I should have gone home an hour ago.
The office was silent now, save for the distant hum of the AC and the soft clack of my keyboard. Everyone had left after the department meeting, but I’d stayed behind, eager to finish the pitch deck for Monday’s client presentation. It was my first solo project, and I wasn’t going to screw it up.
Especially not with Damon Wolfe watching.
I glanced up from my screen, and my breath hitched.
He was still here.
Leaning against the glass wall of his office, arms crossed, dress shirt rolled at the forearms, a fresh espresso in his hand. His tie was loosened, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, revealing a faint trail of chest hair. His gaze—sharp, steel-gray—was on me.
Not his screen.
Not his coffee.
Me.
“Burning the midnight oil, Miss Rivers?”
