Page 38 of Sizzling Desire

Me: You wish.

His response is instant.

Kane: I do. You in the office?

I narrow my eyes at the screen, already suspicious.

Me: Why?

Kane: Because I need to see you.

Nope. Absolutely not. Seeing Kane is dangerous. Seeing Kane makes me feel things I don’t want to feel. And if he keeps looking at me like he did last night—like he actuallyseesme, like he knows every single secret I’m trying to keep buried—I might crack.

And that? That cannot happen.

Me: Busy. Maybe later.

I toss my phone onto my desk like it just insulted my entire bloodline and shove my focus back to work.

Numbers. Spreadsheets. Stability.

Not Kane.

Not the fact that he wants to see me.

And definitely not the truth sitting like a lead weight in my chest.

I do not have time for this.

Forhim.

For the way his voice lingers in my head, all deep and teasing, as if he’s still right here whispering in my ear. I don’t have time for the way my stomach keeps twisting—whether from morning sickness or the thought of Kane, I honestly can’t tell anymore.

So, I focus. I do what I’m good at—shutting out the noise, pushing through.

After throwing up what little dignity I have left, I power through an hour of financial reports, invoices, and client emails. I even make an appointment with my doctor, something I’ve been avoiding because it means admitting,reallyadmitting, that this is happening. That my life is about to shift into something unrecognizable.

By the time I click out of my spreadsheet, I feel almost in control. Almost like myself again. Until an unexpected knock on my office door breaks the illusion.

“Come in,” I call, already reaching for the next file on my desk.

The door swings open, and in walks Yolanda, the receptionist, clutching a massive bouquet of flowers.

I blink.

“Delivery for you,” she chirps, setting the arrangement down with a little too much enthusiasm.

A dozen deep red roses, wrapped in elegant black and gold tissue paper, fill the air with their thick, heady scent. They’re beautiful. Dramatic. The kind of flowers that demand attention.

I stare at them, confused.

I don’tgetflowers. Ever.

Clients send wine or thank-you emails, maybe a gift basket during the holidays. But this? This is personal. This isintentional.

The receptionist smiles. “Lucky girl.”

I barely register her leaving before my fingers find the little envelope tucked between the stems. My heart does this ridiculous, completelyunnecessarylittle stutter as I slide the card out and unfold it.

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