A sudden, sharp knock at my back door jolts me upright, my heart skipping a beat in surprise. It’s well past bedtime, and I’m barely holding myself together in a worn oversized sweatshirt and black leggings, hair hastily tied into a loose bun with rebellious wisps escaping every which way.

Another knock, more insistent this time, reverberates through the quiet night, echoing my rising anxiety. Clearly, there’s no escaping this intrusion.

“Just a moment!” I call out, hastily shoving a disarray of papers into a semi-orderly stack, though it’s a futile gesture against the chaos.

Taking a deep breath, I open the door to find Liam Anthony leaning casually against the porch railing, his arms crossed in that infuriatingly confident way. He’s still dressed to kill in his signature black suit, pristine white shirt, and perfectly knotted black tie — as if the hour were nine in the morning, not close to midnight.

His piercing emerald-green eyes lock onto mine, and I can tell immediately he’s not amused at having to wait. His brow furrows, conveying a silent reprimand without wasting words.

“Miss Carter,” he greets curtly.

I swallow hard, cheeks warming. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting visitors. I’d have, you know, tidied up.”

Liam’s gaze flickers past me, taking in the cramped porch and the dim glow of my living room beyond. After a tense beat, he asks, “May I come in?”

Desperately wishing I could say no, I nevertheless step aside. “Of course.”

He strides past, heading straight to the kitchen table where my workspace has morphed into a fortress of papers, folders, and my open laptop. His fingers adjust his suit cuffs with a casual efficiency as his eyes scan over the cluttered desktop.

My pulse quickens oddly, every nerve prickling under his intense scrutiny. Focus, Ella. You’ve got this.

“Working late?” he inquires, voice smooth but edged with something sharper.

I nod wordlessly, not trusting my voice.

“I noticed you had the file for less than an hour before sending it to Miss Hernandez,” he comments, glancing my way briefly.

“I just gave it a once-over before forwarding my input,” I admit, voice tentative.

Why this fixation on the documents? If I’d messed up, why wouldn’t he just say so?

“No need to apologize,” he interrupts, eyes narrowing as he studies me. “McQueen took over a day to spot that the file was incomplete. They’ve only requested one out of the five documents you assembled.”

The weight of his gaze makes me shuffle awkwardly, desperate to find an escape. “I’m not sure what you want me to say,” I mumble, brow furrowing.

“Just an observation,” he offers, handing me a folder thick with papers. “Have a look and tell me if I missed anything.”

I flip through the documents, recognizing all the pieces I needed to finalize the project properly. His silent appraisal makes concentration difficult, so I retreat slightly to my laptop, rearranging the workspace for some distance.

Despite the physical space, the intensity of his stare has me nervously tapping the edges of the papers.

“This should be sufficient, thank you,” I say, glancing up. “Though you really didn’t have to deliver them in person.”

He shrugs, dismissing my remark. “Now that you have all the data, will you be ready by Friday?”

I hesitate, fingers sorting through the mess. “I still need to confirm with Sophia and Tim, but we’re aiming for Tuesday at the latest. The bulk of the data should be processed by Sunday.”

He nods, eyes sharp. Then, reaching inside his jacket, he produces a sleek black card and passes it to me.

The air thickens between us as I accept it, heart pounding.

“If you have questions, contact me directly. No need for the telephone game,” he says, voice low and serious.

“K,” I manage to whisper, breath catching.

“Good night, Miss Carter.” His last glance lingers on me before he turns toward the door. “I’ll try to give you a heads-up next time.”

“Next time?!” I barely breathe before the door clicks shut behind him.

Next time... my mind repeats, fading with the echo of his retreating footsteps.

I slump into the chair, letting out a long sigh. What on earth have I stumbled into? This is the last time I cover for Sophia.

Why did he come here? So late, so unexpected. And how did he even know where I live?

Tomorrow, Sophia’s definitely getting an earful.

***

The next day around midday, Sophia finally makes an appearance, moving sluggishly but managing to keep a semblance of professionalism despite a lingering cough that rattles her chest. Her curly black hair is casually tied back, and the red rawness of her nose stands out against her smooth caramel skin, marking her recent battle with a cold.

As a peace offering, she brandishes a cinnamon bun from my favorite bakery, sliding it across the table between us.

I narrow my eyes suspiciously but can’t help glancing at the sweet treat. “Don’t think this makes up for sending Mr. Jerk here,” I say, voice laced with frustration as I reach for the pastry.

“What do you mean?” Sophia asks, arching an eyebrow.

“Mr. Anthony. Don’t give out my address like that.” I groan, exasperated.

She knows I’m a behind-the-scenes kind of person, preferring anonymity. Her raised brow tells me she’s clueless about the full story.

“I only gave him your number because he said he had questions about the presentation. I wouldn’t hand over your address,” she assures, waving off my concerns.

“Well, he got it somehow. Showed up at my back door after eleven, just dropped the files.” I sigh as the memory plays out again. “The man never cracks a smile, you know?”

Sophia clicks her tongue and tilts her head. “Oh, he just can’t pop in unannounced like that.”

“Relax, Soph. He did call first, asked if I was busy. When I said no, he said he was at the back door,” I explain.

She cringes, grimacing. “’Cause that’s not creepy at all.” Her frown deepens. “Anything else I should know about Mr. Anthony?”

“W-what?” I stammer, cheeks heating.

“Elle-Bell, you do know you work for me, not him, right?” Her tone is half-teasing, half-serious. “Period. End of story. And I have zero issues reminding him of that.”

“Well aware,” I reply, laughing softly. “But honestly, there’s no problem. He’s just...”

Sophia waggles her brows, suddenly more curious than I’d like. “Just what?”

“Nothing.” Too quickly, I add, “He’s just... frustrating.”

Every interaction with him seemed to throw me off balance, not that I usually handle pressure with grace, but with Liam, my logic felt scrambled, leaving me flustered and snarky when I wanted to be composed.

Sophia cocks her head, narrowing her eyes playfully. “Frustrating, huh?”

“Whatever,” I mutter, sliding my laptop toward her and tearing off pieces of the cinnamon bun as she scrutinizes my work.

Sophia sips orange juice between bites, and despite her stuffy voice, she’s thorough. After nearly an hour and several glasses later, she finally closes the laptop with a satisfied smile.

“At least your brain’s working, Soph,” I tease.

“Nope,” she replies dryly, coughing softly but grinning nonetheless.