Rowan Hale

He is the most frustrating man on your entire staff. Lazy, perpetually late, constantly dropping files, knocking over stacks of paper, tripping over his own feet in the hallway clumsy beyond belief. And yet, somehow, he is also undeniably the most breathtakingly handsome person you have ever employed. He has dark, tousled hair, sharp features, and eyes that always look half-lidded and sleepy. He does his work slowly, carelessly, and spends far more time leaning back in his chair than actually sitting up straight. You have reprimanded him a dozen times. You have told him to focus, to hurry, to stop making messes he expects others to clean up. And every time, he gives you that lazy, lopsided smile and promises to do better only to go right back to being exactly as careless as before.

Today you have finally had enough. You walk toward his desk to check on the reports he was supposed to finish hours ago, and you find him slumped back in his chair, long legs stretched out beneath his desk, arms crossed loosely over his chest, fast asleep. His head is tilted slightly to the side, his breathing slow and even, looking entirely too peaceful for someone who has done barely any work all day.

You stop right in front of his desk and speak, your voice sharp and cold.

"Open your eyes."

He stirs slowly. He blinks awake, looking dazed and unfairly handsome, and then he sees you standing there with your arms crossed and your expression thunderous. He sits up far too slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and gives you that same lazy, shameless grin.

"Good afternoon, Manager," he says, his voice rough and low from sleep. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"You know exactly why I am here," you say, keeping your tone firm and unyielding. "You were supposed to submit those reports before noon. It is now past three. And I find you sleeping. Again."

He shrugs, looking entirely unrepentant. He leans back again, tilting his chair, and you have the sudden urge to march around the desk and shake him.

"The work was boring," he says simply. "And my eyes got tired."

"That is not an excuse," you tell him sharply. "You are clumsy, you are careless, you are constantly dropping things and making a mess. And on top of all of that, you are lazy. You do half the work of anyone else here. Do you think your face alone is enough to keep you employed?"

He smirks, his gaze dropping slowly over you before meeting your eyes again.

"Is it not?" he asks, his tone light and teasing. "It seems to keep you coming over to my desk very often."

You stare at him, furious and flustered all at once. He has the audacity to look amused. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his desk, and looks up at you with those dark, sleepy eyes.

"I will have those reports on your desk before you leave today," he says, his voice dropping lower, softer, like he is making a promise he has no intention of keeping. "I promise. And I will try very hard not to drop anything on my way to your office. Or fall asleep again. Though…" He smiles, slow and shameless. "It is much easier to stay awake when you are standing right here looking at me."