At least, that’s the story I was sticking to as I shoved off my blanket and crept across my room like a burglar. In our tiny condo, even a sigh could sound like a marching band, so I moved on silent tiptoe, dodging every creaky floorboard.
The digital glow of my fitness watch told me it was after eleven. Great. Everyone else in Reboot—probably everyone else in the city—was dreaming about beach vacations and fudgy brownies. I was wide awake, thinking about the stupidly gorgeous billionaire lighting guy.
His eyes. That jaw. Arms that looked capable of carrying me and all my emotional baggage.
“Ugh.”
The groan slipped out before I could stop it. I slapped a hand over my mouth, bracing for Mollie to yell through the paper-thin wall. When silence held, I exhaled and grabbed my sweats and a T-shirt.
If I couldn’t sleep, I might as well sweat. The fitness center downstairs was open twenty-four hours, and exercise supposedly helped insomnia. Whether it did or not, at least I’d look productive while spiraling.
I slipped out of Unit 16C, shutting the door with a satisfying click. The hallway hummed softly with HVAC white noise as I padded toward the elevator, mentally outlining my plan. Treadmill, weights, forget the way Kyle Ashbrook had looked at me today like he was deciding whether to hire me or sue me…
You’re confident.
I’m right.
God. I’d actually said that—to him. To a billionaire. To a man who could buy Ultra Bright, rename it KyleCo, and still have enough left for a fleet of yachts.
Still, I was right. ClimaGlow didn’t violate his patent. I’d checked the specs seventeen times. Eighteen, if you counted the one I’d done mentally on the elevator ride down.
When the doors slid open, my reflection in the wall-mounted mirror nearly made me laugh—messy bun, no makeup, and a faded college tee. Definitely not the slick professional who’d faced him across a conference table this morning.
The gym was nearly empty—one guy on the far side doing bicep curls, oblivious. Perfect. I claimed a treadmill by the windows and started a slow jog. Left foot, right foot, breathe. I tackled the workout with the furious energy of someone breaking things.
Except my brain wasn’t breaking things—it was replayinghim. Kyle Ashbrook. The way he’d looked at me—first curious, then cold when he realized Reed had sent me instead of showing up himself. Until I started talking. Then his eyes had sharpened. He’d leaned forward, actually listening.
It shouldn’t have felt as good as it did.
I pushed my speed up a notch. My lungs burned. Perfect distraction. Except the distraction had dark hair and a devastating smile and probably a six-pack he’d patented himself.
I’d followed his work since college—WeatherSync, his early projects, all of it. I’d cited his papers in my senior thesis. Basically, the man was my tech-industry celebrity crush…and now he thought my company had stolen from him.
My chest tightened. Definitely just the running.
“Careful. You’ll burn out at that pace.”
I yelped—actually yelped—and nearly launched myself into orbit. I grabbed the handrails and turned—and nearly forgot how to breathe.
Oh no. Oh no.
Kyle Ashbrook stood three treadmills down, water bottle in hand, looking like the cover model for a sports drink ad. Black shorts and a gray T-shirt clinging to muscles that had absolutely no business existing in real life. His dark hair was damp, like he’d already worked up a sweat.
“What are you doing here?” I blurted, because apparently my brain had left the building.
He arched a brow. “I live here. What are you doing here?”
“I—uh—I live here too.”
His eyes flicked, assessing. “You live in Reboot?”
“Floor sixteen. Unit 16C.”
“Penthouse. 25H.”
Of course. The penthouse. Where all the megarich tech demigods roamed free.
We stared at each other too long. I realized I was still walking on the treadmill like a confused hamster and hit the stop button.
