The first time Rhea saw Dax Hart, she knew she would hate him. It wasn’t the smug curve of his mouth, or the way he took up too much space in the conference room like he’d paid for every damn inch of it. It wasn’t even the fact that he wore a black turtleneck in June. It was the look he gave her when she finished her presentation — that lazy, arrogant smirk that said he hadn’t heard a single word she’d said but already decided he could do it better.
She crossed her legs tighter, refused to look at him, and forced herself to sip her coffee as if her hand wasn’t trembling just slightly with rage.
He was the new creative director from the Los Angeles branch, transferred in after her firm’s acquisition of Steel Grey Agency. Everyone had been buzzing about it. “The golden boy,” they called hi
