His Shy Assistant Drunk-Texted “Come Get Me”—10 Minutes Later, the Millionaire Was at Her Door

She never drank. Her idea of a perfect Friday involved flannel pajamas, chamomile tea, and a book no one besides her would willingly read. But that night, she had apparently become someone else. Someone who had lost count of how many times she had accepted just 1 more drink from Mara. Someone who had started to think the bar floor was slightly tilted, which was anatomically impossible but sensorily very real.

It was his fault.

The man’s name was Julian Cross, and as it happened, he was also her boss. In 8 months of work, he had never said her name out loud. He had never looked directly at her for more than 3 seconds. He had never shown any awareness that she existed beyond being the person who organized his schedule and brought coffee.

Until that afternoon.

During the board meeting, Julian had stopped, held up Norah’s quarterly report, and said in that deep voice that always made her stomach flip, “Exceptional work, Norah Quinn. Exactly the level of excellence I expect.”

He had said her name. Her full name. In front of everyone.

Mara, Norah’s best friend and worst influence, had decided this deserved celebration. That decision had brought them to the Blue Moon, a corporate bar full of finance people pretending to be more interesting than they actually were.

“Norah!” Mara shouted beside her, far too close to her ear. “You’re glowing.”

“I’m sweating,” Norah corrected, adjusting the glasses that kept sliding down her nose.

“It’s different. It’s the glow. The glow of someone who was finally noticed by the hottest man in Manhattan.”

Mara practically purred the word hottest, and Norah sank lower into her chair, looking around to make sure no one had heard. Of course, Leo, the office gossip intern, was exactly 10 feet away and gave her a knowing smile.

Great. Perfect.

“He didn’t notice me,” Norah said, though her voice sounded strange, slightly slurred. “He noticed the report. It’s different.”

“Honey, he could have said good job and been done. But no. He said your name with that voice. That voice that sounds like sex in the form of—”

“Mara.”

Mara laughed and pushed another drink toward her. It was the 5th or the 7th. Norah had lost count after she started thinking Julian Cross was a reasonable conversation topic, because he was, in fact, criminally handsome. It should have been illegal for a man to have that jawline, those storm-gray eyes, and that way of walking that made it seem as though he owned not just the company but the oxygen around him.

“He looks gorgeous in a suit,” Norah said out loud.

Mara almost spat out her drink.

“Finally, you admitted it.”

“Like, inappropriately gorgeous,” Norah continued, because apparently she had completely lost the filter between her brain and her mouth. “Why do men like that exist? It’s unfair. It’s cruel. It’s—”

The world spun. Just a little. Maybe more than a little.

At 11:52 p.m., Norah decided she needed to text Mara and tell her that maybe, possibly, she should go home. Her fingers felt strange, disconnected from the rest of her body, but she managed to grab her phone. She opened her contacts. She meant to click M for Mara.

Instead, with the motor coordination of a 3-year-old, she clicked J.

J for Julian Cross.

Then her fingers, traitorous and independent, started typing.

“Come get me.”

Send.

“I’m drunk.”

Send.

“Everything’s spinning.”

Send.

Panic cut through the alcohol haze like a knife.

No. No.

Norah stared at the screen, at the messages that had definitely gone to the wrong person, and her heart simply stopped.

Then her fingers continued.

“BTW, you look gorgeous in a suit.”

No, no, no, no.

“Like really gorgeous.”

Her fingers were possessed.

“Inappropriately gorgeous.”

Send.

All of it sent to Julian Cross. Her boss. The CEO of Cross Global. The man who probably did not even know her number existed in his phone.

“Mara.”

Her scream came out high-pitched and desperate.

“I did a very bad thing.”

She tried to delete the messages, but her hands were shaking, and she only managed to send more.

“Ignore that wrong person.”

“Unless—”

“No, stop.”

“No. Ignore.”

She misspelled please so badly it became something else entirely.

She was going to get fired. She was going to get fired and sued. She would have to move to another country, change her name, and never look at a suit again for the rest of her life.

At 11:56 p.m., the phone vibrated in her hand.

A message from him.

Julian Cross.

“Where are you?”

Norah’s heart was no longer beating. She was sure of it. It had stopped, and she had died. This was her life now: dead from embarrassment in a corporate bar at 11:56 p.m. on a Friday.

“He answered,” she whispered to Mara, showing her the screen.

Mara yanked the phone from her hand, read it, and her eyes grew the size of saucers.

“Norah. Norah Quinn. Julian Cross is—”

The phone rang.

It rang for real, vibrating and ringing, Julian Cross flashing on the screen.

Norah answered without even realizing she had done it. It was the worst decision of her life, but her hand had already brought the phone to her ear.

“Hello.”

Her voice came out small and scared.

“Norah.”

His voice was deep and hoarse, with a quality she had never heard in it before. Concern, maybe. Or contained fury. Or both.

“Where are you?”

Each word was precise, controlled, and her entire body reacted to the commanding tone.

“Blue,” she tried to say. “Something bar. The blue one. Blue Moon. Mara knows where it is.”

“Stay there.”

It was not a request. It was an order.

“Don’t leave. I’m coming to get you.”

“You don’t need to.”

“10 minutes.”

He hung up.

Norah looked at Mara, and Mara looked back. The silence lasted exactly 3 seconds before Mara exploded.

“Julian Cross just said he’s coming to get you.”

“I’m going to get fired,” Norah repeated, because it was the only thing her brain could process. “I’m going to get fired and sued.”

“And you’re going to get kissed.”

“Mara. This isn’t—”

Norah did not finish the sentence because Leo appeared with his phone in hand, smiling in a way that told her life was officially over.

“So,” he said, dragging over a chair. “Did you guys see who just left an important business dinner to come to the Blue Moon?”

Norah buried her face in her hands.

Julian Cross entered the bar like an elegant hurricane. He was still in the suit he had worn during the day, but the jacket was open, the tie slightly loosened, and his normally perfect hair had a few strands falling over his forehead. His gray eyes swept the room with surgical precision until they found exactly what they were looking for.

Norah sat in the corner, crooked glasses, hair escaping from her bun, cheeks hot with embarrassment and alcohol.

He crossed the bar, and everyone stopped what they were doing to look, because it was impossible not to look. Julian Cross demanded attention simply by existing.

When he stopped in front of her, Norah had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. Even sitting, even drunk, she felt his intensity like a physical wave.

“Hi,” she said.

It was possibly the most pathetic thing that had ever come out of her mouth.

“Hi,” he replied.

The corner of his mouth moved. Almost a smile. Almost.

“You came.”

“You asked.”

He said it as if it were obvious, as if billionaire CEOs regularly dropped everything to rescue drunk assistants from bars at midnight.

“I didn’t mean to. I wanted—”

A sob escaped her. Perfect. She could add sobbing to the list of humiliations.

“Mara. I was texting Mara.”

His mouth moved again. Definitely a smile now. Small, but real.

“You tell Mara she looks gorgeous in a suit?”

Norah wanted to die. She wanted the floor to open and swallow her whole. She covered her face with her hands.

“Oh my God, Mr. Cross.”

Mara appeared out of nowhere, far too animated for someone who should have been helping with the crisis.

“Wow. Hi. You’re real. And here for Norah.”

He did not even look at Mara. His eyes stayed fixed on Norah.

“Can you walk?”

Norah considered the question seriously.

“My feet exist. Theoretically. Probably.”

She tried to stand to prove her point. Her knees immediately disagreed, and she stumbled.

Firm hands caught her by the waist, stabilizing her, warming through the thin fabric of her blouse.

“That’s a no,” Julian said.

Then he simply picked her up, 1 arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back, lifting her as if she weighed nothing.

“I can walk,” she protested, even as her arms automatically wrapped around his neck.

“Not in those heels, you can’t.”

He looked at the ridiculously high shoes Mara had convinced her to wear.

“They’re—look, okay, they’re ridiculous. Mara picked them.”

He carried her out of the bar. People stared. Some took pictures. Leo definitely took a picture. Norah hid her face in Julian’s chest and felt the soft fabric of his suit, his scent, something expensive and masculine that made her head spin more than the alcohol.

The car was black, gleaming, and unmistakably expensive. The driver opened the back door, eyes widening when he saw his boss’s extra cargo. Julian placed Norah gently on the seat, got in beside her, and the car moved in silence.

“Your car smells expensive,” Norah said, because apparently she could not remain quiet.

“Smells?” There was amusement in his voice.

“Like leather and power.”

“Power has a smell?”

“It does. You.”

She closed her eyes, feeling the smooth movement of the car.

“You’re intimidating, but also safe. Is that weird?”

“It’s not weird.”

His voice was softer now. Closer.

“Good. Because I feel safe with you. Even though you’re my boss and this is probably HR violation number 4,000.”

“We’ll worry about HR on Monday.”

“Monday.”

A yawn caught her.

“So far away.”

Her head found something solid and warm. His shoulder. She should have pulled away, but she did not. He did not push her away either.

She felt fingers touching her hair very lightly before sleep pulled her completely under. The last thing she heard was a masculine voice, not Julian’s, saying quietly, “You’re screwed, man.”

Julian’s response was almost inaudible.

“I know.”

Norah woke in her apartment, in her bed, with her shoes removed and a blanket over her. Julian stood beside the bed, placing water and aspirin on the nightstand. In the darkness of the room, he seemed even bigger, even more imposing.

“You’re kind,” she murmured, half asleep.

“I’m not.”

He said it with conviction.

“You are. You came.”

“You asked.”

Norah forced her eyes open a little more.

“Would you come if anyone asked?”

He stopped and looked at her. For a long, tense moment, charged with something she could not name, silence pulsed between them.

“No,” he finally answered, voice low, almost dangerous.

Norah smiled, or tried to, before sinking back into the pillow.

She heard his footsteps moving away, the door closing softly, the lock being set from outside, and then muffled voices in the hallway.

“So, that happened.”

“Not a word, Owen.”

“Oh, I’m telling everyone.”

Norah closed her eyes and let sleep take her, knowing Monday would be impossible. She would have to face Julian Cross, and he would know exactly what she thought about how he looked in a suit.

The headache was not just a headache. It was divine punishment. Karma in physical form. The universe reminding her that bad decisions had consequences, and she had made approximately 7 bad decisions the night before, all served in glasses with ice and decorative umbrellas.

She did not remember the umbrellas, but Mara had taken pictures. The evidence existed and would haunt her forever.

Norah opened her eyes slowly, very slowly, because morning light was a personal attack. Her bedroom ceiling was exactly where it should be. Except it should not be, because the last thing she remembered was being in a car that smelled like power and leather.

Then the memories returned in violent flashes, and she groaned loudly, pulling the pillow over her face as if that could erase reality.

“Come get me.”

No.

“You look gorgeous in a suit.”

No, no, no.

“Inappropriately gorgeous.”

Please let this be a nightmare. Please let her still be sleeping.

Julian had shown up. Julian had carried her in his arms, bridal style. She had said he smelled like power.

Norah screamed into the pillow, a muffled, high-pitched sound of pure mortification.

Then she saw the nightstand and the items that definitely had not been there the day before: water in a glass she recognized as hers, though she had certainly not filled it; 2 aspirin tablets still in the package; and a folded piece of paper covered in the most perfect masculine handwriting she had ever seen.

She picked up the note with trembling hands.

“Drink the water. Take the aspirin. See you at 9:00. J.”

Julian Cross had been in her apartment. In her room. He had put her in bed, left water, medicine, and a note as if this were normal. As if billionaire CEOs regularly took care of pathetic assistants who sent drunk texts at 11:52 on a Friday night.

Norah took the aspirin because her head was throbbing and because he had told her to. Apparently, she obeyed his orders even in a state of terminal hangover. She drank all the water and grabbed her phone, which was miraculously charging in the outlet beside the bed.

That meant someone had plugged it in.

Him.

He had taken care of that too.

She wanted to die just thinking about it.

Norah opened the group chat, Corporate Survivors, which she had created with Mara and Leo in a moment of weakness 3 months earlier.

“I sent drunk texts to my boss.”

The response was instant, which meant Mara had been waiting, probably awake since 5:00 in the morning just for this moment.

Mara: “You texted Julian Cross.”

Mara: “And he came to get you.”