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A Night To Remember | ch. 3
j. laurens x reader
Warnings: swearing, some sexual jokes, not proofread, google translate Spanish cus yah
Wc: 2.8k
After the fiasco in the hotel room, John takes you to his favorite restaurant in Washington D.C., where you have a heartfelt conversation you didn’t know you could.
A/n: heeyyyy I’ve been having a rough time lately w/ my social life, so please be patient w me, but I will try to get chapters out! ty for your support 💕
“Surely this is a mistake,” he scoffed. “They had to have given us the wrong key or something.”
“I can talk to them and ask if they’ll move us to another room,” you frowned. “I’m sorry, I thought when I booked it, it would have two beds. I can always take the couch if they don’t—“
“No, no, it’s okay. Let’s just talk to them and ask if we can switch rooms.” He sighed, pushing forward and sitting on the edge of the bed while you went to the phone.
You dialed the number to the front and waited for someone to pick up, concern still etched in your eyebrows. Were you that careless to not check what kind of room you booked? It was literally your entire job to sort these things out, and you couldn’t do that right? ‘Good lord, Y/n, get it together.‘
“Hello? Yes, um, I think there’s been a mistake in our rooming situation. We have a single bed when I intended to book two,” you put your hand on your hip, glancing at John who was staring out the window from his spot.
“I’m sorry, we’re completely booked for the night. This is the only available room we have,” the front desk attendant spoke, “if you’d like me to refer you to my manager, I can—“
“It’s okay, there’s no need for that. Sorry for the trouble,” you sighed in defeat, hanging up.
“Well?” He raised an expectant eyebrow.
“We’ll just have to make this work. They don’t have any other rooms available. I’ll just sleep on the floor, John, it’s no big deal really.”
“You’re not sleeping on the floor,” he growled, standing up. “This bed is perfectly big enough for both of us. Besides, who wouldn’t want to sleep with me?”
You grimaced. “When you say it like that…”
He scoffed, shaking his head. A smile grew on his face despite that, and you shared a laugh. The sound of his laughter still felt so foreign to you.
“I promise I’m not as bad as everyone seems to think I am,” he said, grabbing his wallet and phone. He slipped you a spare room card and put one in his wallet.
“What? As a person or in bed?” You asked, tucking the room card into your pocket.
The moment the words left your lips, you slapped a hand over your mouth. Embarrassment infected your face, neck, and ears, turning everything hot. You did not just say that to your boss.
His eyebrows shot up in surprise, and a wide grin spread on his face.
“As a person,” he responded. “Trust me sweetheart, anyone who’s ever been in bed with me has nothing bad to say.”
You blinked, wondering how the use of ‘sweetheart’ made you so much warmer even after the humility of making an accidental sex-comment to your boss. “I see you’re incredibly humble, too.”
He chuckled, taking a tiny step closer, “You’d feel the same way, babe.” He winked, and in that moment, something shifted between you. As a reaction, your eyes blew wide and he rendered you speechless.
A tense, awkward silence filled the room. He must’ve sensed he crossed a line, because he backed up, turning to the door.
“Let’s go get food now. I’m starved,” he said.
You let out a pathetic squeak in agreement, following him out the door. The walk to the elevator was silent. You were still horrified from what you said to him, and the fact that he responded saying you’d understand, too, if you…well. It’s a difficult thing to think about. All it did was make you wish more and more that he weren’t your boss, and instead someone you got the pleasure to know as a person.
He called another uber, and in the meantime, you lounged in the main area of the hotel. It was bustling with people—men in suits, families wearing souvenir shirts that were definitely overpriced, groups of teenagers all wearing the same shirt that read the name of a middle school. You picked at some of the lint on your sweatshirt.
John cleared his throat. “The place we’re going to,” he started, “was where I used to go with Hamilton, Lafayette, and Mulligan when we were broke and ambitious. The restaurant is a little shady, but the food is incredible.”
You cocked your head to the side, looking at him with curiosity. He continued speaking, fiddling with his thumbs, which was something you never saw him do.
“It’s a burrito place, I hope that’s okay with you,” he adds.
“Perfectly fine,” you nod. He hums in content, his eyes lingering on yours a moment too long.
“You’ll love it, then. I’ve been dying to have their barbacoa the second I left D.C. for New York.” He stopped fidgeting.
“I thought you grew up in South Carolina?”
“I did,” he confirmed, “but I moved to D.C. shortly after my nineteenth birthday. That’s when I met Hamilton. I was out drinking with Hercules and Lafayette—illegally, might I add—and he showed up with Aaron Burr. We clicked like that,” he snapped his fingers for effect, “and we welcomed him into our group. Those were some of the best years of my life, messing around with Alex and them.”
A soft smile was on his face as he looked at the floor, reminiscing about the past. You studied him while he was deep in thought. He seemed truly joyful when talking about his closest friends. It made you wonder what he was like around them. Maybe you’d find out one day, if you ever got to meet Hamilton, that is.
His phone chimed, and he stood. “Our ride is here.”
—
“This place hasn’t changed one bit,” he muttered, holding the door open like a gentleman.
It was shitty in the most endearing way possible. The air smelt of freshly grilled meats and vegetables, and there was a light chatter from the two other people there. Despite the low turnout, the kitchen was bustling with noise of food being seared, followed by a healthy smoke that steamed from it.
His hand hovered on your lower back as he walked you to the front. You scanned the menu, most of it being in Spanish, which was a minor setback considering you didn’t speak any Spanish.
“What’re you getting?” He asked, glancing down at you.
“I don’t know—whatever you’re getting, I guess. I trust you have good taste,” you shrugged. He hummed, stepping to the cashier to order.
“¿Puedo conseguir dos burritos de barbacoa con frijoles pintos, arroz integral y un pedido de guacamole? Y también dos bebidas, por favor.” He swiftly pulled out a card to pay.
You gaped at him in shock. He never once mentioned he was fluent in Spanish. Ever. When the transaction was over, he stepped back and led you to a table fit for two.
“…I didn’t know you could speak Spanish,” you commented.
“Did I fail to mention that? Hm. Weird,” he hummed, sliding into the wooden chair. ”It’s nice I can still surprise you. Sometimes I feel like you know more about me than I know about myself.”
Your eyebrows furrow the tiniest amount. “How so?”
“Well, for starters, you’re the only assistant I’ve had who’s memorized my coffee order. And you coincidentally drink the same kind of coffee that I do. You’re pretty attentive.”
Heat rose to your cheeks at the mention of the coffee incident. He noticed that you conditioned yourself to chug the same caffeine that he does.
“And you’re a bit of a perfectionist. Everything I ask of you gets done immediately, and it’s exactly how I instructed you to do it. Sometimes it’s like you already know what I’m gonna say before I say it. You just read my mind, I suppose,” he rested his chin in his hands, and something about this was intimate. Domestic. Nice.
The realization that he brought you to his spot when he was younger triggered something in you. He trusted you enough to show you somewhere personal, and tell the story that went with it. Now he sat before you, reading into your personality as if you had known eachother since birth. And when did he first figure out you’re a perfectionist?
You cleared your throat, snapping out of it when you realized he ceased talking. “I can assure you there’s a lot I have to learn. I’ve learnt more about you from this trip than I have in my two years of working for you.”
He cocked his head to the side. Why did he, of all people, have to be so cute?
“Really? Oh, I guess with the whole airplane thing…” he backtracked. “Y’know, you never told me who was making those jokes. About you being a bad writer—which is absolutely untrue, but the way.”
You inhaled sharply, thinking back to all the times you’ve walked in with two coffees in your hand, and your coworkers immediately snickering. The worst people about it were a group of girls that seemed to have banded together, straying anyone who wasn't a total bitch away from their group. Think Mean Girls cliques. They’re beautiful and probably capable of writing, but pretty is as pretty does. Part of you felt like they were jealous of you. It was obvious that they all had huge crushes on Laurens. You’d overheard them talking about how he has the “nicest ass in the office.” Whatever they said was out of jealousy, you reminded yourself.
But it was every time you encountered them that they would make a snide comment. It’s taken a lot of restraint to not claw at them. Somehow, women know exactly where to strike. They know exactly what people’s insecurities are, and with you, they pinpointed it and went for the throat.
It provoked feelings you didn't want to address.
Forcing down the scream you wanted to let out and the closing of your throat, you met his eyes again, and he looked concerned. It wasn’t how he usually looked at you. Then again, you weren’t entirely sure what the usual was since embarking on this trip. It has completely shifted the mood in your relationship with him.
“Just a few girls,” you replied. He deadpanned, giving you a look as if to say ‘really? That’s all you’re gonna say?’ And yes, that is all you would say.
“Is it Pam’s little friend group?”
You tried to hide the way your eyes widened. How did he guess that so quickly?
“I—how did you know?”
A scowl formed on his face and he rolled his eyes. “Please. They’re all over me every time I walk by. They think they’re slick with it, too, but they ain’t.” He scoffed.
You blinked in surprise. He knew about that. “So…do you just like, know everything?”
His face twisted into confusion before he burst out laughing. The familiar feeling of embarrassment bubbled up to your neck again. God, could you say something normal for once? Talk about the weather, or the latest baseball game, or maybe ducks? Scratch that—he doesn’t look like a duck kind of guy. Maybe dogs?
“Around the office, yes. I just choose to ignore majority of it. I don’t have time for that gossipy bullshit, y’know? There’s work to be done, and I focus on getting it done.” He leaned back against his chair, the sides of his eyes crinkled with amusement. You found this display of him way nicer than you should.
It struck you to remember some words from an earlier conversation. He said he’s not as bad as everyone thinks he is, to which you responded by asking if he meant in bed or as a person. Very smart decision. Anyway, moving on.
“You said earlier that you’re not as bad as everyone thinks,” you say. “What did you really mean by that?”
He smiles, tapping his nose, “attentive.” A long sigh leaves him, and you could tell he was preparing for a heart to heart.
“I hear what people say about me,” he starts. The atmosphere turns serious, despite the sound of Selena blasting from the kitchen. “I know I can’t expect everyone to like me, but it is a little frustrating when I walk out of my office and everyone is staring at me like they just finished talking shit about me. Talking about how I’m not fit to be in charge, how I’m too mean, too strict, too this too that. They think a couple harmless whispers in the break room will shield them from my reach. But I notice the way everyone flinches when I enter a room—including you.”
You hang your head, guilt panging through you. He continues, his tone taking a darker edge, “but they forget I have the power to make or break their careers.”
A shiver ran through your spine that you hoped he missed. You took a moment to gather your thoughts before speaking, voice soft and filled with empathetic undertones.
“I know what that’s like, and it’s the most awful feeling in the world. But you…you don’t actually care what they say about you, right? You know you’re more than just a boss.”
“I know,” he said, “but as much as I don’t want it to, their words cut deep. It just reminds me of my own insecurities.”
“That’s exactly how I feel!” You let out a tiny gasp. “Sorry. I shouldn’t make this about me.”
“No, no, we were talking about you before this. If anything, I turned the focus on me,” he chuckled.
You smiled, relaxing your shoulders. “It’s a relief knowing other people feel the same way I do. I’ve never really talked to anyone about this—especially not my boss—so this is just so…”
“Weird? Yeah, it’s awkward for me, too. I haven’t voiced this to anyone other than my turtle.”
Pause. Did he just say his fucking turtle.
“I’m sorry, did you say turtle?” You coughed. He laughed, making you feel all giddy and fuzzy inside.
“Yep. I guess you don’t know everything about me,” he smirked. You so desperately wanted to wipe that smug look off his face. “But seriously, L/n, tell me what’s goin’ on with Pam ‘nd them. I’m worried about you.”
The mood contorted and you thought about what to say. Him saying he was worried about you was not on your bingo card for this trip.
“It’s really not anything, they just make a few comments here and there—“
“Orden para John!”
“That’s me,” he mumbled, standing up. “We’ll continue this in a minute.”
Your eyes lingered on him while he retrieved the food. He slid a mandarin-flavored Jarritos across the table, as well as your food. He sat and immediately stuffed his face full of burrito.
“You’re going to choke if you don’t slow down,” you grimaced.
“Has wha’ she ‘aid,” he giggled, his words coming out a muffled mess. You rolled your eyes, trying everything in your power to not laugh at the stupidest joke known to man. Of course he’d make that kind of joke, too.
You took a generous bite of your own food, almost letting out gasp from how good it was. He wasn’t wrong when he said it was the best burrito he’s ever had. It was delectable, the barbacoa was soft and flavorful, and they didn’t overdo the rice, unlike Chipotle. (Fuck chipotle).
“It’s good ain’t it?” He took a swig of his soda.
You nodded, letting out a muffled ‘oh my god, yes.’
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about,” he snickered, his eyes taking on a softer edge as he examined you. “Y’know, you didn’t get to finish talking about Pam.”
A small frown tugged at your lips, and you swallowed. Where to even start. You didn’t want it to feel like you were ratting them out, but they also kind of deserved it. They were rude and disrespectful to everyone in the office, not just you. It would be Justice for everyone who has fallen victim to Pam.
Right as you were about to speak, his phone rang. He groaned, pulling it out to silence it. But he paused when he saw who it was. His eyes lit up, and a wide grin spread on his face.
“I’m gonna go take this,” he chirped, leaving you by yourself. From where he stood outside, you could see him talking animatedly with his hands, laughing loudly and nodding eagerly. Who he was on the phone with, you didn’t know. You couldn’t see his screen from the way he had been sitting.
Your own phone chimed, and you checked it to see who the text was from. Unsurprisingly, it was Abby.
Abby: How’s everything with John?
You: pretty good. It’s been chill so far. We’re getting food rn but he’s on the phone w someone
Abby: Anything happen between you and him yet??
You: girl no
Nothing is going to happen
Abby: ugh. Okay. I’ll manifest it anyway. Have fun at the party, tell me if anything happens.
A playful smile formed on your lips, and you shut your phone off as John walked back in, a new confidence in his stride. You raised an eyebrow at the change in his demeanor.
“Finish up eating soon, ‘cause we got somewhere to be after this,” he sang.
“Umm… where?” You asked, wiping your hands with a cheap napkin.
The bright, charming smile never left his face as he responded. “To see my friend, Alexander Hamilton.”
A Night To Remember | ch. 2
j. laurens x reader
Faced with his biggest fear, you help him through it.
Warnings: swearing, cliche tropes that i overuse but love, ummm yah
Wc: like 2.9k?? I think??
John Laurens hates flying. Absolutely despises it.
There's something about being over 30,000 feet in the air and having no control over the weather that gets him. Paired with the possibility of crashing and burning, it’s scary as fuck. It’s not something he’s ever talked about with other people because he usually flies solo—or better yet, not at all. Being in a big metal tube wasn't ideal, especially with strangers. Thankfully he was rich, so the days of flying cramped between a misbehaved child and an old woman snoring were over.
As much as he would rather not deal with TSA, the tumultuous roar of the plane, turbulence, and liftoff, he had to. Tickets were already bought and he wasn’t too keen on driving in a car for four-and-a-half hours.
He wasn’t sure if flying with you would make it better or worse. On one hand, he found your presence pleasant. On the other, he absolutely could not show his fear of flying. How weak would it make him look? Especially in front of his pretty assistant who looks to him for guidance?
He sucked in a breath and shot you a text to let you know he was outside your building. Subconsciously, his fingers tapped the steering wheel in anticipation. It was 7:30 AM, just like he promised.
The door swung open and you hobbled out, a suitcase with a broken wheel behind you, and a tote bag on your arm. You gave him a tired smile and he got out to help you load your bag into the backseat of his Porsche.
“Morning,” he spoke, eyeing your casual wear. “All set?”
“I guess so,” you sighed, brushing off your cotton shorts and getting in the passenger seat. “This is a really nice car.”
“Thank you,” he hummed, backing out of the parking lot. “Took me years to be able to afford it, but I finally have it.”
You took the time to examine his car. It was a dark green Porsche with leather seats. There was a hint of cologne and coconut shampoo in it, as well as the forest air freshener he kept in it. Whatever the smell was, it was him, and your head spun. There wasn’t a speck of dirt or piece of trash. Considering the messy desk he has, it was surprising to see his car in such good condition. But to be fair, if you had this nice of a car, you’d keep it spotless too. It made you feel so poor compared to the rusty pickup truck you drove. Thank god he was picking you up and not the other way around.
“I feel like I’m going to ruin it just by being in here,” you bit your lower lip nervously. He let out a deep chuckle.
“Nah, you’ll only make it better by being here,” he winked. Was he flirting with you? “You can relax. Your shoulders look like they hurt from how tense they are.”
A deep breath escaped you in an attempt to ease the tension on your neck. He smiled lightly when you slumped into the seat, making yourself comfortable in the car.
“Have you been to D.C. before?” He asked.
“I did once when I was fourteen. It was a school trip.“
He nodded, and a semi-awkward silence fell over you. You could tell that he was procrastinating on talking about the party. The situation itself was awkward, and talking about it was uncomfortable, so you took matters into your own hands and brought it up.
“So…how am I supposed to pretend to be your date? Like, what does that entail?” You spoke hesitantly and slowly.
“Right, um, just stay by my side while I talk to some of the attendees. Play boyfriend and girlfriend, y’know? It’s a real high profile event. Most of the people going are above the age of 40, almost all either married or with someone, so I figured it would make me seem more professional if I had a woman with me. Maybe they’ll—“ he abruptly stopped.
You knit your eyebrows in concern, examining the way his jaw clenched and a different fire was in his eyes. “Sir? You okay?”
“You don’t have to call me sir. Just call me John or Laurens,” he sighed, keeping his eyes trained strictly on the road.
“Oh. Sorry,” you mumbled. The thought of calling him John felt wrong since you were conditioned to saying sir. “Maybe they’ll what?” You pushed in a gentle tone so as to not upset him further.
He didn’t reply immediately. No, he gripped the steering wheel tighter and uttered something to himself. Then, a defeated sigh escaped him and he caved. “It’s—it’s stupid, but I’ve noticed that they don’t treat me like I’m an editor-in-chief. To them, I’m not mature enough because of the fact that I’m 28. They seem to think I’m some playboy who won’t last because I got rich so quickly.”
He shook his head in frustration, and all you could do was sit and silently listen to his rant. It was an odd feeling. He was never this open with you, but it was nice. You knew he trusted you enough to open up. So you hummed, and almost put your hand on his shoulder but decided against it.
“I get that. Not being taken seriously by coworkers, I mean,” you said.
He let out a light scoff. “How so?”
“Well, there’s a running joke around the office that I can’t write because I’m just an assistant. It sucks, ’cause I know I can, but I haven’t written anything in over a year so I can’t help but feel like it’s true. But like you said, it’s as if I’m not being taken seriously because of my position.“ You folded your hands in your lap, the airport coming into view.
You glanced at him, and his face was filled with rage. He opened his mouth to speak, promptly closed it to take a deep breath, then softened his facial features. “Who’s making these jokes?”
You shrugged half-heartedly. “It’s hard to pinpoint one person. It’s not a big deal, really. Just a few comments here and there.”
“Y/n, that is a big deal. I’m supposed to be making sure there’s a safe working environment. And you’re my assistant for a reason,” he huffed. “You’re the only person I trust to check and edit works because I know you’ll do an outstanding job. You’re one of the best journalists I’ve seen.” He got in line to pay for a two-day parking spot.
“I—thank you, but seriously. It sucks that you feel like that around all the executives. If me being there as your ‘date’ makes you feel better, I promise I’ll be the best fake-girlfriend I can be.” You smiled in an attempt to lighten the mood, and shift the focus back to him. He seemed to take the bait and calmed down.
But what he said stuck with you. One of the best journalists he’s seen. So what are you doing still an assistant? Shouldn’t you be promoted by now? He wouldn’t be purposely holding you back from moving up in the world, would he?
“Thanks. You’ll do great,” he took his hands off the steering wheel.
“It’ll be just like The Proposal,” you joked.
He laughed, “right. Minus the falling in love rom-com part.”
For some inexplicable reason, his words sent a pang of hurt through your chest. You brushed it off nerves.
“Did you watch it?”
He shrugged. “Yeah. Who hasn’t?”
“I didn’t peg you for a romantic-comedy type. Thought you’d be all over action movies or biopics.”
“Biopics? Really?” He raised his eyebrows in surprise. The conversation flowed nicely, and for a moment it felt like he wasn’t your boss, but rather your friend. Something you never thought possible, but never say never.
After finding and paying for a spot, you unloaded your bags and got in line to check in. When you got through every security measure, it was only 8:33, so you had plenty of time before you needed to board your flight. While sitting in the boarding gate, reading a book you brought, Laurens bounced his leg up and down. It was growing concerning how anxious he seemed. You put your copy of Today Tonight Tomorrow down.
“Are you alright? You seem nervous.” You frowned.
He stopped bouncing his knee. “Yeah. I’m okay, just not the biggest fan of flying.” He chuckled nervously.
Your eyebrows flew up in surprise. He failed to mention that when you booked the tickets. “Oh. I’m sorry.” You tried to offer as much sympathy as possible. He muttered his gratitude and pulled out his phone as a distraction.
It was clear he didn’t want to talk about it further from the way he was squirming uncomfortably, so you dropped it. Perhaps you’d bring it up later.
—
First class is way nicer than economy. Way nicer.
You were sitting next to John with an armrest big enough for both of you to lay your arms on it. And it had cup holders. And despite the fancy seat TVs and the massive amounts of leg room you had, he still looked nervous.
Pitifully so.
When the plane started rolling, he gripped the edge of the arm rest and held his breath. It looked like he were about to break a cold sweat.
“John,” you whispered, turning to him.
“Yeah?” He turned to you, trying to play it cool. Your eyes softened.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
He paused, and before he could reply the plane took off into the air. He drew a sharp breath in and faced forward, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. Hesitantly, you reached out and put your hand over his. You faced forward, but could sense when he opened his eyes and shifted to your hands.
He didn’t say anything.
It was odd, you’ve never seen him like this before. He’s usually angry, and if he’s not angry at someone or something, then he’s stone-cold killer. Sometimes he laughs, like earlier in the car. But most of the time, he doesn’t have a reason to.
You felt right bad for him. People were seldom kind to him. Everyone fears him, and he knows it. The only people who treat him like a friend are Marquis De Lafayette and Hercules Mulligan, and that’s because he knew them before becoming editor-in-chief. Everyone else who works for him does what he says and does it quietly. He seemed kind of lonely at times.
You knew he didn’t have any family left. When the holidays roll around, he continues working. He doesn’t receive any phone calls from people claiming to be his parents. The only person who calls without fail is Alexander Hamilton, the same man he reached success with. Hamilton is possibly the only person Laurens will talk about with a bright smile on, reminiscing about the good ol’ days. He doesn’t talk about women, he doesn’t talk about family, only his friends. You weren’t entirely sure if he had siblings; he may have briefly mentioned them but they must not be in contact anymore.
When the plane reached a steady pace and he calmed down, you took your hand off his. It wasn’t necessary to keep it on the whole time. All it would do is cause you to feel things you shouldn’t for the man who signs your paycheck.
Sometime during the ride, you fell asleep to rain noises playing in your headphones. He shook you softly to wake you up, and informed you the plane had landed. You wiped the drool that formed on the side of your mouth and nodded groggily.
“How—how’re you feeling?” You yawned.
“Good. I’m fine, thanks for um…y’know,” he trailed off awkwardly.
“Yeah, yeah of course,” you nodded, sitting up fully. A heavy silence hung in the air. You wanted to ask him why he was so anxious to fly, but you weren’t sure if he would get mad or not. It was only natural that you were curious—it’s human nature. So you spoke.
“What is it about flying that you don’t like?” You asked, tone as gentle as possible. He paused briefly, an uncomfortable look flashing over his face.
“I hate all the noise and the possibility of crashing. I don’t like not being in control. Especially when it’s over my own life.”
Him wanting to be in control all the time tracks. He is your boss, after all. He’s used to having power.
“I can understand that. It is pretty scary. If you want me to cancel our flight back, we can take a train or something?” You offered.
“No, no,” he shook his head, a small smile cracking on him. “My car is already at the airport. And besides, I need to get over my fear anyway.”
You exited the aircraft, got your bags, did anything else necessary to leave the airport, then stepped foot into the Washington D.C. air. It was 11:10 by the time you got out, and it was a dry seventy-nine degrees. You both agreed to check into the hotel so you could drop off all your bags, then would explore the city until the ball at six. He called an Uber and you sat at a nearby bench until it came.
The trees in D.C were beautiful. The area where the airport was was relatively flat, but the greenery in the surrounding area was gorgeous. It was flush with life, yellow and pink flowers littered everywhere, a gentle breeze in the air, and the sun shining high.
“Are you hungry?” He asked, “because I’m starving.”
“I could eat,” you shrugged, knowing full well you neglected to eat breakfast and instead opted for a protein shake with a banana.
“Perfect. There’s a spot I used to go to with my friends. I’m thinking after we drop off our stuff we could head there?”
“Whatever you wanna do, boss,” you hummed. He raised an eyebrow, a small smirk curling on his lips.
Before he could respond, the Uber pulled up. He opened the door for you, letting you crawl inside the tiny black car before getting in next to you. It was cramped enough to where if you spread your legs a little wider, your knee would be touching his. You made yourself as small as possible while he made small talk with the driver.
For whatever reason, men have the tendency to dismiss women. Especially when it’s a conversation. You hoped this isn’t what the ball would be like, because this sucks. His knee would occasionally bump into yours on turns, and it would send a jolt of electricity through you every single time, even though it shouldn’t. Whatever you were feeling had to just be nerves, or not having been with a man in over eight months, or the prospect of a very attractive man sitting mere inches from you.
In an attempt to distract yourself, you stared out the window. The Washington Monument stood tall. A bright smile spread on your face, and you leaned further to the window to try and absorb the scenery.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” The cab driver spoke, grinning widely.
“Yeah,” you breathed out.
“Lived here my whole life and I still can’t resist looking at it every time I get the chance,” he chuckled. The landmark left your field of vision, so you turned to John.
He was already staring at you, a soft smile on him and an even softer look in his eyes. It made your heart skip a beat, as much as you didn’t want it to. His eyes flickered over your face. You suddenly grew hot under his gaze, and shifted to looking back out the window, a newfound flush on your neck. He shouldn’t make you feel this way. Not him.
“What’s your favorite part of living here?” You asked, desperate to have the cab driver fill the silence.
He did, because he talked the rest of the time about D.C., jumping from topic to topic about the history to the food to the culture to the people. You internally thanked him, because every so often, John’s eyes would linger on you a moment too long.
The hotel was huge. You almost got lost trying to look for the front desk because there were so many different sections. On the bottom floor there were restaurants, as well as a bar, a Starbucks, and a fucking grocery store. Convenient, yes, but confusing as hell.
When you finally found the front desk and got your room key, the next struggle was finding the room itself. It was ten past noon by the time you found it.
“Is this the right room?” He set his bag down in disbelief, eyes wide as he scanned the proximity.
“Yeah? 224. Why, what’s wrong—“ you stopped in your tracks the moment you saw the room.
There was only one bed.
A Night To Remember | ch. 1
j. laurens x reader
Warnings: swearing, idk some sexual language? Whole lotta yap. Chronic overuse of italics
You work as an assistant to one of the most influential journalists in New York City. One fateful day, he invites (more tells) you to go to a ball with him and pretend to be his date. How do you manage being on the side of a very attractive businessman?
Wc: 2.6k
A/n: ahh it feels good to be back. Thanks for everyone being so supportive and kind, it really means a lot fr 🫶 enjoy
You were overwhelmed.
You woke up late, was swarmed with work, sweaty from pacing in an unairconditioned office lobby during the summer, a fresh coffee stain on your white blouse, and your boss, John Laurens, was already yelling. It was safe to say you were anxious and irritable.
“Where’s that report on the Knicks I asked for, Casey?” Laurens slammed his hands on your coworkers desk, an intimidating glare being shot at him.
John Laurens was a go-getter. A man of his word. He was confident, intelligent, wealthy, and incredibly demanding. If there was work that needed to be done, he wouldn’t leave (or let you leave) until it was finished. He was the type of guy to have motivational quotes scattered throughout the building. “Go The Extra Mile,” was one that haunted you from having to stare at it every single day. He held people accountable for their work, and he had a presence to him that made people part the hallways when he walked through.
Despite that, he was a good leader. He made sure to do his part, he always asked for the full story and listened with intent rather than jumping to conclusions, and he was open to new ideas. And he was incredibly attractive. He wasn’t too much taller than you, but he held himself with such confidence and had a lethal face card that it was impossible to not think about him in that way. And good lord those biceps. He was only a few years older than you, him being 28 and you being 25, and it didn’t help that he was exactly your type.
So working as his assistant had its pros and cons. He could be arrogant and rough at times, but hey, he looked good while doing it. Too good.
His work as the editor-in-chief for a journalism firm was your dream job. Becoming his assistant wasn’t ideal, but it was necessary if you wanted to be promoted. How he managed to become editor-in-chief at only 28 was remarkable. The man worked nonstop with one Alexander Hamilton, another notable figure in the writing world. While they took separate paths with Hamilton becoming a political figure and Laurens in journalism, both were extremely talented writers. You read and reread their essays multiple times, scanning and analyzing every word and punctuation. It was art.
But his presence as a journalist was one thing, working for him was another. They say don’t meet your heroes. Don’t work for them, either.
You eyed him cautiously, holding a cup of coffee tailored specifically for him. You were stuck on handing it to him now, or waiting until he wasn’t so fucking angry before giving it to him. He looked over Casey as he scrambled to find the papers he asked for. You drew in a sharp breath, planning to quickly hand it off to him before going to the bathroom to try and dry the stain on your chest.
Your mind was screaming how he was just going to take out his frustration on you and to wait, but your feet were carrying you towards the freckled man. His eyes shifted to you, glanced at the prominent coffee stain, to the latte in your hand, then to your exhausted face.
“Here you are, sir,” you cleared your throat, handing him the good coffee cup. The other one you had to throw away since it was now soaked into your shirt.
When getting John’s daily coffee, you made sure to order two of the exact same thing just in case something happened to his. And it worked out. After being shoulder checked by a bodybuilder, only one coffee spilled. It was supposed to be his, but you managed to save the one that was originally yours. Fortunately, you hadn’t drank from it yet since you were in such a rush.
“Thanks. You’re late,” he said gruffly, taking a sip. He examined the cup, raising an eyebrow. “I need you in my office soon.” He waved you off, turning back to Casey when he finally coughed up the Knicks report he was searching for.
“Yes, sir,” you sighed, walking off to the bathroom to grab some paper towels. The best you could do was dab most of it off, but there was still an extremely noticeable brown splotch on your shirt. Wonderful.
Laurens would be fussy if you didn’t appear in his office like he asked, so while still dabbing the paper towel on your shirt, you trudged into his office. He was sitting at his desk, going over what seemed to be Casey’s papers. He glanced up at you, then pursed his lips.
“Y/n. Sit,” he motioned to the chair across from him. You complied, tossing the paper towel in the trash and straightening up.
“Sir?”
His jaw hung open as if he were about to speak, but instead, he reached for the latte cup. He traced his finger around the rim, a soft snort escaping him. You knit your eyebrows in confusion, watching his odd actions.
“Call me, you’re cute,” he spoke. Your eyebrows flew up in surprise and you stammered to speak.
“E-excuse me?”
He turned the cup around, showing you the order sticker. It had the basic information of what the drink contained, your name, then a number with the words “call me, you’re cute” written under it, as well as a winky face. Heat immediately rushed to your cheeks as you thought back to the barista that made your drinks.
“I did not know he wrote that,” you defended quickly. His eyes held amusement as he chuckled. Embarrassment spread through you in the form of blush, though it wasn’t entirely visible.
“Maybe you should check before handing your boss a coffee that was clearly meant for you,” he teased, although it didn’t feel natural because he was such an intimidating man. He was seldom playful with you. Always serious, always working, always professional.
“I apologize. If you can’t tell, I spilt the other one all over me,” you retorted sarcastically. His eyebrows raised in surprise, and you quickly muttered out an ashamed sorry.
His eyes went to the stain on your blouse again. You shifted under his heavy gaze. It was hard to focus with him staring at you like that.
“Nevermind that,” he shook his head, finishing off the caffeine before tossing it in the trash, “read this. Tell me what you think.” He pushed the papers over to you, analyzing your facial features as you began reading.
After a few minutes of scanning the text, you frowned, setting it down. “He hit some of the key points, but he sounds pretty biased. I think he should change it to just the facts. Keep it to who won, who lost.” You handed the papers back to him.
He nodded, taking them back. “I thought the same thing. I’ll have to tell him to start over.” A frustrated sigh escaped him.
Instinctively, you stood. “Would you like me to te—“
“Sit back down, I’m not finished,” he grunted. Your jaw snapped shut and you fell back into your seat. He cleared his throat, leaning forward almost awkwardly. It was a look you never saw on him, and it made you uncomfortable knowing he was uncomfortable. ‘Oh god, is he about to lay me off?’
“What I really called you in for is to ask you to accompany me at a ball. There will be a lot of big names there. Lot of execs. I need someone to represent me, represent our company,” he explained. He shifted in his chair, eyes trained on the table.
“I’d be honored. It’s the one this Friday at 5 pm, correct? In Washington D.C.?” You asked, but you knew the answer. You made his schedule. Everything from what he was doing today to what he will do in five months is at the mercy of you.
“Right,” he started, his jaw clenching slightly, “and it’s come to my attention that it’s…appropriate to have a date. I wanted to ask if you could pose as my date for this event.”
A silence fell over you. Was he seriously asking you to be his date for this party? No, not even. He wanted you to pose as his date for the evening. Not his actual date. He’s your boss, that would be too complicated. You blinked, snapping back to reality when you realized he was waiting for your answer.
“Do I have a choice in this, or is this more of a demand?” You swallowed thickly.
“More of a demand. It’s only for a couple of days. I just need you to show up with me, speak to some important figures in the journalism world, and pretend to be my girlfriend. Not so hard, right?” He smiled sheepishly.
A scoff escaped your lips. “No, not hard at all. A little weird, sure, but nothing I can’t manage.” You shrugged, attempting to dismiss the way it felt so good to hear him say ‘my girlfriend.’
He shot you his signature smile. “Atta girl.”
Butterflies. Lots and lots of butterflies.
“We’ll discuss the finer details later.” He leaned back in his chair. “For now, go clean yourself up, and give these papers back to Casey. Also, I need you to deliver this to Lafayette’s department—“
He stacked papers on top of papers and you sighed. Back to meaningless, passionless work. You muttered out a yessir, then hopped up and carried the papers out the door.
—
“You know my boss, John Laurens?” You folded your legs on the couch, taking a hefty bite of Chinese takeout while conversing with your roommate.
“Is he the hot one? God, I wish I knew him,” Abigail sighed. You grimaced.
“Aren’t you already seeing a John? Adams, you said he was?”
“Yeah, but he’s nothing compared to the John you’re working for. That man is—damn. You got lucky. I don’t know how you haven’t tried seducing him yet.”
Your eyes widened and you sputtered out an embarrassed cough. “Abby! He’s my boss! That’s like, all kinds of wrong.”
“Okay but you have to admit it, the man is fine,” she laughed airily, watching you nearly choke on chow mein.
“…He is, but still. Not what I brought him up for.”
She cackled, leaning back in satisfaction. Abigail Smith had been your roommate—and best friend—for about four years now. Two years after moving in with her, you got a job working for Laurens. She was someone you came to trust almost instantly. Her strong character and morals attracted you to her, and she was so passionate about politics that you wondered how she wasn’t president yet. If she hadn’t been too young, she probably would be.
“What did he do this time?” She slumped further into the couch.
“He…wow, this is gonna sound crazy,” you chuckled nervously.
“Well shit, now I’m really interested! Spill.” She tossed the now-empty takeout container to the side, leaning forward with intent. You inhaled sharply, thinking over how to say your weirdly attractive boss asked you to be his fake girlfriend for the night.
“He wants me to pretend to be his date at a party,” you shrug. Abby blinks.
“That’s—that’s great! And odd? I mean, hey, one step closer to boning, amiright?” She rambled, earning a glare from you.
“Don’t,” you hissed, “it’s not like that. He wants me to show up with him, pretend to be his fucking girlfriend, and I guess that’ll impress all the executives there? I’m not sure why I have to show up as his date. Showing up as his assistant would’ve been perfectly fine.” A small frown forms on your lips as you overthink the situation.
He did say that it was ‘appropriate to have a date,’ whatever that means. His lack of elaboration really made you second guess what you’re about to get yourself into.
“Maybe he wants an excuse to touch you,” Abby suggested, a sly smirk tugging on her lips as if she were the Cheshire Cat.
“Do you have to make it more than it actually is? He just wants someone to go with him. That’s it.” You groaned.
“All I’m sayin’ is it's not completely necessary for him to have you be his date. Clearly, he’s secretly in love with you. Think about it, Y/n.”
You eyed her up and down as she tapped the side of her forehead. A sigh escaped your lips, and you let your legs fall over the couch.
“You are so delusional. It’s not like that, and never will be like that.”
“As much as you wish it was?
“Yes—wait, no!” You furrowed your eyebrows.
She snickered, watching you groan and push off the couch, walking over to the kitchen. She grabbed her trash, following after you.
“C’mon, you’re telling me no matter what happens during this little trip, you won’t feel anything?”
A pause disrupted the flow of conversation.
“Well…I’d have to be dead inside to not feel anything.” An uncomfortable look crossed your face, and you reached in the fridge for a Coke Zero in an attempt to distract yourself.
“So what’re you gonna do when the time comes around that you’re dancing together, and he’s holding you so close that you feel his heartbeat? You can deny acting on it, but you can’t deny your feelings, babe. It’s natural biology.” She crossed her arms, leaning against the counter.
You responded with a halfhearted shrug, cracking open the soda. “I’ll cross that bridge when I get there. Now, what’s going on with you and Adams?”
She wasn’t an idiot; she knew you were changing the subject because you’re shit at talking about uncomfortable feelings. The moment you wander into the danger zone, you step right back into comfort, effectively getting nowhere. But rather than commenting on it, she narrowed her eyes.
“Not much. He’s been busy with Jefferson and Hamilton, but we’ve got a date lined up.”
Your eyes lit up with recognition at Hamilton. His work meant so much to you, and you dreamed of the day you’d get to meet him. All you wanted was a conversation over the story of his life, as well as maybe a signature on the book he wrote that you’ve read four times now.
“Oh, yeah? Let me know when your relationship gets interesting,” you scoffed playfully. She rolled her eyes, but a smile was still on her face despite it.
—
“As you know, it’s in Washington D.C., so we’ll fly out tomorrow morning. What time was our flight at?” John watched as you rummaged through a calendar.
“Uhhh…9 am,” you replied. He hummed, leaning back in his chair. A muscle flickered in his forearm as he brought his hand up to his face.
“9 am,” he echoed, “that’s about an hour and a half flight. The ball is at what, five?”
“Six,” you corrected.
“So we’ll have the whole day to explore the city, then.” He mumbled. His eyes ran over your face, and you nodded awkwardly.
“Go home tonight and pack what you’ll need for a two day trip. Make sure you have a formal dress and heels. Red, preferably. I’ll pick you up at 7:30 so we can get to the airport and get checked in.” He spoke, leaning forward. “I’ll need your address.”
You quickly scribbled down your apartment building and the room number. He thanked you as you handed it to him. He dismissed you to go back to working and a breath of relief left your lungs.
“Oh, and one last thing,” he said, right as your hand was on the doorknob.
“Sir?”
“You don’t have a boyfriend, right?”