Page 6 of Sinfully Yours

Because if I let my mind wander, if I let it stray even an inch back to last night, I'll lose whatever grip I still have on my self-control.

Downstairs, my assistant, Oliver, is already waiting in my office when I arrive. The space is as sleek and structured as the rest of my life—glass walls, dark wood, everything arranged in a way that leaves no room for clutter or mistakes. A lot of people expect my office to look like the properties I design—luxurious, classic, polished to within an inch of its life.

But this is different. This is where I work.

And right now, work is the only thing keeping me sane.

Oliver barely looks up from his tablet as I walk in, his usual smooth efficiency on full display. "You've got a ten o'clock with the investors from the Prescott project," he says, "then a site visit at one. And at three, you're meeting with the marketing team for the Riverwalk development."

"Add a call with legal," I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. "I want the updated contracts finalized before next week."

Oliver nods, tapping something into his tablet. "I'll get it scheduled."

I sink into the leather chair behind my desk, scanning the morning's reports. The numbers are solid. The Prescott project is ahead of schedule. Carter Holdings is expanding, dominating the high-end real estate market in Willow Creek, with new clients lining up for properties that only I can make happen.

This is what matters. This is what I've spent years building.

So why the hell am I still thinking about her?

I grip my pen tighter, forcing my focus back to the blueprints in front of me. For the next several hours, I push through. Meetings. Calls. Site visits. Every second accounted for, every ounce of my energy spent doing what I do best—turning crumbling historic buildings into something worth millions.

But then, as I step back into my office, rolling my sleeves up past my forearms, my phone buzzes.

I glance at the screen.

It's Ava. Of course it is. I stare at the name for a beat longer than I should. Then, against my better judgment, I swipe to open the message.

Ava: We need to talk.

No greeting. No soft approach. Just straight to the point.

Something tightens in my chest.

I should ignore it. I should be smart. I should?—

Me: Where?

Her reply comes almost instantly.

Ava: Riverwalk Café. 3 PM.

I exhale slowly, rolling my shoulders, my body already tense in ways I don't like.

The right thing would be to tell her I'm busy. Instead, I grab my keys, loosen my tie, and head straight for her.

On the drive to the cafe, all I can think isI don't second-guess most of my decisions.

When I sign a deal, I know it's the right one. When I invest in a property, I've already run the numbers a hundred different ways. I don't hesitate. I don't make reckless choices. I don't let emotions complicate what should be simple.

And yet, here I am, driving straight into a complication.

Traffic moves sluggishly through downtown, the afternoon sun glinting off shop windows and historic brick façades. The Riverwalk Café is nestled in the heart of the district, perched along the cobblestone streets that give this town its charm. I find parking a block away, kill the engine, and sit for a moment, gripping the steering wheel like it might talk some sense into me.

I shouldn't be here. I should have ignored her text, let things settle, let Ava be just another bad idea that never got the chance to turn into something worse.

But ignoring Ava Bennett has never been easy.

I step inside, and the scents of coffee and warm butter wrap around me. The café is packed, the low murmur of conversation blending with the clatter of plates and the hiss of the espresso machine. Sunlight spills through the tall windows, glinting off mismatched chairs and wooden tables, giving the whole place a lazy, honeyed glow.

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