“Pretty sure.”

“Maybe he’s bi?”

I looked up at him and dropped my red pen onto the thick contract in front of me. “Honestly? I really doubt it.”

George lifted two curious eyebrows. “You know personally?”

I gave him my most intimidating glare, which, to be fair, was . . . not very intimidating. No way was George going to play this game today. “Did you get signatures from Miller and Cortez on the Agent Provocateur campaign?”

My assistant narrowed his eyes at me. “Fine. I won’t ask more. But just know that I’m suspicious, ma’am. Very suspicious. You looked like your underpants were on fire when you saw him on Monday. And yes, I got the signatures.”

“Good.” Just as I spoke, my phone buzzed on my desk and I quickly flipped it over, reminding myself for the millionth time that I needed to change my preview settings in case Max was texting me another picture.

George’s face was priceless: his restraint appeared to cause him physical pain.

“You’re adorable, but go,” I said.

“Who’s texting you?”

“Until you marry me and pay all my bills, that will never be an appropriate question. Even then, you’re unlikely to get an answer.”

“Fine.” With a long middle finger raised, he swept from my office and back to his desk.

I glanced down at my screen, holding my breath. It was a text from Max, and my pulse exploded into a gallop.

Office being painted and recarpeted over the weekend. Must pack it up Friday after work, so I’m stuck in I’m afraid.

Quickly, I typed, So I won’t see you until next week? As soon as I hit send, I realized just how desperate I sounded.

Hello, Sara. You sound desperate because you are.

Within a couple of minutes, he replied, I presume you remember where my office is? I’ll see you at six, Petal.

Like many of the floors in our building, the Stella & Sumner offices were nearly deserted by six on Friday night. Max’s mother wasn’t at the front desk, and only a couple of people remained in cubicles as I walked through the halls to his office.

I knocked on his door quietly, and heard his deep voice tell me to come in.

I have it bad for this man, I realized when I saw him, sitting behind his desk with his sleeves rolled up and wearing thick-rimmed glasses. He wore an expression of such acute concentration it nearly stole my breath.

It turned out Max’s focused-at-work face closely mirrored his concentrating-on-giving-Sara-an-orgasm face.

“Lock the door behind you, if you would,” he murmured, without looking away from his computer monitor.

I turned, clicked the lock, and then glanced around his office again. How long were we going to be here? And when would he look up and tell me I looked beautiful? Our habits were already so heavily ingrained.

His office didn’t look at all like it was on the verge of being painted. He’d barely started putting things away: books and piles of papers lined one wall, and at least twenty empty boxes were stacked in a corner, waiting to be filled.