Julian Croft’s message would have to wait. Sterling’s summons was a test, and to ignore it was to show fear. It would be an admission that last night had shattered my composure. I refused to give him the satisfaction. I would walk back into that office as if his kiss had been nothing more than a tactical error in an ongoing war.
The shower was scalding. The charcoal gray pantsuit I chose was a straitjacket of professionalism. I imprisoned my hair in a tight, punishing bun and hid behind a pair of non-prescription glasses. Blair Davis was my armor. Today, I needed every piece of it.
The 88th floor was unnervingly silent, gleaming under the Sunday morning light. My unicorn mug sat on my desk, a splash of defiant pink in a world of gray. I ignored it, walked straight to his door, and knocke
