Chapter 3 – Flirting Is Harder Than Work

I hated work. I really did. I had spent most of my life avoiding it, perfecting the art of procrastination, and now? Now I was pretending to be my sister, Katty, for a two-month-long romance mission with a man who radiated “do not touch me or I will freeze you with my gaze.”

And yet, here I was, notebook in hand, ready to “flirt professionally.”

The morning started with another pile of files and my brain screaming please survive. I tried to remember Katty’s tips: smile slightly, laugh lightly, compliment subtly. Easy in theory. Impossible in practice. Especially when the person you’re trying to charm could melt icebergs with one look.

He appeared at my desk like he knew I was thinking about him—because, of course, he probably did. Golden-brown eyes scanning, expression unreadable.

“Catty… I mean, Katty,” he said, clearly amused by something—maybe my flustered introduction yesterday. “The Anderson files. You’re prioritizing them correctly, I hope?”

I nodded, trying to keep my voice steady. “Yes… sir. I’ve double-checked everything. I think you’ll be pleased.”

He tilted his head, that one-raise-of-an-eyebrow move that made my stomach do flips. “We’ll see.”

I wanted to disappear under my chair. Instead, I tried to force a light laugh, like Katty would. Smile, act confident, act… sexy but professional? I wasn’t sure which part I got right, but apparently, he was watching. He didn’t say anything, just walked away with a slight smirk.

Okay. Tiny win. Maybe.

Then came the fun part: the office coffee break. My chance to practice subtle, casual conversation. I grabbed a cup, rehearsing lines like an idiot.

“So… your tie is very… professional.”

No. Too awkward.

“You work really hard, don’t you?”

Ugh, too obvious.

I settled on a safer approach: “Good morning, sir. Did you sleep well?”

As soon as I said it, I wanted to punch myself. I could practically feel the cringe radiating off my words. But he froze. Golden eyes flicked up at me, scanning me like a predator tasting the air. Then… he smirked.

Wait, what? He smirked?

“Yes. Sleep was fine,” he said, his tone flat but that tiny curve of amusement on his lips nearly made me lose control of my coffee. I had just complimented—no, casually conversed—with the coldest man alive, and he smirked. Tiny, yes, but victory!

I almost celebrated silently, but of course, the universe had other plans.

As I turned to go back to my desk, I tripped on absolutely nothing, stumbled, and almost dropped my coffee on him. He caught it—graceful, controlled, like he had done it a thousand times.

“You need to work on your balance,” he said, voice calm but sharp.

“I… yes, sir,” I mumbled, cheeks burning. Balance. Professionalism. Charm. I’m failing all three.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur. I filed documents, took meeting notes, answered emails—trying not to mess up, trying not to look desperate, trying not to faint every time he looked at me.

Lunch finally arrived. I decided I would practice subtle flirting with… myself in the reflection of the glass cafeteria wall. Smile, relax, tease lightly, but look effortless. I tried three variations of smiles, two variations of laughter, and one accidental wink (thank goodness, nobody saw that).

Back in the office, disaster struck again. The Anderson files were mixed up with the Johnson files. I panicked internally, muttering under my breath, when he appeared beside me.

“You seem stressed.” That casual observation nearly gave me a heart attack.

“I… no, sir,” I said, trying to maintain my composure. Don’t blush. Don’t sweat. Don’t act like a nervous mess.

He raised an eyebrow, leaned casually against the desk, and said, “If you’re going to work for me, you need to learn to handle pressure.”

“Yes… sir,” I said again. Handle pressure. Right. Got it. Don’t die.

But then… he smirked. Not fully, but just enough that I felt my knees weaken. Why did he have to be so infuriatingly composed, annoyingly charming, and ridiculously handsome all at once?

I spent the afternoon carefully navigating the files, sneaking glances at him, trying to figure out if he had noticed anything unusual about me. About me pretending to be Katty.

And then, the unexpected happened. He called me into his office. My heart skipped several beats.

“Yes, sir?” I asked, voice trembling slightly.

“Sit,” he said.

I sat. My notebook hovered nervously in my lap.

“I’ve been watching you today,” he said, tone neutral. Watching me? Panic set in. “And?” I asked cautiously.

He tilted his head, as if weighing his words. “You’re… different from what I expected.”

I blinked. Different? That’s… good or bad?

“Different is… good?” I ventured.

He didn’t answer immediately. He just studied me. And then, just before I could melt into a puddle on the floor, he said:

“Keep it up. Just… try not to spill anything else.”

I nodded furiously. Victory? Maybe. Survival? Definitely.

By the time I left the office that day, I was exhausted. My brain hurt. My heart hurt. And I had absolutely no idea what I was doing—but somehow, I felt… alive.

I sent a quick text to Katty:

Day three. I think… he noticed me. A little.

Her reply came instantly:

Good. Keep going. Don’t mess it up.

I groaned, collapsing onto my bed at home. Two months. Pretending. Surviving. Winning. And maybe… just maybe… I was starting to enjoy the chaos.

Because if I was honest with myself, that golden-eyed, icy, infuriating man had already started to sneak into my thoughts.

And that scared me more than anything else