She Visits a Friend’s Office, Not Realizing the Man She Bumps Into Is a Millionaire Who’ll Love Her
Beyond the Boardroom
The rest of the visit was a blur. Danica gave her a tour of the office, introduced her to a few co-workers, and then left her alone in the lounge to grab lunch.
Marin wandered to the window, looking out over the city skyline. She wasn’t used to this kind of view or this kind of world. She was just an art teacher from a public school in Queens visiting her college roommate on a day off.
And yet, she couldn’t stop thinking about Foster.
The next day, she returned to drop off Danica’s forgotten ID badge.
“I’ll be two minutes,” she told the security guard. “Just running it up.”
But the moment she stepped into the elevator, the doors opened and there he was again. This time he was dry, polished, and still somehow looking at her like he remembered everything.
“You again?” he said.
“I swear I’m not stalking you.”
He smiled. “Well, now I’m starting to think Fate’s trying to tell me something.”
She laughed nervously. “Like maybe you need to ban me from the building?”
“Or maybe I need to ask if you’ve had lunch.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you serious?”
“Completely.”
He stepped aside. “There’s a restaurant on the rooftop. Come with me.”
Every part of her screamed that this wasn’t her world, but something in his voice—confident but not pushy—made her step forward.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “Why not?”
Ten minutes later, she was sitting at a table with a city view, a linen napkin on her lap, and a menu with no prices.
“You’re not used to this, are you?” he asked gently.
She shook her head. “Not even a little.”
“Good. That means you’re honest.”
“You’re not what I expected,” she said.
“What did you expect?”
He leaned back in his chair.
“I don’t know. Arrogance, I guess. You own buildings and companies and wear suits like they were made for you.”
He chuckled. “They were, technically.”
She rolled her eyes. “See? That.”
“But I’m also a guy who likes grilled cheese, drives himself to work, and apparently gets taken out by flying lattes.”
She laughed genuinely this time, and he watched her like he liked the sound. By the end of lunch, something had shifted. He wasn’t just a millionaire CEO, and she wasn’t just some girl who spilled coffee.
There was something there, unspoken but real. When he walked her to the elevator, he didn’t ask for her number. He didn’t need to.
Because when the doors closed, he simply said, “Come back soon, Marin.” And somehow, she knew she would.
The third time Marin saw Foster, she was elbow-deep in clay. She’d taken her students on a field trip to the Midtown Art Museum for a hands-on pottery workshop.
While the kids were sculpting wildly uneven mugs and joyfully lopsided creatures, she was helping one of them smooth the rim of a bowl when a low voice cut through the chatter.
“Apparently, you’re not just a latte assassin.”
She turned so fast her hand left a streak of wet clay across her cheek. Foster stood just inside the doorway, sleeves rolled to his elbows. No tie today.
His presence drew attention without him trying. Museum staff subtly straightened. Even the chaperoning parents glanced over.
Marin blinked. “Are you following me?”
“I could ask you the same.”
He glanced at the group of third graders, then back at her.
“Didn’t realize you were an art teacher.”
“You didn’t ask.”
He studied the scene: a boy trying to attach a too-large handle to a too-small cup; a girl holding up a dragon with three heads and one wing.
“They’re creative.”
“They’re brilliant,” she corrected. “Even when they make monsters with no symmetry.”
“And you teach all of them?”
“Every weekday, unless the subway decides otherwise.”
He approached the worktable cautiously, like he wasn’t used to environments without glass walls and espresso machines.
“I haven’t been in a classroom since I barely passed high school lit.”
“Let me guess: you read half the book and still argued with the teacher anyway.”
He gave her a look of mock offense. “I’ll have you know I skimmed all the chapters.”
When she laughed, he leaned a little closer—not enough to be inappropriate, but enough to make her breath catch.
“I came because the museum director invited me to preview the new exhibit downstairs,” he said. “Didn’t expect to find you here. And yet, here I am, covered in clay and trying to keep kids from eating it.”
He tilted his head. “You’re different from anyone I know.”
“Well, that could either be a compliment or a warning.”
“Definitely a compliment.”
Before she could respond, one of her students tugged on her sleeve.
“Miss Callaway, I think I broke it.”
She turned to see a cracked bowl and a pair of wide, guilty eyes.
“I’ll fix it,” she said quickly. “No worries, Illy.”
Foster stepped back, watching her kneel beside the trembling boy, gently taking the broken piece and reassuring him without condescension.
When she stood again, he was still watching her, but with something quieter in his expression. This time, curiosity maybe, or something less defined.
“You’re good with them,” he said.
“They deserve someone who doesn’t give up on them.”
He nodded slowly. “I’d like to see more of what you do.”
“If I wanted to visit your classroom sometime, would that be weird?”
She furrowed her brow. “You want to come to my school?”
“If you’d allow it?”
“Sure, but no three-piece suits. You’ll scare the kindergarteners.”
He smiled. Not a polished grin, but a real one that softened the sharp edges of his face.
“Deal.”
Later, after the field trip ended and the kids were back on the bus, Marin lingered on the museum steps, waiting for her ride-share. She didn’t expect him to be there, leaning against a black car that practically gleamed under the afternoon sun.
“I figured you might need a ride,” he said.
“I already called one.”
“Cancel it. I owe you for the bowl you just rescued.”
She hesitated, then got in. The interior smelled faintly of cedar and something expensive she couldn’t name. He didn’t speak as the car pulled away, giving her space. But after a moment, he turned to her.
“You’re not impressed by any of this, are you?”
“Should I be?”
“Most people are.”
She shifted to face him. “You’re successful. That’s impressive. But I’ve met people with trust funds and penthouses who couldn’t hold a real conversation if their lives depended on it.”
He nodded like he appreciated the honesty. “That’s fair.”
“And you’re not like them,” she added quietly, surprising herself.
He looked over, something unreadable passing between them.
“Neither are you.”
