Charli smirks. “You sure about that?”
“A hundred percent.” I lean back confidently. “I’m perfectly capable of catching a man’s attention if I want it. But I don’t.”
Charli nods slowly. “If you say so.”
I relax. “I say so. I don’t need a man.”
“No, you don’t,” Charli agrees. “But they sure are fun when you get your hands on one who makes your toes curl.”
Shelby bursts out laughing.
The truth is, I wouldn’t mind a little toe-curling, I admit to myself. But not from my ornery boss.
Ispent the entire weekend trying not to think about Harleigh Storm.
It did not go well.
In fact, if I’m being brutally honest with myself, it went spectacularly badly.
I tried work first. Paperwork. Budgets. Emails. Staff reports. The endless list of operational details that come with running a historic resort that never truly sleeps.
Normally, I thrive on it.
But this weekend, every time my mind drifted—and it drifted often—it went straight back to a cozy, candlelit restaurant table and a woman peeling off her blouse like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I scrub a hand over my face for what feels like the hundredth time.
Geezus.
I shouldn’t be thinking about the way the fabric fell from her shoulder. The way the champagne-colored lace of her bra peeked through. The curve of her throat. The slope of her collarbone. The quick flash of ink along her skin. Or the way she didn’t seem embarrassed at all.
If anything, she looked completely at ease.
Which somehow made it worse.
By Sunday afternoon, I’d replayed the moment so many times that it felt permanently etched into my brain.
I lean back in my office chair and stare at the ceiling.
What the hell is wrong with me?
She works for me.
That thought alone should be enough to shut down the entire spiral.
Except it doesn’t.
Because somewhere around Saturday morning, I made a mistake. I opened her employee file. For purely professional reasons, of course. At least, that’s what I told myself.
The truth is, I was looking for her phone number.
I stare at the digits scribbled on the sticky note sitting on my desk. I must have picked up my phone a dozen times. And thankfully, every single time, I stopped myself.
What exactly would I say?
Hello, Miss Storm. This is your employer. I’m calling to apologize.
I groan under my breath.
