A Woman Takes Over Her Friend’s Shift, Unaware The Millionaire Customer Will Soon Fall For Her

Opening Doors

Two days later, she was walking through the local farmers market when she heard someone say her name.

“Ara.”

She turned around, and there he was. Cashion was in jeans and a white button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows, holding a small paper bag of peaches.

“You shop here?” she asked, surprised.

“I live a few blocks over. You?”

“Same. I come on Sundays for the discounted fruit.”

He grinned.

“You have a favorite?”

“Peaches, but only if they’re overripe.”

“I’ll trade you,” he said, handing her the bag.

Ara laughed.

“You just bought these.”

“I think I like your smile more than I like peaches.”

She opened her mouth and closed it again.

“You’re really smooth. You know that?”

“I try.”

They walked through the market together, talking about nothing and everything. She found out he’d grown up in the city and worked his way up from coding in a garage to building Mercer Enterprises.

He asked about her and what she did when she wasn’t rescuing her friend’s barista shifts.

“I’m a graphic designer,” she said. “Freelance, but work’s been slow lately.”

“Do you have a portfolio?”

“I do.”

“Send it to me. I know a few people who might be able to help.”

She hesitated.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

They stopped at a coffee stand and Cashion ordered for both of them without asking what she wanted.

“How did you know I like oat milk lattes?” she asked.

“You look like an oat milk girl.”

She laughed, shaking her head.

“So now you’re profiling people based on milk preferences?”

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

She sipped, then nodded.

“Fine. You got lucky.”

Over the next few weeks, they started running into each other more often, though Ara had a sneaking suspicion it wasn’t always coincidence. Once she found him waiting outside the cafe, even though it wasn’t Friday.

“Thought I’d see if you were working,” he said.

“You could have called.”

“I could have, but this is more fun.”

He took her out once just for coffee, then again for dinner at a quiet rooftop restaurant with string lights and a view of the skyline.

“I feel like I shouldn’t be here,” she said when they were shown to a table with a white linen cloth and a view of the city lights.

“Why?”

“I’m wearing $15 shoes.”

He leaned in, his voice low.

“You’re the best-looking person here.”

She stared at him, stunned by the way he said it. It wasn’t like it was a lie, but like it was the truth.

“I don’t understand you,” she said finally.

“I’m not that complicated.”

“You’re a millionaire who hangs out in coffee shops and gives away peaches.”

“And you’re a girl who walks around in $15 shoes and still manages to take my breath away.”

She looked down, her heart pounding.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Look at me.”

She did.

“I like you.”

She didn’t say anything for a second.

“I like you too.”

It was the beginning of something she hadn’t expected, but it was real and it was just getting started.

Monroe didn’t know what to expect when she stepped into the marble lobby of the glass tower that bore Cashion Mercer’s name. She’d spent the past week second-guessing her decision to send him her portfolio.

The moment she clicked send, her stomach had twisted into knots. But he’d replied within hours, not with vague encouragement, but with a personal invitation to meet at his office.

Now standing on the 32nd floor of Mercer Tower, she regretted not wearing something more polished. Her black slacks were clean but creased from the subway ride, and her blouse was a little too plain.

At the front desk, a receptionist with flawless lipstick and an earpiece gave her a once-over before reaching for the phone.

“Mr. Mercer is expecting you,” she said after a short pause. “Elevator to your right. Top floor.”

Ara stepped into the elevator, heart hammering harder with each floor. When the doors opened, she was greeted not by a secretary but by Cashion himself.

He was leaning casually against the frame of his glass-walled office, sleeves rolled up, jacket discarded on a nearby chair. The Manhattan skyline stretched behind him like a canvas of steel and clouds.

“You made it,” he said, pushing off the door frame.

“I hope this isn’t a mistake,” she replied, trying to keep her voice steady.

He raised an eyebrow.

“You’re here. That already makes it the opposite of a mistake.”

She followed him into his office, her eyes scanning the space. It wasn’t what she expected.

The decor was sleek but understated. Books were stacked on shelves. There was a framed photograph of what looked like a mountain range and a sketch pad open on the corner of his desk.

“You draw?” she asked, nodding at the pad.

“Poorly,” he said with a shrug. “But it helps me think.”

“Now I’m definitely intimidated.”

“Don’t be. I’m the one who’s been looking forward to this.”

He motioned for her to sit, then pulled her portfolio from his desk drawer. She hadn’t expected him to print it, yet there it was, neatly bound.

Pages were turned and marked with tabs.

“I went through the whole thing,” he said. “Twice.”

She blinked.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

He flipped to a page with one of her conceptual branding spreads.

“This one. The way you used negative space? It’s bold.”

“And that mockup for the eco-clothing line? Dead on.”

“You’ve got instinct.”

She stared at him, unsure how to respond.

“I’ve already sent your work to our head of visual strategy.”

“They’re building a new team for the lifestyle division.”

“It’s still in pre-launch, but I think you’d be a good fit.”

“You’re offering me a job?”

“I’m offering you a meeting with the team. The rest is up to you.”

She leaned back in her chair, overwhelmed.

“I wasn’t expecting this.”

“You opened the door,” he said. “I just made sure you walked through it.”

“Still, thank you.”

There was a quiet beat on the line.

“Come to dinner with me tonight. I’ll send a car.”

An hour later, she was staring out the tinted window of a black sedan, her fingers curled around a clutch Ivy had loaned her. The driver pulled up to a townhouse with ivy-covered walls and a wrought-iron gate.

It wasn’t a restaurant. Not even close.

Cashion was waiting at the door, dressed in a dark button-up and tailored slacks. He opened the gate himself.

“You live here?” she asked as she stepped through.

“Sometimes,” he said. “It’s quieter than the penthouse.”

Inside, the house was warm and inviting. There were shelves lined with old books, not arranged for aesthetics, but clearly well-read.

A record player was spinning something slow and jazzy in the background. The air smelled like garlic and rosemary.

“You cooked?”

“I can follow a recipe,” he said. “Sometimes.”

She wandered into the kitchen and stopped short. The long wooden table was set for two, candles already lit.

He pulled out a chair for her.

“This is unexpected,” she said as she sat.

“I didn’t want to talk to you across a white tablecloth and a waiter.”

Dinner was delicious: rosemary chicken, roasted potatoes, and sautéed greens. They ate with easy conversation, moving between topics like old vinyl, favorite travel destinations, and childhood embarrassments.

When he told her he used to play the clarinet just to get out of gym class, she nearly choked on her wine. After the dishes were cleared, they ended up in the living room.

They were seated on the couch with glasses of whiskey in hand. The lights were dim and the record was still spinning.

“You don’t bring people here often, do you?” she asked.

“No,” he said.

“Why me?”

Cashion didn’t answer right away. He stared at the amber liquid in his glass.

“Because when I’m with you, I don’t feel like I have to be anything other than exactly who I am.”

Ara set her glass down.

“That’s a heavy thing to say.”

He looked at her then, his expression unguarded.

“It’s the truth.”

She searched his face, heart racing.

“I don’t know what this is yet.”

“I’m not asking you to define it.”

“Then what are you asking?”

He leaned closer, his voice low.

“Just don’t walk away from it.”

She didn’t. The kiss was slow and deliberate.

There were no fireworks or chaos. There was just a gentle certainty that made her forget everything outside that room.

When they pulled apart, her hand was still on his chest. His heart was thudding against her palm.

“I should go,” she whispered.

“I know.”

But neither of them moved. Eventually, he walked her downstairs, reluctance written across every step.

At the gate, he paused.

“Eila.”

She turned.

“This isn’t just about attraction for me.”

She nodded.

“I know.”

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Then you understand why I’m not willing to mess this up.”

That night, she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, her heart full and her mind racing. She’d stepped into someone else’s shift without expectation.

Now she was falling for a man who had the world at his feet. Somehow, he looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered.

For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like the underdog. She felt seen, and that was more terrifying than anything.