His text came at 5:17 p.m., just after I’d stepped out of the office restroom, cheeks flushed from having stared at my reflection too long—trying to decipher the woman I’d become.
“Dinner. My place. 8 p.m.
Strictly business.”
Liar.
Still, I found myself standing in front of his building three hours later, heart galloping in my chest like it hadn’t already let him win twice.
The elevator ride to the top floor felt quieter than usual, even with the ghost of our last ride lingering hot on my skin. I stepped out onto the private foyer, and the heavy door opened before I could knock.
He stood there barefoot, in black slacks and a deep navy shirt, unbuttoned just enough to hint at the hard lines underneath.
“Right on time,” he murmured.
“I don’t recall confirming.”
“You didn’t,” he said
