"Is that what my texts were last night? Professional?"
Her eyes darted around, confirming we weren't overheard.
"That was a mistake."
"Was it? You didn't seem to think so when you responded."
I stepped closer, not touching her but near enough to catch the subtle scent of her perfume—something with jasmine, the same one she'd worn that night.
"You could have blocked my number. You didn't."
"How did you get my number?"
The question had an edge of genuine curiosity beneath the accusation.
"I have access to a considerable amount of information, Savannah. Company directories. Personnel files."
I shrugged slightly.
"The question isn't how I got your number, but why I waited until last night to use it."
"And why did you?"
I studied her face—the intelligence in those green eyes, the slight defiance in the set of her jaw.
So different from the women I typically encountered, who either deferred to my position or tried too hard to prove themselves equal to me.
"Because I spent over a week telling myself to forget what happened between us," I admitted.
"To be the pragmatic businessman I've built my reputation on. And for the first time in memory, pragmatism lost."
Something flickered across her features—surprise, perhaps, at my candor.
She hadn't expected vulnerability from me.
Few did.
"This is insane," she said quietly.
"You know that."
"Sanity has always seemed overrated."
She almost smiled then—a slight quirk of her lips quickly suppressed.
"Miles will be here any minute."
"Then we should make the most of these moments, shouldn't we?"
I gestured toward another photograph, guiding her deeper into the gallery, away from the entrance. She followed, maintaining a careful distance between us.
"Tell me about your work," I said, shifting to ostensibly safer ground.
She blinked, clearly thrown by the change in direction. "My work?"
"Your marketing strategies. Your approach to branding. The aspects of your professional life that my son consistently praises but never quite seems to understand."
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
