Updated Nov 2, 2025 • ~9 min read
Layla learned Garrett’s coffee order by accident.
She was in the staff break room on Monday morning when Avery came in, sighing dramatically. “I cannot deal with Hawthorne’s coffee drama today. I just can’t.”
“Coffee drama?” Layla looked up from her own cup, curious despite herself.
“He’s particular.” Avery grabbed a water bottle from the fridge. “Large black coffee, extra hot, from the Italian machine on the second floor—not the regular coffee station. Has to be poured exactly three minutes after brewing, not before, not after. God forbid you bring it too early and it’s too hot, or too late and it’s not hot enough.”
Another staff member, Blair, laughed from the doorway. “Remember when that intern brought him one from the lobby café? I thought his head was going to explode.”
“He didn’t say anything,” Avery corrected. “Which was somehow worse. Just that look.”
Everyone in the break room nodded knowingly. Layla had been on the receiving end of that look more times than she cared to count.
An idea formed—probably a stupid one, but she was tired of walking on eggshells around Garrett. If he was going to criticize her anyway, she might as well give him a reason to.
Or maybe, just maybe, she could crack that icy exterior.
“I’ll take him his coffee today,” Layla offered, standing up.
Avery’s eyebrows shot up. “Seriously? You’re braver than me, girl.”
“Or stupider,” Blair muttered, but there was a smile in their voice.
Twenty minutes later, Layla stood outside Garrett’s office door with a large black coffee in hand. She’d timed it perfectly—three minutes after brewing from the Italian machine on the second floor. The cup was hot in her palm, steam curling from the small opening in the lid.
She knocked twice.
“Come in.”
Garrett was behind his desk, focused on his computer screen. He didn’t look up when she entered.
“Morning, Mr. Hawthorne.” She approached the desk, setting the coffee down on the leather coaster to his right—the same spot where his previous cups had left faint rings. “Thought you might need this.”
His hands stilled on the keyboard. Slowly, he looked from the coffee to her face, expression unreadable.
“I didn’t request coffee.”
“I know. I thought I’d save Avery the trip.” Layla smiled brightly, professionally. “Large black, extra hot, from the Italian machine. Three minutes after brewing.”
Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe. Or suspicion.
He picked up the cup, took a careful sip, and Layla held her breath.
“It’s lukewarm,” he said flatly.
Layla blinked. “What?”
“The coffee. It’s lukewarm.” He set it down, giving her that look—the one that made her feel simultaneously invisible and hyper-visible all at once. “I prefer it extra hot.”
“I literally just poured it three minutes ago—”
“Three and a half minutes, I’d estimate. That thirty seconds makes a difference.” He turned back to his computer. “Thank you for the effort, Ms. Rivera, but in the future, please let the assigned staff handle my coffee.”
Heat flooded her cheeks—not embarrassment this time, but anger.
“You know what?” She leaned forward, planting her hands on his desk. “I don’t think this is about the coffee.”
His eyes snapped to hers, sharp and dangerous. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Her heart pounded, but she didn’t back down. “It doesn’t matter what I do—it’s never going to be good enough for you. The coffee’s wrong, my posture’s wrong, my reports need double-checking. You’re looking for reasons to criticize me.”
Garrett stood slowly, and God, he was tall. Imposing. His presence filled the office, sucking up all the air.
“Is that what you think?” His voice was low, controlled.
“It’s what I know.” Layla straightened, refusing to be intimidated. “The question is why. Is it because you think I can’t handle the job? Or because you know my dad?”
The muscle in his jaw jumped. “This conversation is inappropriate.”
“So is treating me differently than every other employee here.”
“I treat you exactly the same—”
“Bullshit.” The word burst out before she could stop it, professional filter completely gone. “Reed makes a mistake, you give him pointers. I make a mistake—hell, I don’t even have to make a mistake—and you call me out in front of everyone. So either you have a problem with me specifically, or—” She stopped, something clicking into place. “Or you’re trying to push me away.”
Garrett’s expression went carefully blank. “That’s absurd.”
“Is it?” She searched his face, looking for cracks in that perfect composure. “Because it feels personal, Mr. Hawthorne. It feels like you want me to fail.”
“I don’t.” The words came out rough, almost harsh. He gripped the edge of his desk, knuckles white. “I don’t want you to fail.”
“Then what do you want?”
The question hung between them, loaded with too many meanings.
Garrett’s eyes locked onto hers, and for one breathless moment, she saw past the walls. Saw something raw and hungry and completely at odds with his cold professional demeanor.
Then he blinked, and it was gone.
“I want you to excel at your job, Ms. Rivera.” He sat back down, dismissing her. “Now, unless you have resort business to discuss, I have work to do.”
Layla stood there for another few seconds, anger and confusion and something else warring inside her chest.
“Understood,” she finally said, heading for the door.
She was halfway out when his voice stopped her.
“The coffee was perfect.”
She turned, but he was already focused on his screen again, expression neutral.
“Could’ve fooled me,” she muttered, and left before he could respond.
Layla threw herself into work for the rest of the day, determined to prove she belonged here—Garrett’s approval or not.
She covered an extra shift at the front desk when someone called in sick. She reorganized the guest services filing system that had been a mess for months. She stayed through her lunch break to help a family with a booking issue that had them nearly in tears.
And when five o’clock came and went, she didn’t leave.
If Garrett wanted perfection, she’d give him perfection.
She was in the business center at eight PM, proofreading the guest satisfaction surveys from the past week, when she heard footsteps behind her.
“You’re still here.”
Not a question. Never a question with him.
Layla didn’t turn around, keeping her eyes on the computer screen. “So are you.”
“I’m the director. I’m always here.”
“Must be lonely.”
The words came out before she could think better of them, and she immediately regretted it. Too familiar. Too personal.
But Garrett didn’t reprimand her. Instead, there was a long silence, and then the sound of him moving closer.
“What are you working on?” he asked, his voice quieter now, less sharp.
“Guest satisfaction surveys. Compiling data for the quarterly report.”
“That’s not due until next month.”
“I know.” She finally glanced at him. He’d loosened his tie again, and there was five o’clock shadow darkening his jaw. He looked tired. Human. “But I figured I’d get ahead.”
“To prove something?” There was no judgment in his tone, just curiosity.
“Maybe.” She held his gaze. “Is it working?”
Garrett’s expression softened—barely, but it was there. “You don’t need to prove anything, Layla.”
Her name. He’d said her name.
“Could’ve fooled me,” she echoed her earlier words, but this time without the bite.
He almost smiled. Almost. It was just a tiny quirk at the corner of his mouth, gone as quickly as it appeared, but it sent warmth spreading through her chest.
“The coffee really was perfect,” he said quietly. “Temperature, timing, everything.”
“Then why did you—”
“Because you shouldn’t be bringing me coffee.” He looked away, jaw tightening again. “You shouldn’t be going out of your way to… It’s not your job.”
“I was trying to be nice.”
“I know.” The words sounded like a confession. Like an apology. “That’s the problem.”
Layla’s breath caught. “I don’t understand.”
Garrett ran a hand through his hair, destroying the perfect style, and suddenly he looked lost. Conflicted.
“Go home, Layla,” he said finally, backing toward the door. “It’s late. You’ve done more than enough today.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll leave soon.”
Liar, she thought. He’d probably stay another three hours.
“Garrett—” She started, then stopped herself. “Mr. Hawthorne. For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re a bad boss. Tough, yeah. But not bad.”
His eyes closed briefly, something like pain crossing his features. When they opened again, his walls were back up—not as high as before, but there.
“Goodnight, Ms. Rivera.”
She gathered her things slowly, hyperaware of him standing in the doorway. When she finally walked past him, they were close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body, could smell that cedar cologne that was becoming dangerously familiar.
“Goodnight,” she whispered.
In the parking lot, sitting in her car, Layla’s hands shook as she gripped the steering wheel.
You shouldn’t be going out of your way.
That’s the problem.
He wasn’t trying to push her away because he thought she was incompetent.
He was trying to push her away because she was getting too close.
And the most dangerous part?
She wanted to get closer.
The next morning, Layla found a note on her desk in the staff office.
Your work on the guest surveys was exemplary. Well done. – GH
No signature, just initials. Professional. Appropriate.
But underneath, in smaller letters, like an afterthought he’d almost erased:
The coffee really was perfect.
Layla pressed the note to her chest, smiling like an idiot.
This would end in disaster. A complicated, messy, completely forbidden disaster.
But God, she was in so much trouble.
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