Oops, I Took Off His Pants

Chapter 1

At the company’s annual gala, I accidentally pulled down my boss’s pants.
Later, he became my boyfriend.
(Not a move I’d recommend trying yourself.)

“You okay? That must’ve hurt… I’m really sorry.”

“What’s your name?”

“I’m Zoe Ryan. Uh… should I help you pull your pants back up first?”

“Leave. Before I lose my temper.”

The man speaking was named York. Ethan York. He wasn’t even thirty, yet he was the big boss of our entire company.

He had fair skin, a sharp nose, deep-set eyes—probably some mixed heritage in there—and at six-foot-one, with the build of a Greek statue, he was absolutely unfair to look at.

If he hadn’t been radiating pure fury, I might’ve walked in a slow circle just to appreciate him from every angle.

He’d rented out a whole hotel ballroom for the gala. Things had just hit their peak: he was being goaded into singing a song onstage by the entire staff.

I was supposed to go up and hand him a bouquet.

But I was very drunk.

I tripped over the carpet, reached out instinctively to catch myself—and yanked down his pants.

To be fair, it wasn’t entirely my fault. He must’ve just come from the gym or something, because he was wearing those basketball breakaway pants—the kind with snap buttons along the sides that come off with one good pull.

Still, I was… aggressive. Even his white briefs got dragged down a solid inch or two.

Three red claw marks stood out sharply along his V-line.

The room went dead silent.

And right when the silence peaked, I managed to get up and take in the full scene.

I felt deeply, deeply guilty.

Until, of course, someone’s camera flash went off. Twice.

I couldn’t help it—I let out a double “hehe.”

Which somehow echoed even louder than the camera flash.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. York. I swear, I didn’t mean to.”

I was trembling all over, trying my hardest not to laugh, apologizing in a barely controlled squeak.

He adjusted his underwear with cold precision, covering up his abs, then reached his hand out toward me.

Naturally, I thought he was trying to help me up. Naturally, I put my hand in his.

Even felt a bit… flustered.

Then smack—he slapped my hand away.

“My pants. Give them back.”

“…Huh?”

Only then did I realize I was still holding onto his pants.

As I tried to hand them back, I suddenly noticed something: once those breakaway pants come off, they’re basically just… a pile of fabric.

So, trying to be helpful, I started frantically snapping the buttons back together.

“Give them. Back.”

“Hang on, almost got it—”

He yanked them out of my hands and tried to fix them himself—only to realize they were completely unwearable.

That’s when his assistant, William, finally came to the rescue. He brought a lightweight coat and draped it over Mr. York’s shoulders.

York turned and walked off without a word.

Leaving me kneeling onstage, pants in hand, absolutely mortified.

---

Chapter 2

The next day at the office, everyone looked at me differently.

And I knew exactly why.

Our CEO—Ethan York—was the stuff of legend. Women in the company called him “York the Snack.” Easily a third of the staff was openly crushing on him.

I was sure I was getting fired.

I spent the whole day texting my best friend in panic mode.
I told her I was doomed. I’d need to borrow money. Or maybe just crash at her place.
Why? Because if I got fired, I couldn’t even cover next month’s rent.

By some miracle, I survived until the end of the day. Just as I started to feel relieved, my team lead came over and said we had a meeting.

In the conference room, she looked grim. “We’ve got a change of plans. The BMW campaign—marketing wants not one but three proposals now.”

A chorus of groans rippled through the room.

She added, “Oh, and the client meeting’s been moved up a week. All three proposals are due tomorrow.”

People started whispering immediately.

One of the senior guys muttered, “Seriously? They’re obviously targeting Zoe Ryan.”

I think he tried to say it under his breath.

But the second those words left his lips, everyone turned to look at me.
As if I were a disco ball made of scandal.

BMW was a major client. But even so, three full proposals in one night? That was pure vengeance from Ethan York.

And the worst part?
He wasn’t just punishing me—he was dragging my whole team down with me.
That man was ruthless.

I snapped. “Fine. I’ll do all three myself.”

Nobody objected.

The team lead pushed up her glasses. “Well, Zoe is the fastest proposal writer in the group.”

A little support would’ve been nice.

With no choice, I switched to full beast mode. Locked myself in with a company computer, and six hours later, I’d cranked out all three proposals.

At 11:30 PM, exhausted and cursing my boss under my breath, I headed toward the elevator to catch the last subway home.

And from a distance—I saw him.

Ethan York. Stepping into the elevator.

I did not want to see him. But the building had over a hundred floors, and we were in the sixties. Missing this elevator meant waiting for another—and maybe missing the last train.

So I ran. “Wait! Wait! Hold the door!”

Ten seconds later, I watched in horror as the elevator doors began to close… just a few steps in front of me.

And through the narrowing gap… I saw York’s gorgeous, eternally annoyed face.

And his right hand.
Jamming the close button like his life depended on it.

Chapter 3

“So you’re just gonna take it? Let him treat you like crap and say nothing?”
My best friend was at my apartment that night, drinking and raging on my behalf.

I sighed. “Honestly? Yeah.”
Look, the job paid really well. In this industry, that kind of money was rare.

And I knew my worth. Getting paid what I did? Felt like I’d won some cosmic lottery.

But after that night, Ethan York didn’t just stop. He escalated. Like he knew I wouldn’t quit.

He started dumping more and more projects on our team.

And then—this guy, I swear—he sent out a company-wide email praising our team lead for “an outstanding job on the BMW campaign.”
Translation?
“Give Zoe Ryan every big, painful, hell-level project from now on.”

Little by little, I started to crack. Even my usually unbreakable optimism was fraying.

And then came the final straw: a cold, miserable rainy day in San Diego.
I got sick.

Like, violently sick.
Flu, fever, pounding headache, cramps—it all hit me like a train. I didn’t fall asleep until 7 a.m.

Of course, the next day I was supposed to submit a major proposal.
I opened my eyes at 11:30 a.m., saw I’d missed five alarms, over twenty calls, and more than a hundred unread messages.

Just as I was about to check what the hell was going on, my phone started ringing again—this time from an unknown number.

I answered, and was greeted by a voice so smug and low it made me want to throw up again.

“Oh, so you’re alive. That’s great. Because thanks to your little disappearing act, the company just lost its biggest bid of the year. Over a million dollars, gone. So unless—”

“Ethan York, right?” I cut him off.

There was a pause. “…Yeah.”

“Will you shut up already?”
I had hit my limit.

I’d done the math. When you divided my salary by the hours I worked—plus all the unpaid overtime—I was making the same as I did two years ago. I could quit any second.

But if I was going to quit, I was damn well going to cuss him out first.

“All I did was accidentally pull your pants down! You’ve been out for revenge ever since. What kind of grown-ass man holds a grudge over underwear?!”

Whoa. That came out strong. Didn’t know I had it in me.

“I’ve been busting my ass for this company, giving you all my time, all my energy, and you? I’m practically dying here with the flu, cramps, and zero sleep, and nobody even asked if I was okay!”

Crap—I was about to cry. New topic, fast.

“And don’t think just ’cause you’re tall, rich, and ridiculously good-looking—”

Wait. Stop. Why am I complimenting him!?

“—you’re not also a petty, evil, capitalist jerk! A vampire in Armani! A soulless corporate douchebag!”

Nailed it.

“You like playing with people? Fine. Go play with someone else. I’m done!”

And before he could respond, I hung up.

Honestly? There’s no better feeling than winning an argument and hanging up first.

Okay—maybe one thing feels better: slamming the door before they get a word in.

I was shaking. Totally exhausted from that emotional outburst.

I flipped my phone to airplane mode and passed out again.

---

I don’t know how long I was asleep before someone started banging on my door.

I bolted upright.

No way. No freaking way. Was Ethan York at my door?! To fight me?!

The knocking grew louder. Faster. Angrier.

I tried to reassure myself. He doesn’t have mafia connections.
Worst case, he yells. I cry. I beg for mercy. Classic survival tactics.

I stumbled to the door and called out, “Who is it?”

“Hi! It’s your food delivery!”

“Y-Your what? You’re banging like you’re about to axe-murder me!”

I opened the door to see a confused delivery guy in yellow, blinking at me.

“This is your prescription delivery order.”

“What? I didn’t order any medicine.”

He squinted at the receipt. “Note says: ‘Take one cold pill, one ibuprofen, one herbal packet. Drink water. Go to the bathroom before sleeping.’”

He read it all aloud, handed me the bag, and I took it with a very cranky “thanks.”

Just as I was closing the door—
A pale hand slid through the gap.

I screamed.

Tried to slam the door. That hand didn’t budge.

So I started ramming the door like a human battering ram.

Eventually, the hand shoved the door and me open.

“HELP!” I shouted.

“You’re insane, Zoe Ryan!” came the reply.

“HE’S BREAKING IN! THE DELIVERY GUY IS A KIDNAPPER!”

“For God’s sake, open your eyes. It’s me. Ethan York.”

“You?! So you did come to beat me up!”

---

Chapter 4

Turns out, Ethan York had come to apologize.

He walked in, knelt down, helped me up, and guided me to the bed.

It was weirdly gentle. He smelled really good.

He cleared his throat like he was pretending to be casual. “Are you okay?”

“I… I’m fine.”

He touched my forehead with the back of his hand. I flinched, but not fast enough.

“You call that fine? Did you take the meds?”

“Boss, the delivery just got here. Then you got here. So, no. No time for meds.”

He nodded, glanced away like he was embarrassed. Then he poured a glass of water, sat on the edge of my bed, pinched the pills between his fingers—and held them up to my mouth.

“Open up.”

My cheeks were on fire.
Why… why was this kind of hot?

“What are you smiling about, Zoe Ryan?”

I snapped out of it. He was still standing at the door.

So… it was a fantasy.

All of it.
Just a fever dream.

Damn it.

Ethan said dryly, “Judging by how hard you chewed me out earlier, I assume your brain’s still working.”

I stared at him. “…What do you want?”

“Take your meds, grab your proposal, and come with me. We’re meeting the client.”

Chapter 5

“You told me we lost the pitch!”

“I lied. Figured you might be faking sick. The client meeting got moved to the afternoon.”

Ethan York claimed he didn’t have time to read my proposal—so guess who had to give the client presentation?

Yup. Me.

The only problem? I’d never done that before.

The entire presentation, my legs felt like jelly.

I held the laser pointer in one hand, trying to direct attention to the slides, but the little red dot was trembling across the screen like it was having a seizure.

The clients… kept smiling.

On the drive back, Ethan got a message.

We won the pitch.

“…Seriously?” I asked.

“Maybe they felt bad for you. Watching you shake like that probably made them think you had a terminal illness.”

“…”

“Anyway. You worked hard today. Let me buy you dinner.”

“Oh come on, it’s all part of the job. No need to make a big deal—”

Just then, one of my coworkers called.

“Yo, girl! You are legendary! Everyone’s talking about how you cursed out the boss!”

“…What?”

“Yeah! That genius had you on speaker the whole time. For ‘educational’ purposes or some crap!”

My vision went black.

“I—I’ll talk to you at work.” I hung up, fast.

Then I slowly turned to peek at Ethan in the driver’s seat.

He raised an eyebrow. “Your phone’s got pretty loud speakers.”

Why. Wasn’t. There. A. Hole. In. This. Car. Floor.

My toes started curling involuntarily, digging into the floor like they were about to excavate a hidden tomb.

“…You know what, Mr. York? Maybe I should buy you dinner.”

“Sure,” he said, and braked to a smooth stop.

Right in front of a fancy little Japanese izakaya two blocks from my apartment.

I knew this place.
I’d never eaten there.
Because according to Yelp, the average bill was $200 a head.

“…Actually, maybe you should pay…”

---

Chapter 6

Midway through dinner, Ethan suddenly said, “Zoe Ryan. Be my assistant.”

I blinked. “Don’t you already have William?”

“She can’t handle everything. I wouldn’t have had to show up at your place if she could. Besides, you’re officially my pitch assistant now.”

“You think I did well?”

“You were terrible.”

“…Excuse me?”

“But if you can land BMW while shaking like a leaf, I think you’re my lucky charm. And in business, luck is everything.”

This man, in his sleek blazer and startup-founder aura… was superstitious?

And me? His lucky charm?
The same girl who pantsed him in front of the entire company?

“So… the gala incident? And today’s phone call…?”

“If you bring either up again, you’re paying for this dinner.”

I glanced at the menu.
We’d already passed $400.
I made a zipping motion across my lips.

Ethan sighed. “So. Resign… or be my assistant. Your call.”

“…Will it be a lot of work?”

“Yes.”

“And you have a temper.”

He shot me a look. I shut up immediately.

“I’ll raise your salary. Thirty percent.”

Thirty percent?! That was a huge raise.

“…How about fifty?”

“Twenty.”

“Okay, okay, thirty’s perfect. Let’s go with thirty.”

---

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