Archive of Our Own

It was only eight in the morning and the day was already not going as planned.

Gregory Bridgerton was late, and he was never late.

He rushed out of the coffee shop juggling two drinks and a bag of Italian pastries, weaving through the morning crowd as he hurried toward his internship. It was a temporary gig—a means to an end as he finished the last semester of his linguistics degree.

Or, as Anthony would call it, the "responsible" thing he was doing before seeking a career in military intelligence as a translator.

There was too much riding on today to let one bad morning throw him off course. He needed the practical experience to graduate. He needed the grade.

And, most importantly, he needed to make his boss happy.

His very beautiful, very feisty boss. 

And as much as it secretly drove him insane when she got all flared up, it was generally preferable that her fury was not caused by him.

—

Penelope Featherington was in her office, going over her notes one last time for the presentation she was due to give in exactly twenty-one minutes.

Wallflower Language Collective occupied the third floor of a restored historic building that had been converted into a co-working space. The boutique literary translation agency leased a modest suite of offices while sharing conference rooms, break areas, and printing facilities with the other small businesses in the building. It wasn't glamorous, but it had allowed her to grow the company from a one-woman operation she started in graduate school into a thriving agency of twelve.

They acquired rights from publishers and coordinated translations of novels, memoirs, children's books, and nonfiction into dozens of languages.

Penelope spent her days negotiating contracts, matching translators with projects, meeting with potential clients, and managing impossible deadlines...

And managing her even more impossible assistant.

Who was unfashionably late.

Which was merely irritating on a normal day. But today, with representatives from the British Library arriving in less than half an hour, it was completely unacceptable.

She sighed as hurried footsteps approached her office. When they stopped outside her door, she didn’t even bother looking up.

“You’re eight minutes late.”

“I know. I apologize, I—”

“You booked the conference room, right?” She asked, standing from her desk and gathering her binder.

“Yes, ma’am. First floor conference room. And—”

“Hold this.”

Penelope held out the binder for him to take.

He blinked, then looked down at the collection of drinks and pastries he was already juggling before setting them carefully on the coffee table in the seating area of her office. He took the binder with an exaggerated look of relief and smiled.

Gregory Bridgerton smiled with the confidence of someone who genuinely believed his dimples could cure the world.

It was sickening.

Or at least, that was what Penelope repeatedly reminded herself.

She regarded him with a perfectly blank stare before brushing past him toward the door. Gregory hurried after her.

“Don’t forget my drink,” she called over her shoulder, already making her way toward the elevator.

The elevator doors dinged open, and Penelope stepped inside, smoothing out the front of her cream blouse. She always wore that one for important meetings. Paired with her wine-colored trousers and pearl necklace, it made her feel sophisticated.

As she turned to face the closing doors, her eyes widened.

Gregory came barreling toward the elevator, clutching the binder and coffee and Penelope could see an accident waiting to happen.

Surprisingly, he made it inside unscathed.

Unfortunately, he stopped far too close to her.

He had to be at least thirty centimeters taller than she was. She wasn’t particularly good at estimating measurements, but she could easily picture a standard ruler stretching from the top of her head to the top of his. 

For reasons she preferred not to examine, she found herself closing her eyes for the briefest moment and breathing him in. His cologne was entirely too noticeable for 8:30 in the morning. She felt his warm breath brushing her forehead.

Was he breathing her in too?

The elevator chimed again as the doors slid shut. Then it lurched, making Gregory lose his balance. The binder hit the floor, and the coffee hit her.

“What the—” Penelope gasped, instinctively pulling the soaked fabric away from her skin before the hot liquid could burn her.

“Oh my—” Gregory scrambled to catch the now-empty cup. 

“Are you bloody serious?” Penelope hissed, tipping her head back toward the ceiling.

“I am so sorry.”

Without thinking, Gregory yanked his dress shirt free from his trousers and reached toward her, trying to blot the coffee from her blouse.

“Stop. Stop. Stop.” She caught his wrist before he could make things even worse.

With one swift motion, she pulled the ruined blouse over her head. At least she always wore a pretty bra on days that mattered, she thought. It was a ridiculous superstition she’d developed years ago. She had never expected it to become relevant in quite this way.

She tossed the blouse onto the floor, and when she looked back at Gregory, he was frozen.

His mouth hung open ever so slightly.

His eyes were very much not looking at her face.

And she discovered, much to her annoyance, that she enjoyed his reaction far more than she should. But she had to keep it professional, of course.

“Well?” She said, planting her hands on her hips.

Gregory blinked.

She sighed. “What are you waiting for? Take off your suit jacket and give it to me.”

“Right. Suit jacket. Coming right up.”

Gregory shrugged out of it, and Penelope was momentarily caught off guard by how broad his shoulders looked.

Entirely too broad, actually. Like an armoire.

Not attractive in the slightest.

“I wasn’t expecting you to be quite so… wide,” she muttered as she slipped the jacket on. “It fits more like a camping tent, but it’ll have to do.”

“I think you look nice,” he said, swallowing hard before offering a tentative smile. “I…”

“If you apologize to me one more time, I’m personally writing to His Royal Highness Prince William and asking him not to accept you into the Royal Air Force.”

“I don’t think he…” Gregory started, then he thought better of it. “…Never mind.”

The elevator chimed as the doors slid open and Penelope stepped out without breaking stride.

“Make sure someone cleans the elevator,” she called over her shoulder. “Thoroughly. No sticky floors.”

She took three more steps before adding. “And I still need my matcha.”

—

When Gregory arrived late at the office that morning, he should have known the day was already doomed.

It was ridiculous, really. He was about to enlist in military intelligence. He had done survival training, learned Arabic morphology, and could do a hundred push-ups in under two minutes.

He could absolutely handle one tiny, terrifying woman who owned a translation agency.

Except then she had taken off her shirt in front of him. So now his brain refused to move on from the image of Miss Featherington standing in a white lace bra that somehow blended perfectly with her porcelain skin.

And yes, he had imagined his boss wearing considerably less before. 

He wasn't particularly proud of it.

The fantasies usually arrived at highly inappropriate moments—when she twisted her hair into a messy bun so she could concentrate, or when she leaned over his desk, expensive peach-colored highlighter in hand, meticulously marking every mistake he'd made.

There had been more than one occasion where the least responsible part of his brain had wondered what would happen if he asked her to punish him instead.

Fortunately, the rest of his brain had always staged a successful intervention.

Until today. Because now he had actual reference material.

His imagination no longer had to do all the heavy lifting, and that was proving to be a serious, growing problem that he definitely had no time to take care of.

He had been sent to find the janitor. He needed to go back upstairs to get the other drink for Penelope. Instead, he found himself locked inside the accessible restroom on the first floor, staring at his reflection in the mirror.

"She's your boss," he muttered to himself. "And we have a meeting in twelve minutes."

After the self-pep talk—and several handfuls of cold water splashed onto his face—he finally walked out of the restroom and headed back upstairs for Penelope's replacement drink.

Gregory picked up the other cup he had left in Penelope's office. As he was walking out, he noticed a tailored blazer hanging neatly on the coat rack.

He paused. Tilting his head, he stepped towards and took it down. Maybe she'd prefer something that actually fit, he thought.

Not that he minded seeing her in his jacket.

Quite the opposite, if he were being honest. He thought she looked adorable, so much that his brain, being extremely unhelpful, immediately supplied the shiny new image of delicate white lace brushing the inside of the oversized charcoal fabric.

Gregory squeezed his eyes shut. "Get it together," he told himself for what had to be the third time that morning.

Maybe it would be better for everyone—especially his sanity—if she put her own clothes back on. 

Then maybe he could go back to be a productive member of the team instead of a 22-year-old idiot with no self-control nor self-preservation skills.

—

Penelope was setting up the conference room, swimming in Gregory's jacket, and strangely, she didn't mind. The cologne she had insisted, only moments ago, was far too strong for first thing in the morning now brought her an unexpected sense of comfort.

She knew she could be Gregory's toughest critic, but that was only because she saw his potential.

And perhaps a little because she enjoyed ordering him around and keeping him humble. He was an attractive, intelligent young man in his prime, and that combination had the potential to go to someone's head.

Not Gregory's, or at least not yet.

He was five years younger than her, so his testosterone had to be at its highest. She thought about it sometimes, but not in a creepy way. It was just biology. Like how his stamina was also at its peak, and he could probably go multiple rounds with almost no recovery time. It was nothing other than nature's way of ensuring reproduction, he basically had been designed to have that type of performance at his age.

She also wondered, entirely against her will, whether his children would inherit his dimples.

"Your drink and something to wear," Gregory announced as he walked into the conference room, holding up one in each hand.

"How did you get another drink so quickly?" Penelope asked, narrowing her eyes.

"I already had it."

"You already had it?"

"I bought two matchas this morning."

"But you don't drink matcha."

“I don’t.” Gregory shifted awkwardly. “One was a backup.”

She blinked. “You buy me two matchas every morning in case the other meets a tragic end?”

“That’s one way to put it, yes.”

Penelope stared at him. “So what happens to the second one on a non-eventful day?”

“You drink it too.”

“No, I don’t.” She scoffed.

"You never do it all at once." Gregory shrugged. "I just keep handing you whichever cup is fuller throughout the morning until they're both empty." 

Penelope was shocked by the revelation. “You can’t just double a woman’s matcha intake without her knowledge!”

A polite knock interrupted them.

“Miss Featherington? Your 8:30 is here,” the receptionist said from the doorway.

“Thank you, Mrs. Varley. Please show them in.”

As Mrs. Varley disappeared down the hall, Gregory hesitated.

“You’re still wearing my jacket,” he said quietly.

“It’s fine.” She took two steps toward the head of the conference table before stopping.

“…I mean…” She glanced back at him. “Are you okay with it?”

Gregory simply stared at her.

It occurred to Penelope that this might have been the first time she had ever asked for his opinion on something that wasn’t completely work-related.

Or perhaps about his feelings at all.

“…Yeah,” he managed, blinking himself back to reality. “I’m totally fine with it.”

“Good.” She nodded once, all business again. “Get the slides on the screen.”

“Right. Yes, ma’am.” 

—

Gregory spent the entire meeting trying not to think about the fact that Penelope was wearing his jacket.

Or the fact that she had chosen to keep it.

He had brought her a perfectly viable alternative—one of her own blazers—but she had stayed in his instead.

Never mind that the clients had just arrived and she hadn’t wanted to keep them waiting.

Never mind that she probably wasn’t eager to undress in front of him twice in the span of fifteen minutes.

No. Penelope Featherington had voluntarily asked whether he was okay with her wearing his jacket.

As a somewhat disposable assistant and the seventh son in a very large family, Gregory couldn’t remember the last time someone had paused to ask how he felt about something so small.

He felt seen.

She looked incredible.

Maybe it was his jacket. Maybe it was the way she stood at the front of the room, confidently explaining why Wallflower Language Collective was uniquely suited to translate the journals and correspondence of a renowned nineteenth-century naturalist.

Whatever the reason, it wasn’t fair that she was brilliant on top of being beautiful.

And downright cruel that she happened to be his boss. One too ethical to look at him in any other way.

“Well, we are definitely interested in hearing more,” Mr. Fuller said, closing his notebook and standing up. “I’ll be waiting for a preliminary translation strategy and scope of services by tomorrow morning.” 

Penelope smiled with practiced confidence. “Absolutely. Thank you for the opportunity.”

Mr. Fuller and his associates shook hands with both of them before leaving the conference room.

The door clicked shut and Penelope released a long breath.

“They want a formal proposal,” she whispered.

“Of course they do.” Gregory grinned. “You absolutely nailed it.”

“I did, didn’t I?” A laugh escaped her before she could stop it.

“One hundred percent.” Gregory looked at her for perhaps a second too long.

“What?” she asked, one eyebrow arching.

She was smiling.

“I…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s just nice to see you…happy.”

She laughed again, softer this time. “Thank you…I think.”

“You’re so serious all the time,” he teased. “Happiness suits you.”

“I’m not serious,” she protested. “I’m competent.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.” He offered. “I know I don’t look like a lot, but I’m here to help with the complicated stuff too.” 

“Even if it means working through lunch and staying after hours to meet tomorrow’s deadline?” She tested him.

Gregory winced. 

“I’m having lunch with my mum today,” he admitted. “But I can keep it short. I’ll stay as late as you need.”

With eight children and an ever-growing collection of grandchildren, uninterrupted time with his mum was increasingly rare. He made a point of having lunch with her once a month.

To his surprise, Penelope didn’t seem irritated.

Instead, she nodded in understanding.

“Ah. Of course. Third Tuesday.”

Gregory blinked. He rarely spoke about his family at work, though his monthly lunches with Violet had been on his calendar since the day he started.

He just hadn’t expected Penelope to notice.

“Sounds good,” she said with an easy smile. “Enjoy lunch.”

—

Gregory was running late.

Again.

It had somehow become the theme of his day.

“Hey, Mum. Sorry to keep you waiting.” He slid into the seat across from Violet at the little bistro a few blocks from the office.

“It’s quite all right, dear.” She smiled warmly. “I know you’ve been busy.”

He removed his glasses to clean them before slipping them back on.

“It’s going to be a long day,” he admitted. “But…all for good reasons. We’re close to landing a huge project.” 

He brushed his damp palms against his trousers under the table. “It’s exciting.”

Violet smiled and lifted her glass. “Congratulations! I’m so proud of you.”

He clinked his against hers. “Thanks, Mum. It’ll be a great experience.”

“I’m very glad to hear that.” She took a leisurely sip of her drink. “Now…”

Gregory immediately narrowed his eyes as she continued.

“...Tell me about the girl.”

He sighed. “There isn’t a girl.”

“Oh.” She nodded thoughtfully. “My mistake. Tell me about the woman.”

She looked up with perfect innocence.

Gregory groaned. He should have known he was never going to win this conversation. He had to give her something that would satisfy her for at least a few days.

Unfortunately, talking about Penelope automatically brought back the most recent memory of her: standing in front of him in a white lace bra that left almost nothing to the imagination.

Her porcelain skin. The thin lace doing a poor job of covering anything. The way she looked at him expecting him to act completely normal when she was single-handedly destroying every ounce of common sense he possessed.

He shifted in his seat. He really needed to stop thinking about it. Really, really needed to stop thinking about it. 

“It’s…” He searched desperately for the least incriminating word. “Platonic.”

Violet tilted her head. “So she doesn’t know you at all?”

“No, she does. I mean…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “The feelings are very much one-sided.”

“Impossible.” Violet was quick to brush it off.

Gregory laughed. “I’m serious.”

“You are a handsome, intelligent, kind young man.” She smiled over the rim of her glass. “Any girl—”

She paused. “—woman would be fortunate to have you.”

He ducked his head, feeling sixteen all over again.

“Well…” He hesitated. “Even if she did—which she absolutely doesn’t—it would be a bit of a…forbidden romance.”

“Hm.” Violet considered this with far more interest than Gregory appreciated. “How intriguing.”

She took another sip. “The novels I read usually call it an office romance.”

Gregory laughed and shook his head. It was far more complicated than that, Penelope wasn’t simply a coworker. She was his boss and, as far as he knew, his feelings were entirely one-sided. 

He didn’t particularly feel like unpacking any of that over lunch.

Besides, he only had a few weeks left before his internship ended.

After graduation, he’d be gone.

He’d stop seeing Penelope every day. He’d stop noticing the way she bit her lower lip when she was concentrating, or how she absentmindedly tapped her pen against her desk while she was deep in thought. He’d stop buying two matchas every morning.

Eventually he’d stop thinking about her altogether.

Which sounded perfectly reasonable, and exactly why he didn’t believe a word of it.

—

Mr. Fuller sent over the project specifications after the meeting, and Penelope was meticulously working through every detail to make sure nothing was overlooked. Early in her career, she had severely underpriced projects because she hadn't fully accounted for how much time each task actually required, and she was determined not to make that mistake again.

Sometimes she missed being more hands-on with the projects and doing the more creative work herself, but there was a special kind of satisfaction in running her own agency. Opportunities like this one reminded her why she had built Wallflower Language Collective in the first place.

She was so focused on the task at hand that she didn't realize Gregory had appeared in the doorway of her office until he spoke.

"You need to eat dinner."

"I thought you'd gone home for the day," she replied, never taking her eyes off the screen.

"Why?" He frowned. "You knew I was staying late."

"I did... but then all the lights were off."

"Because I went to get you food."

At that, she finally looked up. Gregory held up a takeout bag with a small, satisfied smile. He stood there, tall as ever, his dress shirt wrinkled from the day, his tie loosened at the collar.

Then came the rather inconvenient realization that she was still wearing his jacket.

He didn't mention it.

So she decided not to, either.

"Thank you." She closed her laptop halfway. "What about you?"

"I ate on the way back."

He crossed the room, set the takeout bag on the coffee table, then turned toward her.

"So..." He gestured toward the loveseat. "Step away from your desk and let me take over for a bit."

He hadn't said anything particularly extraordinary, nor had he done anything inappropriate.

Still, it didn't stop a shiver from traveling down her spine.

She was usually the one telling Gregory what to do. It was the natural order of things, he was her employee after all.

But this felt…nice.

She spent so much of her time taking care of everyone in the team, making sure they had what they needed to get their work done. Now her very young and subjectively attractive assistant seemed intent on taking care of her.

For once, she didn't argue back. With a quiet sigh, she rose from her chair and walked around the desk. There wasn't much room between the desk and the wall, and Gregory was standing right there. 

As she squeezed past him, her shoulder brushed lightly against his arm–entirely by accident.

Their eyes met. 

"I appreciate that," she whispered.

“Any time.”

Penelope sat down on the couch and started going through the bag.

“French food is your idea of takeout?” She said, impressed. “Tell me you're an heir without telling me you’re an heir.”

“It had to be celebratory. This is a huge deal,” he justified, and she couldn’t help but smile.

“Thank you. I think I have everything down, but take a look at the tasks and see if I’m missing anything for you. You have an annoying little habit of not telling me everything you do.”

“Are you seriously still mad about the second matcha?” he asked with a chuckle, adjusting his glasses as he looked over her spreadsheet.

“Yes.” She chuckled too, then sobered. “More at myself for not noticing, though. But you’re not completely off the hook.”

“You have a lot going on. Don’t be too hard on yourself,” he said softly as he examined the screen.

She nodded and took a bite of her food.

“You know, for someone who speaks five languages, you sure have a lot of generic auto-help phrases you offer. I was hoping for a bit more...” She gestured vaguely. “Variety.”

Penelope looked up at him and caught him grinning.

“I guess I’ll have to polish up on my foreign words of wisdom, then.”

“Definitely. It’s basically one of the job requirements,” she teased.

“Noted, boss.”

“So, how was lunch with your mother?”

“It was good. We talked a lot about...” He hesitated. “The books she’s reading.”

“That’s very sweet.” Penelope smiled. “What book? Anything we’ve translated into English?”

“Nope. I don’t think so, no.” He cleared his throat again.

Penelope narrowed her eyes slightly, but Gregory kept looking at the spreadsheet.

“Okay, the workflow for the editorial process checks out,” he continued, conveniently steering the conversation back toward business. “But if this is the actual timeline, you’re going to need more people.”

“More? I already budgeted for eight.”

“I’d say ten.”

She scoffed. “It’s journals and personal correspondence.”

“From the nineteenth century,” he reminded her. “It’s not just translating the words. It’s translating the whole world around them.”

Penelope swallowed. She had been so focused on the logistics of the project that the historical context had completely escaped her. 

This was bad.

Approaching a translation holistically was her brand. It was the value Wallflower offered its clients. And her assistant had just been the one to remind her of it.

She looked at him, and he continued completely unaware of the effect he was having on her.

“If the original writer used a term that had a specific scientific meaning in 1815, we can’t replace it with the closest modern equivalent simply because it flows more naturally. We need the context, and that takes more time or more people. So I’m suggesting more people because, knowing you, you don’t want to push back on the deadline they gave us.”

She hated that he was right.

She hated even more that it was apparently doing things to her.

Why was he so good? And why did he have to look so good while doing it?

He was leaning back in her chair, hair tousled from the long day, pushing his glasses back up his nose. His arms were crossed over his chest, the sleeves of his white shirt stretched across muscles that seemed determined to make the fabric’s job more difficult than necessary.

“You may have a point there,” she conceded, forcing herself to focus on her food again.

“Well, you did hire me for my expertise.”

“I hired you because Professor Danbury recommended you.” She corrected him.

He smiled. “Fair. I guess I became an expert because of you, then.”

Penelope didn’t reply right away.

She couldn’t.

So she gathered the leftover food, tucked it back into the bag, and stood, smoothing out the front of Gregory’s jacket.

“I’m glad this internship has been a valuable experience for you.”

“Definitely. Especially working under you.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks at the thought of him literally under her. She rather enjoyed being on top in more ways than one.

“You’re a good student. And a very good assistant.”

She tried to recover, but somehow managed to make that sound even dirtier.

Gregory didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he seemed to like it.

He simply stared at her, speechless, and Penelope wondered, briefly, if she’d somehow discovered that her assistant had a praise kink.

She started toward him, dragging her fingertips absently along the desk as if she were merely rearranging papers.

“I really appreciate your attention to detail. You are very thorough…” She paused. “With your work.”

She looked at him. “I like that a lot about you.”

She heard him swallow and Penelope smiled to herself. She was absolutely going to blame the wine in the coq au vin for all of this.

“I’m very meticulous, yes,” he managed.

By then, she was standing between his legs.

It was far too tempting, standing so close and looking down at him. His blue eyes were startlingly kind from this distance, and for one brief lapse in judgment, she wanted to trace her fingers along his jaw, press her thumb against his lower lip, cup his cheek…

And kiss him.

Her hand lifted before she could stop herself and her thumb brushed the corner of his mouth.

She froze.

Gregory froze.

“There was a…” She cleared her throat and dropped her hand. “A bit of sauce there. Can I sit down now?”

“Please do.” He coughed and straightened, though he made no move to get up.

Penelope raised an eyebrow. “Are you getting up?”

“Yes. Yes, of course. All yours.” He quickly rose and pulled the chair out for her.

She sat and immediately began making changes to the spreadsheet, while Gregory remained beside her, leaning forward with one hand resting on the back of her chair.

“Ten translators it is, then,” she said, typing. “Anything else?”

“I think that’s…all. For now.”

“For now,” she repeated, the words carrying a heavier meaning.

The air shifted between them, and neither of them was brave enough to say aloud what they already knew.

—

A couple of days later, Penelope arrived at her office to find Gregory already there, sitting on the couch with two matchas and a bag of pastries on the coffee table in front of him.

He also had a folded piece of paper in his hand.

“Good morning, boss.”

“Morning. You’re here early.”

He stood and approached her.

“I haven’t slept properly in a couple of days, actually. I had to give this to you.” He held out the paper. “My twelve weeks are up.”

Penelope took it from him. “What is this? A resignation letter?”

For a moment, she was genuinely surprised. She knew it was coming soon, but she hadn’t realized it was this soon.

She would have to play it cool.

“Your internship already has an end date. You don’t actually need one,” she pointed out.

“I know.” He smiled. “I just thought it was a more poetic way to do it. Thank you for the experience. And the opportunity.”

Penelope raised an eyebrow.

He gave her that stupid, dimpled smile she had spent months pretending not to like.

She looked down before he could see what it did to her and unfolded the paper.

Dear Penelope,

At close of business today, I am no longer your assistant. Which means I can finally ask something I’ve wanted to ask for months.

If you’re free after work, I’d love to take you to dinner. No takeout.

Gregory

P.S: Before you say no… Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero.

Her eyes widened.

She hadn't expected Gregory to be quite so forward, or to discover he had been thinking about her that way all this time.

She would have been lying if she said the thought had never crossed her own mind, but she had always dismissed it as a fantasy better left in her imagination.

And because she was still technically his boss, she naturally had to give him a hard time before answering.

“Carpe diem, really?” She looked up at him. “That’s your most creative foreign language life advice?”

“Hey, I included the whole quote. That must count for something, right?”

“Hm.” She pretended to consider it. “I’ll give you half a point for that.”

“And a yes…?” He raised his eyebrows hopefully.

“Yes.” Penelope laughed and shook her head.

His whole face lit up.

“Carpe diem, I guess.”