For those of you who have read Professionally Unprofessional, here is their very first meeting from Ben’s POV. Enjoy! Professionally Unprofessional is available now on Amazon.

The hallway outside our office is its usual quiet—polished floors, sharp angles, hushed tones. Just the way I like it. Order. Control. Professionalism.

So naturally, that serenity dies a loud, chaotic death the moment I see them.

Two women, one realtor, and enough bohemian energy to make my tie feel tighter. The taller of the two—brown hair, confident, jeans and a T-shirt like she doesn’t have a care in the world—has a look that says she didn’t come here to network.

And now they’re at my elevator.

Francie Mavis, a realtor I’ve encountered once or twice at mixers, steps forward before I can say a word. “Hello, I’m Francie Mavis of Mavis Realty; my clients with a publishing company and I were just taking a look at the open office space down the hall.”

A publishing company. Cute.

I glance at her outstretched hand, not bothering to take it. “Ben Maddox,” I say, flatly. And then, to the pair of disruptors, “A publishing company? How… quaint.”

It’s not meant to be insulting. Okay, maybe it is. But mostly, it’s meant to get them to move along.

The brunette straightens like I’ve hit a nerve. Good. “Quaint, yes,” she says, too evenly. “But we like to call it charming.”

Her tone is biting. Sharp. Unexpected.

I let my gaze slide over her—messy bun, sneakers, a T-shirt that says Books. Sass. Chaos. She straightens her shoulders like she’s preparing to do battle.

“Do you always greet potential neighbors this way?” she asks.

I smirk. “Only the charming ones.”

Before I can say more, the other one jumps in. Bright. Polished. Clearly the designated PR lead. “I’m Maci, by the way! So nice to meet you all.”

I nod once, already half-writing them off. Interns, maybe? Assistants? Cute, but not relevant.

Then the blonde speaks again. “Alexandria Phillips,” she says, chin lifted like she’s daring me to underestimate her. “Co-owner of the publishing company that may or may not be infiltrating your precious corporate bubble.”

Owner?

I blink. I had her pegged wrong. She sees the flicker of recalculation in my face and looks way too smug about it.

“Publishing,” I repeat, drawing it out like it might sound more serious if I say it slower. “Books and… magazines, I assume?”

She doesn’t even hesitate. “No, porn.”

One of the junior associates behind me snorts. I freeze. She’s bluffing. Has to be.

“She’s kidding,” Maci says, voice high with panic. “We publish fiction. Contemporary, romance, that sort of thing.”

Fiction. Even better. I school my features into neutral disinterest. But there’s something… sharp about this Alexandria Phillips. Too smart to ignore, too smug to tolerate.

“Well, Ms. Phillips,” I say, tone dry, “I hope your fictional endeavors don’t disrupt our very real business.”

She taps her chin, eyes glittering. “Oh, I don’t know. Have you seen our latest bestseller? How to Remove the Stick from Your—”

“What my partner means,” Maci says quickly, stepping in like a human firewall, “is that we run a very professional operation. You won’t even know we’re here.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” I murmur, eyes still locked on Alexandria.

The elevator behind them dings. Blessed salvation.

Alexandria backs toward it with a sarcastic grin. “Well, this has been enlightening. Can’t wait to bring our chaotic creative energy to disrupt your… what is it you do again? Count other people’s money?”

“Financial advisory,” I bite back, jaw tightening. “We help people build wealth and security.”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “How noble. We just help them escape reality for a while.”

Maci pulls her inside the elevator like she’s hauling a firecracker out of a fireworks store.

“It was lovely meeting you all!” she chirps. Alexandria’s sarcasm hangs in the air like glitter you can’t clean up.

Just before the doors close, she catches my eye. Her smirk is infuriating. And distracting. And—God help me—kind of hot.

“She’s going to be a problem,” I mutter.

Behind me, Eli lets out a low whistle. “If by ‘problem’ you mean the first woman who’s ever put you in your place in under five minutes, then yeah. Huge problem.”

I ignore him, turning back toward the office. But I can still hear her voice, still feel the buzz of irritation—and intrigue—thrumming beneath my skin.

Quaint, my ass.

The elevator doors slide shut, cutting off the chaotic energy that had just blown through my hallway like a tornado wrapped in sarcasm and bootcut jeans. I stand there for a second, trying to recalibrate.

“Well,” Eli mutters behind me, “that was… something.”

“She’s going to be a problem,” I say, walking briskly back toward our office.

“If by ‘problem’ you mean the first woman who’s ever put you in your place in under five minutes, then yeah. Massive threat to national security.”

I ignore him. Mostly.

Back in my office, I close the door behind me and lean against it for a moment, eyes on the skyline outside my window but brain nowhere near it.

Alexandria Phillips.

That name doesn’t suit her at all. Too formal. Too controlled. I heard her friend call her Lexie. That suits her much better. Lexie is unpredictable. Sharpened edges and mismatched vibes, like she was born to disrupt the equilibrium I work so hard to maintain.

And she’s funny. Not polite-chuckle funny. Not mildly-clever-in-a-meeting funny. Dangerously funny.

I hate that I noticed.

She stood in the middle of my carefully curated world of pressed suits and polished hardwood and tossed out a porn joke like it was her job. Her best friend looked horrified. One of my junior advisors nearly passed out from holding in laughter. And me?

I was amused. Genuinely. Against my better judgment.

My desk is exactly how I left it—tidy, aligned, color-coded—but I stare at it blankly. I’ve had meetings with multi-million-dollar clients that didn’t leave this kind of imprint. I’ve read through complicated trust structures with less cognitive effort than I’m currently using to replay every word she said.

Who wears a T-shirt that says Books. Sass. Chaos. to a building like this?

And why the hell does that look keep replaying in my head—head tilted, eyes glittering, that dangerous little smirk tugging at her lips like she knows she just crawled under your skin and set up camp?

I sit, push my chair back, and glance at the building map on my tablet. Of course. The space across the hall. Prime real estate. Close enough that I’ll probably hear her laugh echoing down the hallway for the foreseeable future.

And that’s what it was, wasn’t it? Laughter. Hers. Mine, almost.

I rub a hand down my face. What the hell was that?

“Publishing,” I mutter aloud, like maybe saying it again will make it sound more serious. More grounded. Less… her.

Fiction. Romance. Chaos.

I glance at my phone, tempted for a brief, traitorous second to Google her name. Just to check credentials, obviously. Just to see what kind of publishing company thinks it’s a good idea to move into a space surrounded by corporate firms.

Instead, I pull up a client file and try to get back into my usual headspace—numbers, goals, strategy.

But it’s no good.

Because every time I close my eyes, all I see is Lexie flipping her hair over her shoulder, sarcasm in her voice, and a wild spark in her eyes like she was daring me to underestimate her again.

And damn it—I think I might have liked it.