Ever since Margaret called the office, the rest of the week had been one long, creeping panic attack. Jennifer kept drafting emails she never sent. Kevin joked about “fixing the books,” and David actually paused to consider it.
That was the moment I knew we were fucked.
We had one week before the cat clawed its way out of the bag. One week to spin the fallout into something that wouldn’t send the company into a tailspin.
But tonight, I didn’t have to be Emma Sinclair, CEO of Elion.
Tonight, I could just be Emma.
Damien had planned another date night—a “pajama party,” he’d clarified with a laugh.
Candace had insisted on selecting my outfit: a satin shorts-and-tank set that draped in all the right ways and hinted in all the others, paired with delicate black lace underneath.
She winked. “You know… just in case.”
My stomach fluttered at the memory.
The elevator climbed toward Damien’s floor, and I slid out of the jacket I’d used to hide the barely-there silk beneath.
The numbers blinked upward one by one.
Then the elevator chimed.
The doors parted.
And Damien was there—waiting, leaning against the wall like he’d been listening for the precise moment I arrived.
And he was wearing gray sweatpants.
Holy shit.
Heat rushed into my cheeks before I could control it. The white T-shirt was unfair enough—thin cotton stretched across his shoulders—but the gray sweats were a personal attack.
“Hi,” I managed, the word catching as my attention jerked upward. I was no better than a man staring at a woman’s chest.
He straightened, a lazy grin pulling at his lips. “Hi.” Then he reached for me. Arms folding around me, drawing me into the warm, steady line of his body. I went willingly, sinking into the hold like it had been waiting for me all along.
His fingers slipped beneath my jaw, tilting my face up to kiss me—nothing like our last, no rush of heat or urgency. Just tender pressure. A kiss that steadied rather than devoured.
One of his hands cupped the base of my skull as he drew me in, our mouths finding an easy, instinctive rhythm—steady, almost shy in its tenderness. The kiss eased into a final brush of lips, a quiet promise neither of us said aloud.
Then—
I felt it.
Not intentional.
Not deliberate.
Just the unmistakable press of his body shifting against mine, the accidental brush of a third arm he had absolutely no control over.
He jolted—just enough to break the moment—clearing his throat, the tips of his ears turning pink.
“You did that on purpose,” he muttered, color creeping to his cheekbones.
“Did what?” I giggled, trying—and failing—to look away.
He shot me a suffering look, his face shifting from pink to a full, mortified red. “Please stop looking at me like that,” he pleaded, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
