There’s an extra pep in my step and a sense of excitement in my belly.

  Maybe it’s because I made some progress on analyzing the data on the corporate takeover and want to follow up with our legal department on a clause I don’t like in the contract? It just came to me last night after the run with Tiffany and a long shower to clear my head.

  But as the front desk comes into view, I realize my good mood has absolutely nothing to do with work and everything to do with the woman standing there.

  This morning, Tiffany has on a camel-colored pencil skirt that makes the curvy shape of her ass look as though she doesn’t have anything on. The pale pink of her top reminds me of the quick flash of her nipples I got when she was in the tub.

  My feet stop as the thought hammers my brain, realizing that maybe I’m seeing her for the first time.

  But that’s ridiculous.

  I’ve had dinner with Tiffany dozens of times, have traveled to England with her, and have heard more stories about her than I can possibly even remember. But that was all about her connection with Elle.

  There was always a degree of separation between us.

  Now, we’ve had this shared experience that is solely about us. It’s a messy, confusing realization . . . but I’m looking at Tiffany like a woman now. And she’s maybe looking at me like . . . a man?

  No. Daniel, get your head out of your ass. There is no ‘us’ with a woman twenty years your junior who works at your fucking company. Your manhood has nothing to do with this.

  Still, I give myself a rare, albeit quick, moment of indulgence. I set aside my ‘boss’ lenses and look at Tiffany Young as a woman. And what I see is . . . stunning. Tiffany is talking to a woman wearing a headset and sitting at a computer, and neither of them have noticed me yet.

  Watching Tiffany speak, the way her lips curve and move over the words and her eyes focus sharply, is mesmerizing. Even though it’s probably something mundane, I find myself curious about what she’s saying.

  As though she can feel my eyes on her, she looks up and smiles.

  “Good morning, Mr. Stryker. Did you have a good weekend?” Tiffany says professionally.

  But there’s a new glint in her eyes, a brightness that lets me know she’s well aware of the line she’s dancing around, clearly making it sound as though we didn’t see each other three times in the last three days and she has no idea what my weekend might’ve entailed.

  “I did. Thank you for asking. And you?”

  Before she can answer, the woman with the headset—I really should know her name if she works for me—laughs and offers, “A bit too heavy-handed on the donut-awesomeness at The Den.”

  She tilts an invisible drink up to demonstrate, and the ‘professional’ side of me wants to gently chastise her for embarrassing a co-worker in a public space. But I’ll leave that to Tiffany, and instead, my lips twitch as I fight a laugh.

  “Stephanie.” Tiffany’s singular word holds enough reproach that the woman’s smile falls.

  Schooling my features into a stern scowl, I say, “Are you being a bad influence on your staff, Miss Young?”

  Stephanie looks stricken at having outed her boss. But Tiffany sees my mask for what it is and is unconcerned, giving me a little smirk.

  “Oh, I’m a terrible influence,” she says with a laugh before adding, “in the best possible way.”

  She winks saucily, and I can’t help but smile. Three days, and Tiffany has me feeling like I haven’t felt in decades. This lightness in my belly and heat lower than that feel foreign . . . and dangerous.

  “Well, carry on then.”

  I wish I could stay here and banter with her, but that’s ridiculous. I have things to do, important things that I can’t neglect to play hooky with a woman I shouldn’t be spending time with anyway.

  Not personal time, at least.

  Realistically, not professional time either, which I’m reminded of as my phone buzzes in my pocket with a warning alarm for my first meeting.

  “Have a good day, sir,” Tiffany says politely as I move toward the elevator.

  I glance back to find her watching me with bright eyes that promise mischief and bad decisions, and despite our age difference, I suddenly feel woefully in over my head with her.

  After taking over for old man Fox, I brought my own style to the CEO suite. Gone were the heavy woods and opulent touches everywhere. I don’t need some antique globe to remind me how wide the company’s reach is, and I don’t need to measure the responsibility my desk holds by the number of men needed to shift its weight around.

  I don’t need a throne of a chair to remind myself that I’m the king of the castle.

  I went with my definition of modern luxury. Taking out the thick patterned carpeting, I replaced it with high-quality, solid gray carpet that allows my modern office chair to roll easily. My desk is black laminate and steel tubing, efficient and sleek, elegant in its functional architecture.

  It’s an office meant to create a future, not rest on the laurels of the past.

  And as such, we must continue to move forward, researching and discussing opportunities and investing Fox’s considerable time, money, and efforts where they will be most profitable.

  Which is why I’ve called this meeting with one of our acquisitions teams today. Mark, Brandon, and Shaun sit around the conference table in my office, eyeing each other warily. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind telling them to fuck off so I can relax in the seating area by the large windows that overlook the valley. But that’s not my job.

  No, my job is to tease away the potential value in this deal from Mark and Brandon’s personal feelings for one another. They’re cut from the same cloth—both in their early thirties, with good instincts, and a willingness to learn from their mistakes. But their similarities put them at odds with one another, their ambition and competitive natures making their dislike for each other apparent. I’ve put them on the same team, though, because that hunger makes them work harder than the man at the next desk. Despite their reluctance to admit it, they make each other better. And Shaun provides a level-headed buffer for the other two more temperamental men.

  “I’m sure you’ll see on page eleven, Daniel, that this company is on the cutting edge of some innovative technologies,” Mark says as we hash over a few of my thoughts from the weekend. “The market potential there is huge.”

  Brandon hums in agreement. “And we’d do well to buy them while they need an influx of funds to bankroll that. The increased name recognition alone would position Fox as the leaders in the market. The short-term profits could be nine figures at a minimum.”

  “But if we wait, someone else might step in to provide the funds and get that advantage instead of Fox,” Mark warns. “The long-term damage from skipping this could come back to bite us in the ass. They’re in need now.”

  “And even if we do divest, the buzz we can generate for them would easily push the stock up ten to twenty points,” Brandon concludes. “The old buy low, sell high method. Never fails.”

  It all seems very rehearsed, but that doesn’t offend me in the slightest. To the contrary, I want my people to bring me prepared, well-thought out, insightful ideas, and their tag-team presentation demonstrates that they can work together. At least on reading a slide show and some charts.

  But the team isn’t just Brandon and Mark. I turn to the other man at the table, Shaun. The youngest member of the team, I brought him in on a gut feeling. He’s hungry in a different way. Whereas Mark and Brandon want money and power, Shaun wants knowledge. He’s watchful, not only about potential deals but about everything. The numbers don’t quite speak to the amount of talent the young man originally from Atlanta has if he’s given the chance to spread his wings.

  “Shaun, what’s your view on the deal?”

  He strokes chin before answering. “I don’t quite share Mark and Brandon’s rosy view on the short term,” he finally admits, “considering the average rate of success that so many of these sorts of companies and projects have had, historically. But at the same time, I do think that the long-term potential is worth it. Even if their current R&D projects don’t pan out, the knowledge base and expertise they’ve assembled means that sooner rather than later, they’re going to make an advancement that’ll make the investment worthwhile. We’re investing in the inventors, not the invention, so to speak.”

  “You’d go for it,” I surmise, and he dips his chin decisively.

  It’s a good answer, and together with Mark and Brandon’s hard sell and my own deep data dive over the weekend, it helps make up my mind.

  Finally, I nod. “Okay, let’s do it. Get with legal and pull together a final contract. I already talked to them about adding in a clause of patent ownership and control in favor of Fox. I don’t want any issues. Take the payoffs and cash the checks. It’s all business. Our business.”

  The three of them nod, Mark and Brandon fighting smiles of triumph while Shaun scribbles a few notes. “Good. Anything else?”

  There’s nothing, and they’re eager to move to the next phase, so we wrap things up. The three men leave, and I go back to my desk, considering the magnitude of what I just verbally signed off on. Literally, we’re talking billions of dollars.

  But the deal is a good one. It’s an acceptable risk for the potential payoff. The distraction the meeting offered was even better, but now that it’s over, my brain drifts back to the woman downstairs.

  I wonder what Tiffany is doing and how her morning has gone. Would she have had a point of view on the project? Or choked on pulling the trigger on such a big deal? Something tells me she would be unapologetically bold and confident in her decisions regardless of the dollar signs involved.

  I wonder other things too . . . things I have no business contemplating. Like how her black hair would look spread out on my desk, her tits lifting proudly like they did yesterday, and what I’d find if I pushed that camel skirt up to discover the soft skin of her thighs . . .

  I can feel myself stiffening in my suit pants when I’m pulled out of my fantasies by a perfunctory knock on the door, and Ricky and Billy come in without waiting for permission to enter. They’re the only people in the company, besides my assistant Vanessa, who would dare do that.

  But my nephews-slash-bodyguard-slash-friends have always been the type to ignore minor obstacles in the pursuit of their goals. They always have and always will. No wonder they made such effective defensive ends back in high school football. Opposing quarterbacks often weren’t sure what the hell to do before they had two hundred and thirty-odd pounds of thick-necked bad intent in their face.

  Even now, their wide bodies and quietly intimidating presences fill the room more than the entire acquisitions team did. I know they’ve got a soft side hidden deep inside, though. They’re both huge mama’s boys at home. They just don’t look like they give a damn about the world.

  Billy speaks up. “Hey, Bossman, we’re heading out to lunch. Want us to bring something back for you?”

  I look at my watch in surprise. The morning passed by quicker than I realized. I should stay right here, drink a smoothie from my private refrigerator, and give my brain a short break.

  Ricky, though, sees my thoughts and tries to tap my brakes. “Or you could go with us?” he prompts. “Maybe get yourself some real food?”

  I look at him sharply, not appreciating the taunting tone. He might as well be telling Billy ‘I know something you don’t know’ with his question. Ricky said he’d keep his mouth shut about what he saw on Saturday morning, but I’m doubting that now.

  Actually, I bet there’s not a single thing Ricky and Billy don’t discuss. I imagine they’ve had in-depth conversations about everything from bench press routines to zit creams. If they were more intellectual, I’d say they’ve discussed the classics . . . but for Ricky and Billy, WrestleMania is pretty much high culture, and they tend to top out at ‘who’d win in a fight, Captain America or Deadpool?’

  The correct answer, is, of course, Captain America. I know because I’ve actually heard that debate. More than once. With the same result every single time.

  Billy backhands Ricky, the sound more of a solid thud than it should be, but bones hitting solid muscle mass does that. “I told you. Uncle Daniel’s not going out. He’ll work straight through like he always does.”

  Ricky doesn’t flinch at all and just shrugs. “He doesn’t always,” Ricky argues. “Maybe today, he’ll do something different.”

  The suggestion hangs in the air. I could do something different.

  “Maybe he’ll do something different,” he echoes, throwing his voice high in an imitation of Ricky that would only be accurate if he’d been kicked in the balls by a woman wearing steel-toed, pointy heels. “Dumbass.”

  Billy’s right. I do usually work through lunch, but today I find myself nodding and telling the boys, “You know what, I think I will grab a bite before I tackle the afternoon’s appointments.”

  Ricky smirks triumphantly while Billy looks shocked. I don’t acknowledge the questions in their eyes.

  In fact, I don’t admit the truth even to myself, instead trying hard to convince myself that I’m going out for some fresh air to get energized for the afternoon. That the reason I’m going out isn’t because it’ll give me an excuse to walk through the lobby two more times than I normally do on a daily basis.

  A moment later, I’m impatiently bouncing in the elevator as I watch the numbers light up. Seriously, when have a few floors ever taken this long?

  “Hey Ricky?” I comment as we wait. “Do you know the last time someone came out to look at these elevators?”

  “Ah, no, Uncle Dan,” Ricky says, his rare use of ‘Dan’ barely catching my attention. “Why?”

  “Just curious . . . after lunch, talk to building maintenance. These things are going too damn slow.”

  “Sure thing,” he agrees easily. I’m not sure why it sounds like he’s clearing his throat to disguise a laugh, though.

  Chapter 8

  Tiffany

  I am not a patient woman. Restrained? Nope, not really that either. Sure, I’ve gotten more mature as I’ve . . . matured, but playing the long game is not my strong suit. I want what I want, and I want it now. Still, my intuition tells me that going too hard, too soon will send Daniel running for the hills. Possibly literally. And after yesterday’s run through the park, I need a day of recovery, and maybe an Epsom salt soak. My left calf is aching enough that I decided to skip the ultra-sexy heels that I originally planned for today, going with some more conservative nude three-inchers that take a little bit of pressure off my left leg.

  So as much as I’d like to make up an excuse to do a loop around the executive floor, I refrain. Luckily, like most Mondays, and Tuesdays through Fridays too, I’m busy as a beaver trying to build a dam during a hurricane, so I don’t have a chance to go upstairs even if I wanted to.

  I don’t get a chance to do much more than catch a glance of Daniel as he comes in from lunch, and even then, it’s only of his back as Ricky and Billy laugh it up with him about something I don’t hear.

  I’m curious about Daniel’s unusual change in routine, and what they were laughing at, and by the time I’m home, snuggled into my couch in comfy loungewear and sipping a cup of tea, all I can think about is what Daniel is doing.

  Is he still at work?

  His car was in the lot when I left, but surely, he’s home by now. Probably sitting on his leather couch, looking at work documents, and sipping a bourbon while he eats a pre-packaged dinner.

  I mean, he said that he gets a meal service, and he’s uber healthy, so it’s likely better than the delivery of fried mushrooms I ordered.

  Unless he went out? Ugly images assail me—Daniel sitting at a fancy restaurant, sipping champagne with an elegant, classy woman . . . Daniel opening his car door for her, his front door, his bedroom door . . . Daniel looming over her, his broad chest flexed as he holds his upper body up as something else presses into her.

  Okay, so that one isn’t ugly.

  It’s sexy as hell, but only if it’s me he’s leaned over and my nails scoring the skin of his chest as he pins me to the bed with a dark, heated stare that promises pleasure I’ve only dreamed of. I lose myself in that fantasy, heat flushing through my body.

  I’m so caught up that the ringing of my phone makes me jump, spilling tea all over my favorite cozy blanket.

  “Oh, shit!” I exclaim, trying unsuccessfully to keep the tea from getting on the rug. It’s just tea, but still, those tannins can leave a mark. And while my blanket is washable, the rug not so much. I drop the mug to a coaster on the coffee table, grabbing for my phone.

  An errant thought that maybe it’s Daniel calling washes through my mind like a secret whisper, but it’s enough to make my heart race with hope. The wish comes true . . . almost.

  It’s not Daniel, but it is a Stryker. Or she used to be.

  “Hey, Elle,” I answer.

  “Tiffany Young! I have a bone to pick with you!” Elle declares in a tone that she’s definitely picked up since getting married. Maybe it’s in her tea?

  “Huh?”

  “You have a certified emergency over the weekend, and you didn’t even send me a text as proof of life!” Elle is gearing up for a good old-fashioned lecture, but I sigh in relief because that’s an acceptable reason to bitch me out. “I had to hear from my dad that you were safe, that you weren’t lying in a puddle of your own puke in some bar bathroom, or worse, tied up in some psycho’s basement. And even worse, you totally ignored me all day yesterday and today!”

  Ah, hell. I deserve it, but the truth is I didn’t exactly know how to talk to Elle about all of this and avoiding it seemed easier. She’s known about my crush on Daniel for years and even told me to go for it in a roundabout way when she moved to London. But a vague, nebulous ‘sure, go for it’ with an eyeroll of disbelief is a very different thing from the reality of this weekend and my future plans. This is weird now and might test me and Elle in a new way.