Chapter Twenty-One:

Olivia sat at the front desk, pleasantly absorbed in the steady rhythm of the morning.

Mail sorted itself beneath her hands. Early calls came and went. Emails were answered, flagged, and scheduled. Between tasks, she took slow, deliberate bites of her sundae cake, clearly savoring every forkful like it was a small personal victory.

She smiled as a reply came in from the professor in Chicago and flipped over to the calendar app to mark next Wednesday for the proposed student visit.

That was when she noticed another entry already sitting there.

Richard — Vet appt: 1:00 PM

“Oh,” she murmured. “Goodie.”

She snorted softly to herself. At least the vet’s coming here. There was no universe in which Richard willingly went into a carrier.

Before she could dwell on it, the lobby doors slid open.

“🎶 Special delivery for the lovely folks of— 🎶”

Dave, the opera-singing courier, swept into the lobby in full voice, parcels tucked under one arm, presence as theatrical as ever.

“Morning, Dave!” Olivia called, smiling automatically.

He smiled back, still singing as he approached the desk.

And then—

She smelled him.

Not the cake. The cake still smelled incredible — rich, chocolatey, deeply comforting in that this-time-of-the-month way that made everything a little better.

This was… different.

Warm. Clean. Human. Close.

Her breath caught before she realized she’d stopped breathing properly at all.

Her body reacted instantly, a sharp, unwelcome flicker low in her belly that had nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with proximity. Heat rushed to her face. Her pulse skipped, then stumbled.

What—?

Dave set the packages down, blissfully unaware, finishing a musical phrase with a flourish.

Olivia forced herself to inhale slowly through her nose.

Okay. No. Absolutely not.

She gripped the edge of the desk lightly, grounding herself. This wasn’t attraction — not in the usual sense. It was sudden, physical, embarrassingly intense, like someone had flipped a switch without warning.

This is hormonal. This is definitely hormonal, she told herself firmly.

Dave leaned on the desk with easy familiarity. “Sign here, star of the station.”

She signed a little faster than usual, keeping her eyes on the clipboard with laser focus, acutely aware of her own posture, of how close he was standing, of how aware she suddenly felt of herself.

“Thank you!” she said brightly — a touch too brightly — sliding the clipboard back and immediately reclaiming a safe amount of space.

Dave winked and swept back toward the doors, humming as he went.

Olivia watched him leave.

Not lingering — just long enough to make sure he was gone.

The lobby doors slid shut.

She exhaled.

“…Wow,” she muttered under her breath, pressing a cool palm briefly to her cheek. “Okay. That was new.”

She reached for her tea, took a steadying sip, and deliberately turned her attention back to the screen in front of her.

We are not doing that today, she told her body firmly. You can knock it off.

Her body, annoyingly, did not immediately agree.

But she was still in control.

And that, she decided, was the important part.Dave departed the lobby still humming, blissfully unaware of how close he’d come to derailing Olivia’s entire sense of propriety for the day.

Olivia exhaled, hard.

She was just starting to convince herself that she had everything under control—absolutely under control—when Charles appeared at the edge of the desk, cane tapping softly.

“Mail time,” he said mildly. “And a welfare check.”

She looked up.

That was a mistake.

Her body reacted before her brain could file a formal objection. Heat flared, sharp and sudden, her attention snapping to him with an intensity that made her stomach drop.

Oh no. Not you too.

Charles wasn’t human—not quite—but close enough that whatever part of her had decided now was the time clearly didn’t care about technicalities.

She leaned forward before she meant to. Smiled—too slow, too warm. Reached out, fingers brushing his sleeve in a way that was unmistakably not accidental.

“Hey,” she said, voice a little lower than usual. “You know, you’re looking… really good today.”

Charles did not flinch.

He did not stiffen.

He did not react at all—except to step neatly sideways, retrieving his mail in one smooth motion while gently disengaging her hand as if redirecting a particularly affectionate cat.

“Mm,” he said thoughtfully. “Are you always this… affectionate during that time of the month?”

The question landed like a bucket of ice water.

Olivia froze.

Her brain finally caught up with her body, horror blooming in its wake.

“I—what—no!” she said quickly, sitting back hard in her chair. “I mean—sometimes I’m a little clingy, sure, but not—this.”

She gestured vaguely at herself, at the desk, at the entire situation.

Charles raised an eyebrow, polite and deeply unimpressed. “I see.”

She stared at him for a long moment.

Then it hit her.

The headache.The back ache.The dream that wasn’t a dream.The hunger.The scent-triggered attraction.The loss of internal brakes.

This was not her period.

Not even close.

But she wasn’t ready to say that out loud. Not yet.

So instead, she grabbed the clamshell container, popped the lid, and attacked the remaining cake with focused determination.

Chocolate. Ice cream. Fudge. Gone.

Charles watched for a moment, then tucked the mail under his arm.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’ then,” he said lightly. “Do let me know if you need anything.”

“Mm-hm,” Olivia mumbled around a mouthful of cake, eyes firmly on her plate.

Charles turned and walked away, entirely unruffled.

Over the next twenty minutes, Olivia finished every last bite of the sundae cake, methodically and without shame.

It didn’t fix anything.

But it did give her time to think.

And the conclusion she came to—quietly, stubbornly, and without admitting it to anyone just yet—was simple and deeply unsettling:

Okay. Fine. This is definitely not just my period.

She wiped her hands, straightened her jacket, and returned to her work.

For now.

Noon came and went without ceremony.

Olivia stayed planted at the front desk, doing exactly what she was very, very good at. She moderated the brand-new forum—astonishingly civil so far—answered emails with thoughtful care, fielded calls with the calm confidence of someone who knew both the schedule and the subtext behind the questions.

To anyone watching, she was the picture of a perfect receptionist.

Inside her own head, it was chaos.

This was definitely not her period.

She knew it now. Knew it in the way you know when a story you’ve been telling yourself stops fitting the facts. But admitting that—out loud—felt like opening a door she wasn’t ready to walk through yet.

And gods above and below, what had she been thinking earlier?

Hitting on Charles.

Her boss.Her anchor.Practically her dad.

And yet—curse her brain—she knew there was a body under the fur and velvet, and some traitorous part of her very much wanted to confirm that fact personally.

Stop it, Olivia. Listen to yourself.

She clenched her jaw and refocused on the screen.

She needed help. That much was obvious. But she absolutely could not go to Charles right now. At this point she’d probably climb him like a tree and apologize afterward.

Miss LaDonna?

Absolutely not.

The thought alone made her stomach flip.

Because of course her mind immediately supplied an image—silk, lace, centuries of grace—and oh gods, where had that come from?

“Get a grip,” she muttered under her breath. “Right now.”

As if on cue, her stomach gave a loud, insistent rumble.

At the exact same moment, her messenger chimed.

She blinked, one hand pressing lightly to her abdomen while the other pulled the message up.

Charles (12:01 PM):Lunch at your desk is fine, but you must eat something substantial. What would you like?

She stared at the screen for a heartbeat, then typed before she could overthink it.

Olivia (12:02 PM):MEAT! I would kill for a bloody, juicy hamburger right now! All the toppings you can manage to pile on it! Please. Thank you. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m acting like this!

The reply came almost instantly.

Charles (12:02 PM):Look to your right.

Her fingers froze.

Slowly—very slowly—Olivia turned her head.

There stood Charles, right at the end of the desk, a serving tray balanced easily in one hand, a polished silver dome covering whatever lay beneath it. He wore that particular sly grin—the one that meant he had planned this, anticipated it, and was enjoying the reveal.

“Your lunch, madame,” he said lightly, “as requested.”

He lifted the dome.

Olivia’s breath left her in a soft, reverent sound.

A huge double cheeseburger sat on the tray—thick patties oozing molten cheese, lettuce crisp and green, onions and pickles stacked generously, tomato shining fresh. The bun was impossibly light and fluffy, barely containing its contents. Beside it sat a mound of steak fries, golden and fragrant, already laced with ketchup.

For a moment, all higher thought ceased.

“…Oh,” Olivia whispered.

Her stomach growled again, louder this time, in wholehearted agreement.

Charles set the tray down gently. “Eat,” he said, voice warm and unassuming. “We’ll talk later.”

She didn’t argue.

Didn’t apologize.

Didn’t overthink.

She picked up the burger with both hands and took a bite that was far too large to be dignified.

And for the first time all day, the noise in her head quieted—just a little.

By 12:53 p.m., the tray held nothing but a few heroic crumbs and a smear of ketchup that had escaped the battle.

Olivia wiped her hands with a damp napkin, leaned back in her chair, and let out a long, shaky breath.

Okay, she thought, feeling her pulse finally settle into something reasonable. Food helps. Logic helps. I am a professional. I am the Mistress of the Front Desk. I can absolutely take on the world right now.

She checked her reflection in the small mirror mounted beside her monitor—one of those thoughtful little touches from the maintenance crew. Her eyes looked bright. Maybe a little too bright. But her pupils had settled, and she no longer looked feral, which felt like a genuine accomplishment.

Then she felt it.

At first, it was just a vibration through the soles of her feet. Then a low-frequency growl that rattled the lobby windows and resonated straight through her ribcage. To Olivia’s ears, it didn’t sound like a machine.

It sounded like a predatory purr.

A flash of aggressive crimson and white streaked past the lobby windows. The engine cut out with a final, authoritative thrum, followed by the metallic clack of a kickstand.

The lobby doors slid open.

The air in the room changed instantly.

The lingering scents of stale popcorn, chocolate sauce, and very recently demolished hamburger were swept away by ozone, cold wind, expensive leather, and a sharp, clinical edge of antiseptic.

She entered like gravity was optional.

Tall. Poised. Skin the color of rich coffee with cream. Bright red motorcycle leathers molded with unapologetic precision, a pristine white lab coat worn open over them. A stethoscope rested easily around her neck. Under one arm, a matching red helmet; on her back, a heavy-duty medical pack marked with a simple white cross.

She didn’t hurry.

She approached.

Olivia’s knees went weak.

Get a grip, girl, she ordered herself desperately.

The woman stopped at the desk, set her helmet down with deliberate care, and leaned forward—just enough. Close enough that Olivia could smell the road, the wind, the faint bite of disinfectant.

In a voice that managed to be smooth, amused, and unmistakably in control, she said,

“You’ve got a smear of ketchup on your cheek.”

Olivia froze.

“…I do?” she croaked, immediately scrubbing at her face with the napkin, mortified.

The woman’s smile curved—slow, knowing, but not unkind.

“There,” she said. “Much better.”

She straightened and tapped the stethoscope lightly with one finger.

“I’m the vet,” she said simply. “I have a one o’clock appointment to see Richard.”

Her gaze lingered on Olivia a heartbeat longer than strictly necessary—assessing, professional, far too perceptive.

“And,” she added, tone casual, “you must be the one who runs this desk.”

Somewhere deep in the station, Charles smiled, knowing things would turn out just fine…