I stare after her.
…She definitely does.
I look down at my phone.
The text from Bryce is still there:
Last night wasn’t an accident.
I read it again. Definitely not for the seventh time. Absolutely not. Nope.
My phone buzzes. My soul leaves my body.
It’s an email from a vendor.
I sag into my chair.
Get it together. Professional. Mature. Emotionally stable.
I open a spreadsheet and pretend to care about column formatting. My brain, however, is staging a flash mob.
His hands. His mouth. The way he said my name like a sin he wanted to repeat.
“Nope,” I whisper, a little too loudly. “We are not thinking about hotel rooms, tongue, or that thing he did with his...”
A passing intern jumps. “Should I… leave?”
I close my eyes. “Please do.”
He flees. Which is fair. I would also flee from me.
I lean back in my chair and stare at the ceiling.
“It was a one-time lapse in judgment,” I tell the fluorescent lights. “Mistake. Temporary. A blip. Rebound sex. A moment of insanity caused by champagne, music, and a very unfair jawline.”
My body responds by flashing me a highlight reel.
Traitor.
I force myself upright and push hair behind my ears like that somehow pushes my sanity back into place.
Right. Time to function. I gather my tablet, straighten my skirt, and walk toward the hallway like a responsible adult who did not spend New Year’s Eve doing things that belong in paid subscription content.
Two steps later, I see him.
Bryce. Leaning against the wall near the conference room door. Casual. Confident. Wearing a fitted long-sleeve athletic shirt that looks illegal in several states.
His eyes gaze over to mine. And it happens. That stupid thing. Where my heart short-circuits like someone spilled Diet Coke on emotional electronics.
He doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t speak. He just looks at me. Like he already knows every single thought I shouldn’t be having.
I panic. Obviously.
“Morning,” he says, voice low.
I respond with, “Yep.” Which is not a greeting. It’s just… noise.
He raises one brow. “Yep?”
