157

157
Gianna’s POV
The morning started with the shrill cry of my alarm slicing through my half-formed dreams. I groaned, slapping at the clock until it silenced itself. The sun was barely up, and I already felt behind.
By the time I made it out the door, balancing my bag, a coffee tumbler, and a stack of folders I’d promised myself I’d review last night, I could already feel the dull thrum of a headache forming.
The office was the usual chaos by the time I arrived. Phones ringing, people rushing between desks, the steady hum of printers and voices blending into an overwhelming static. I barely had time to set my things down before Matteo appeared in my office and at the edge of my desk, holding a printout in his hand.
“This came to my inbox, but I’m pretty sure it’s meant for you,” he said, his tone calm, as if the morning hadn’t already started unraveling.
I frowned, taking the paper from him. “Why is it in your inbox?”
“I don’t know,” he said, leaning slightly against the edge of my desk. “But I figured you’d want to see it before the ten o’clock meeting.”
I glanced down at the paper, my stomach sinking as I read through the client’s requests. They were pages long and unnecessarily detailed, like they’d gone out of their way to make my life harder.
“I didn’t even know this was sent out,” I muttered, flipping through the pages.
“That’s probably because it landed with me instead,” Matteo said, a hint of amusement in his voice. “You should check with IT. Someone might have messed up the routing.”
I looked up at him, narrowing my eyes. “You seem awfully calm for someone who’s about to walk into a meeting with this.”
He shrugged, his smirk softening into something almost reassuring. “Because I already flagged the parts we need to focus on. The rest is just fluff.”
My gaze dropped to the paper again, and sure enough, there were small notes scribbled in the margins-Matteo’s handwriting, clean and precise. He’d highlighted key points, circled deadlines, and even jotted down questions we could ask to push back on some of the client’s more ridiculous demands.
I stared at it for a moment longer, unsure how to respond.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I said finally, keeping my voice steady.
“Maybe not,” he replied, his tone casual. “But if I hadn’t, you’d have walked into that meeting blind. And as much as you thrive under pressure, Gianna, even you have your limits.”
There was a flicker of something in his eyes-challenge, maybe, or genuine concern. I couldn’t tell, and I didn’t have time to dissect it.
“Thanks,” I said, trying to keep it professional, though my tone came out softer than I intended.
“Anytime.” He pushed off the desk, straightening his tie. “Oh, and don’t forget to breathe during the meeting. It helps.”
I rolled my eyes as he walked away, his usual self-assured stride irritatingly smooth. But as I glanced down at the annotated printout again, I couldn’t help but feel a small pang of gratitude.
The meeting went better than expected, largely thanks to Matteo’s notes. While the client’s demands were still as excessive as ever, I was prepared for them, able to redirect the conversation where it needed to go.
By the time I returned to my office, I was running on adrenaline and a mix of relief. Matteo was nowhere in sight, which was both a blessing and a frustration. I hated the idea of thanking him twice in one day, but the truth was, I owed him.
That truth hit again after lunch when I discovered that the stack of client contracts I’d left on my desk had disappeared.
I rifled through my drawers, asked all my workers just outside my office if they’d taken it among my other files by mistake. Nothing.
“Looking for these?”
I turned, my heart sinking and rising all at once. Matteo stood there, holding the contracts in question, the edges of his mouth curled in what could only be described as a barely concealed grin.
“You took them?” I asked, incredulous.
“I didn’t take them,” he corrected, stepping closer. “I moved them. They were sitting on the corner of your desk about to spill onto the floor. Figured I’d save you the trouble of chasing after them.”
I opened my mouth to retort but hesitated when I noticed the faintly highlighted sections on the first page.
“You reviewed these?”
“Not all of them,” he said with a shrug. “Just the ones for tomorrow’s pitch. I figured it might save you some time.”
I didn’t know whether to feel irritated or impressed. On the one hand, he had no right to touch my things without asking. On the other, he’d just saved me hours of work.
“You’re really making it hard to hate you, you know that?” I said, crossing my arms.
He tilted his head, his grin morphing into something softer. “That’s the idea.”
I didn’t have a response for that, so I grabbed the stack of papers from his hand, mumbling a curt, “Thanks.”
**
The day dragged on, but Matteo’s small acts of interference-or kindness, depending on how you looked at it-kept cropping up. When the printer jammed just as I needed to send a document upstairs, Matteo appeared with a printed copy already in hand.
“Figured this might happen,” he’d said with a smirk as he passed it to me.
When a client called unexpectedly, asking for clarification on a presentation I wasn’t remotely prepared to discuss, Matteo joined the call without hesitation, answering half their questions before I could even open the file.
By the time five o’clock rolled around, I felt a strange mixture of exhaustion and bewilderment. Matteo hadn’t asked for anything in return, hadn’t lorded his helpfulness over me like I expected him to. Instead, he’d gone about his day as if he hadn’t just single-handedly kept mine from falling apart.
I found him in the break room, pouring what had to be his third cup of coffee.
“You’ve been busy today,” I said, leaning against the doorframe.
He looked up, surprised, before his expression settled into something unreadable. “Just doing my part.”
“Your part seems to include doing half my job,” I said, though there was no bite in my tone.
“Only the parts you shouldn’t have to do alone,” he replied, meeting my gaze. “You’re good at what you do, Gianna. But you don’t have to carry everything by yourself.”
I swallowed hard, his words hitting closer to home than I cared to admit.
“I’m not used to having someone… step in like that,” I said finally, my voice quieter.
He nodded, as if he understood more than I was willing to say. “Well, get used to it. I’m not going anywhere.”
I gulped, watching him and blinking back the tears that filled my eyes unexpectedly. His words kept ringing in my ears over and over again even as I walked out and went straight to my office to pack up for the day. “I’m not going anywhere,” he’d said. And I realized that I didn’t want him to.