Chapter 3 - Rain and Espresso
By the following Tuesday, the rain had returned to Baltimore with a vengeance, drumming a relentless rhythm against the glass facade of the Rourke Maritime building.
At exactly 8:13 a.m., Harper dashed through the revolving doors of the lobby, her canvas bag half-zipped, her trench coat soaked through at the shoulders, and a fresh paper cup of two-dollar coffee clutched in her hand. She bolted for the elevators, praying she wouldn't see him. She had spent the entire weekend trying to convince herself that the billionaire shipping magnate was just a hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation and cheap caffeine.
The elevator doors began to close.
Without thinking, Harper jammed her soggy sneaker between the rubber gaskets.
The doors sprang apart.
Inside stood Vincent Rourke, holding a pristine black umbrella, looking as immaculate and unbothered as a marble statue. Standing beside him, Caleb Ward rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful.
Harper froze, one foot inside the car, her coffee cup shaking.
“Well,” Harper muttered, squeezing her eyes shut for a brief second before looking up at him. “If I die today, at least I’m consistent.”
Vincent looked down at her soaked hair, her damp trench coat, and the single shoelace trailing across the marble floor.
“Step in, Miss Davis,” Vincent said.
Harper stepped inside, moving as far to the corner as the small car allowed. Caleb gave her a sharp, assessing look before turning his gaze back to the digital floor indicator.
“You’re early today,” Harper noted nervously, trying to fill the heavy, magnetic silence vibrating between them.
“I changed my schedule,” Vincent replied smoothly.
“Because of traffic?”
“Because I wanted to ensure I didn't miss the elevator.”
Harper’s breath hitched. She looked up, catching the dark, intense gleam in his eyes. There was no teasing in his tone, no casual corporate banter. It was a statement of pure, unadulterated intent.
“You know, Mr. Rourke,” Harper said, her defensive mechanism kicking in to mask the frantic fluttering in her chest, “most billionaires manage their empires from penthouse suites or private yachts. They don't stake out the ground-floor lobby at eight in the morning just to corner junior graphic designers.”
“Most billionaires aren't interested in graphic design,” Vincent countered, taking a slow step toward her.
The air in the elevator suddenly felt thin, charged with a static electricity that had nothing to do with the storm outside. Caleb cleared his throat—a very deliberate, tactical sound designed to remind them he was still present.
“Sir,” Caleb said evenly, “the morning maritime briefing starts in nine minutes.”
Vincent didn't break eye contact with Harper. “Let it start in ten.”
Harper swallowed hard, her back pressing gently against the wood-paneled wall of the car. “You really are used to getting your own way, aren't you?”
“Usually,” Vincent murmured, stopping just inches from her. He reached out, his long fingers surprisingly gentle as he caught the end of her trailing shoelace, looped it expertly, and tucked it into the side of her sneaker.
Harper’s heart slammed against her ribs like a trapped bird. The scent of cedar, expensive leather, and rain enveloped her, entirely drowning out the smell of her cheap coffee.
The elevator dinged. Fourteen.
The doors slid open.
Harper stood frozen for a second, her mind racing, before she scrambled out of the car like a fugitive fleeing a crime scene. She didn't look back until she reached her desk, her cheeks burning so hot she felt like she had a fever.
Little did she know, as the express car continued upward to the penthouse, Caleb turned to his boss.
“Sir, the board meeting with the Atlantic Syndicate representatives is at ten. They’re bringing the shipping manifests from the Delaware bay terminals.”
Vincent stared at the closed elevator doors, his jaw tight, his mind miles away from cargo manifests and syndicate politics.
“Cancel it,” Vincent said softly.
Caleb paused. “Cancel the Atlantic Syndicate briefing? Sir, those men represent half our regional shipping revenue.”
“Reschedule them for tomorrow,” Vincent replied, his voice dropping into a cold, absolute authority. “And Caleb?”
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“Yes?”
“Find out where Miss Davis eats lunch.”
