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Clean-cut, buttoned-up, perfectly managerial Noah Calloway—the one who Sam and Eleanor are calling hot—is the same man who made me see Jesus on Saturday night. If they had even the faintest clue what he’s like under all that starch—the way he grips, the way he groans, the way he begs when he’s close—they’d stop talking and start praying.

I glance up, and wouldn’t you know it—there he is, loitering outside Marla’s door, folder in hand, eyes glued to me like we’re about to reenact Saturday in the middle of the bullpen.

Yeah, no. Not happening.

I drop my gaze to the monitor, shoulders hunching, burying myself in client notes like they’re my own brand of witness protection.

The best orgasm of my life, smothered and quashed because apparently he’s my new boss—kind of—which means no repeat, no desperate mouth on me until my thighs give out, no nirvana three doors down.

Love that for me.

Chapter 6

Noah

Idrag a hand over my face, trying to scrub some sense into myself. I’ve got work in an hour. New systems to learn, new clients to get familiar with, deadlines, actual responsibilities.

My gaze lifts back to the mirror, to the ties draped around my neck. Do I go for the blue one, or the grey one? Which one will make me look less like an idiot? Can ties even do that?

“Hey, good morning, Sable,” I mutter at my reflection. My voice comes out too stiff and strangled, so I clear my throat and try again.

“Morning.” No, that sounds too flat. Like I’m accosting her in the cubicles and I’m about to file a report.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Okay. Softer. Friendlier. Normal people can do this.

“Morning, Sable. How’re you?”

Nope. Too chipper. That sounds like I’m trying to sell her life insurance.

Jesus Christ.

It’s just a greeting. A few words that any functioning adult can manage. But everything that falls out of my mouth makes me feel like a neighbor with too much time on his hands—or worse, her technical boss who can’t keep his head out of his dick.

I sink onto the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, head bowed.

The one woman who’s had me shaking apart with nothing more than a look—the one who made me forget my own name while her thighs locked around my head—and I happen to be her account lead. Perfect. Couldn’t have scripted a bigger clusterfuck if I tried.

Just pick a damn tie, Noah.

I shove off the mattress and stalk back to the mirror. Grey. Grey’s safer. Less like I’m trying too hard. That’s the goal. Except the tie knot keeps slipping crooked under my fingers, too loose one second, strangling me the next. I pull it tight until it digs into my throat, then swear under my breath and tug it loose again. Two sharp sprays of cologne choke the air, clinging heavily to my shirt, and I’m already regretting it. My reflection glares back at me from the mirror—hair slicked too flat on one side, so I rake my fingers through, ruffle it up, smooth it back, ruffle it again. Nothing looks right. Nothing feels right.

What the hell is wrong with me? It’s just a Tuesday. Just another day. I’m fine.

I check the time on my phone, shove it into my slacks, grab my bag off the dresser, and sling it over my shoulder. The lock to my apartment clicks behind me, echoing through the empty space as I step out and head down the hallway. The carpet muffles my footsteps, bag strap biting into my shoulder.

I round the corner, and stop dead.

Fuck me.

She’s there. Waiting at the elevator. Back straight, blouse tucked into a pencil skirt, one heel tapping an impatient rhythm. My chest cinches tight—stupidly tight—and a tremor runs down my arm. I fist the strap of my bag to keep it still.

I should turn around. Take the stairs, run down all fifteen flights, break my goddamn legs if I have to. Anything but this.

Yesterday I’d left early—first-day nerves, Marla had me in before half the office arrived. Today’s different. Right in at the deep end with normal start time. Today, I’ve landed right in her orbit. What was I expecting? Of course I’d run into her. Same building, same floor, same workplace. Just a matter of time. There’s no escaping it. No escaping her.

Except yesterday, she sure as hell managed it. Every time I surfaced for a break from my induction with Marla or an introductory client call, she was gone. Ducking into offices, vanishing into meetings, tethered to her headset as if she was actively avoiding me like the plague. And Marla’s already on my ass about today. Said Sable’s supposed to walk me through the coordination processes—“to help you get your footing in this branch”—her exact words. Translation—babysit the new guy. Which means I don’t just have to face her, I have to follow her.

Suck it up.