he looked at her.
Deadpan. Ice cold. Not a blink.
"You threw coffee on me."
"I didn't throw it," she blurted. "You-you body-blocked me. Like a very attractive wall."
His brows arched. "Flattery won't clean this shirt."
"I have napkins!" she said quickly, rummaging in her bag before realizing-"Wait, no, those are the poop ones. Uh, never mind."
"Poop...?"
"Not yours. Mine. That came out wrong. I mean-there was a pigeon. Earlier. On my head."
His nostrils flared. Just slightly.
"Look, I'm so sorry. I'll pay for dry cleaning. Or a new suit. Or a whole new body, whatever it takes-"
"I'll send you the bill," he interrupted. "Assuming you're not a hallucination sent to ruin my morning."
"Oh, I'm real," she muttered. "Very real. Unfortunately."
They both knelt to retrieve her ID badge, which had gone skittering across the marble floor. But he beat her to it.
He picked it up, flipped it over, and paused.
His eyes gleamed with something suspiciously close to amusement.
"Emery Reyes," he read. "New project assistant."
A beat.
"To me."
Emery blinked. "You're Theo Whitestone?"
"Guilty."
"Of walking into innocent women and causing caffeine-related trauma?"
"Of being your boss," he said smoothly, clipping the badge onto her lanyard himself, with slow, irritating precision. "So I suggest you find the bathroom, remove whatever is in your hair, and meet me in the glass conference room. Ten minutes."
"But-"
"Oh, and Reyes?"
"Yes?"
"You smell like coffee. And birds."
Then he walked away, unbothered, latte-stained and all, leaving Emery standing in a puddle of existential embarrassment.
She stared after him. Whispered, "I hope you step in gum, Whitestone."
Nine minutes and two paper towel disasters later, Emery was in the glass-walled conference room, trying to look professional and not like a woman who'd just been assaulted by both caffeine and wildlife.
The room was full of sleek, polished executives. And at the head of the table: Theo.
Now in a fresh shirt. Looking like a man who never got flustered, never got dirty, and definitely never had bird crap in his hair.
He didn't even look at her.
Claire, her best friend and the one responsible for getting her this job, leaned over and whispered with deadly excitement, "Did you actually throw coffee at him?"
Emery hissed, "No. I spilled it. Aggressively. While talking about bird poop."
Claire's smile widened like the Joker. "You're my hero."
"I'm going to die here."
"Not before I post your mugshot on my story."
"Claire!"
Theo cleared his throat.
"Welcome to the pitch team," he said, flipping a marker between his fingers like a magician with no time for your nonsense. "We're entering final rounds on the Stryker project. It's going to require focus, late nights, and no drama."
His eyes flicked to Emery-sharp, calculating.
"Some of us may need to work on that last part."
Emery raised her chin. "Some of us should watch where they're standing."
Claire's gasp was audible. So was her whispered, "Oooooh."
Theo's mouth twitched. Just barely.
And that was the beginning.
Not of something soft.
But of something messy. Explosive. Ill-advised.
A caffeine-soaked disaster that would spiral into something neither of them saw coming.
Because Emery hadn't just thrown coffee on a billionaire.
She'd just declared war.
And he was very good at winning.