The door swings open and I jump out of my fucking skin. “For fuck’s sake, Sarah,” I snap.

“Sorry. I finished earlier than expected. Want me to take ov—”

“No.” I grab the portfolio and start flicking the pages. “I’ve got it, thanks.” I risk a peek up at her, discovering exactly what I knew I would. A massive frown.

“Are you okay?”

“Yep.” That’s a lie. I don’t think I am okay. I feel . . . weird. And gutted. Because Miss O’Shea doesn’t fit into my box. “I’ll find you when I’m done.”

That frown doesn’t leave her face as she closes the door. It’s an achievement, considering the amount of shit she has pumped into it. I toss the folder on the table and start trying to master a plan because, and it’s a fucking revelation, I am affected.

I’ve just got to know what’s under that navy pencil dress. Got to taste those lips. Got to feel those hips. Get to know her. Woo her. Then ask her out, Ward. That’s the correct etiquette, I believe.

All well and good, but I’m assuming she’s interested. I might have read this completely wrong. Perhaps she’s just off because she’s found herself at an elite sex club in a meeting with a man who, I fucking hope, breaks the stereotypical sex-club-owner type.

My eyes fall to her phone on the table. Hmm.

Like I said, boldness is all I know.

I quickly claim it and bring up the home screen. Go to contacts. Add my name and number. And I dial myself so I can save hers. Stalkerish? Absolutely not. I’m just saving myself the time and hassle of calling the firm she works for to get her contact details. You know, just in case she forgets to give me her card.

I rest her phone back on the table, my eyes on her bag. I look back at the door. Think. I’m in her handbag before I know it, finding what I’m looking for quickly. I pull out her wallet, open it, my shaking hands not helping me. I spot her driver’s license and pull it out, scanning the small card. And, horribly, my heart sinks a little. Twenty-six. She’s twenty-six. It’s confirmed. Way too young for me, and since she’s asked the question, she’s concluded I must be too old for her. “God damn it,” I breathe, deflating.

I hear a knock at the door. Fuck. I shove her wallet back in her bag and quickly reclaim her portfolio.

She enters, and I look up on a smile. It’s probably a guilty smile. Yes, I just totally violated your privacy. Yes, I’m wondering what the fuck is wrong with me.