Page 75 of Sexting the Boss

I remember the elevator.

The way I could feel him watching me before I even looked up.

The way my breath caught when his gaze lingered just a little too long.

The way I sometimes—inconveniently, frustratingly—think about what it would be like if he ever lost that cold, controlled composure.

Nope.

Nope, nope, nope.

This is not happening.

I shove every inappropriate thought into a mental box, slap a warning label on it, and lock it forever.

* * *

I adjust my blouse,smooth down my skirt, and try to look like I belong here.

I don’t.

Not at all.

Brittany, on the other hand? She’s thriving.

“Oh my God, I wonder what he’s going to talk about,” she practically chirps, her voice at full, high-pitched volume as we step into the executive conference room.

I barely hear her.

My nerves are too loud.

What am I doing here?

Brittany flips her hair. “You must be like, so nervous,” she says sweetly. “Since, you know, you’re new and all.”

I force a tight smile. “Oh yeah. Super excited to be here.”

She doesn’t even hide the way she looks me up and down, like she’s still confused about how I ended up here at all.

And honestly? Same.

I follow her inside, my stomach twisting as I take in the room.

It’s massive. All sleek glass, polished wood, and an obnoxiously long table that screams money. The other employees—a small selection from different departments—are already settling in, chatting quietly.

I sink into my chair, opening my laptop like a security blanket, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Maybe if I look busy enough, he won’t notice me.

Right. Good luck with that.

Because a few seconds later?—

The door opens, and he walks in.

The room goes silent.

Damien Zaitsev doesn’t command attention.

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