I hadn't even considered the professional ramifications beyond the obvious ethical breaches. The Westlake developmentwas potentially one of my biggest client to date, a contract that could elevate Alder West to the next level.
But it would mean regular interaction with both Turner men. Regular opportunities for disaster.
"I don't know," I admitted. "I should withdraw."
"But you won't."
It wasn't a question.
Zoe knew me too well—knew my ambition, my drive, my need to prove myself. I knew I wouldn’t walk away from a great career opportunity, even if it meant navigating an emotional minefield.
"I can handle it," I said, trying to convince us both. "Maintain professional boundaries moving forward."
Her laugh was short, humorless. "Right. Because that worked so well yesterday."
Before I could respond, a soft knock came at the bedroom door. "Your car will be here in fifteen minutes," Lucas called through the wood.
"Coffee's ready when you are."
"I have to go," I told Zoe. "I'll call you later."
"Be careful, Sav." Her voice softened. "This isn't just about your career or reputation. This is about your heart. And I don't think Lucas Turner has a great track record of handling those with care."
I ended the call, her warning echoing in my head as I dressed quickly in last night's clothes—a walk of shame outfit if ever there was one.
The black dress felt like evidence of my indiscretion, a physical reminder of choices I couldn't take back.
When I emerged from the bedroom, Lucas was in the kitchen, two mugs of coffee waiting on the granite island. He'd added a tie since I'd last seen him, dark blue silk that matched his eyes.
The complete CEO image.
It should have created distance between us. Instead, it only reminded me of how I'd loosened that perfect control, had made him groan and swear and surrender to sensation.
"Black, two sugars," he said, sliding one mug toward me. "If I remember correctly."
The fact that he'd noticed, had remembered such a small detail, made something twist in my chest. "Thank you."
We sipped in silence for a moment, the tension between us neither entirely comfortable nor uncomfortable.
Something in between—familiar despite its newness, intimate despite its complexity.
"About last night," I began, needing to establish some control over the situation.
"No regrets," he reminded me. "Rule three."
"Rules don't change reality, Lucas." I set down my mug, meeting his gaze directly. "What we did was... complicated. The implications?—"
"Are significant," he finished. "For both of us. But not insurmountable."
"Aren't they?" I laughed, the sound edged with hysteria. "You're Miles's father. My client, potentially. Twenty years my senior. The professional and ethical complications alone?—"
"Can be managed." His voice remained calm, reasonable. "I've built my career on navigating complex situations, Savannah. Finding solutions where others see only problems."
"This isn't a business deal," I said, frustration mounting at his composure when I felt like I was coming apart at the seams. "You can't just negotiate favorable terms and sign a contract."
"No," he agreed. "But we can establish parameters. Boundaries. A framework that protects both our interests while allowing us to explore... whatever this is between us."
"And Miles? How does he factor into your framework?"
