“I’m flexible!”
“Uh-huh. I just saw a fire extinguisher in your suitcase. You’re packing for unlikely disasters. Very on brand, Stopwatch.”
“This is scheduled as a one-producer campaign,” I say through my teeth. “AndIam that producer.”
“AndI,”he says pleasantly, “am also a producer. Wild coincidence.”
“For the last time, why are you here, Hartwell?”
His eyes wander the lobby as if the answer’s hiding in the crown molding. He tips his chin toward theSeal The Dealbanner. “Guess they thought you needed a babysitter.”
“I did not approve this sign!” My voice spikes so high marine wildlife three miles offshore just flinched.
“Relax. I’m messing with you. I got an email. Said I should be here this weekend.”
I’m forcing my iPad awake before the words “What email?” can leave my mouth.
Inbox. Refresh.Refresh again, you piece of—
And there it is. Sitting at the top of my screen like a digital middle finger. I tap.
You have got to be kidding me.
The screen reads:
Congratulations! You and Cole Hartwell have been shortlisted for the Director of Strategic Campaigns position. The next two days will serve as your final evaluation.
The last twenty minutes click together—an epiphany from hell. His casual arrival. The smirk. The way he watched me spiral.He knew the whole time.Every mortifying, basically topless second.
“Ohhh,” I say slowly. “So this is a game?”
His grin deepens. “May the best producer win, Stopwatch.”
Cute. He thinks he has a chance.
I don’t play games. I end them.
And this? This is war.
Chapter Two
Cole
Sometimes, I am an idiot.
She’s glaring at me like I just kicked a baby sea lion. Not my smartest move. But I can’t stop grinning as her ample chest rises and falls in a rhythm that’s making me…What was I saying?
Damn,she’s magnificent when she’s pissed.
Her cheeks are flushed, and her white blouse clings to tempting curves that seem designed to distract me. Her long, brown hair—damp at the ends from the smoothie splash—runs loose and wavy down her back. Her eyes are darker than usual; not black, not soft brown either. A deep espresso shade that shows every emotion like a high-definition screen.
The show playing right now? Fury.
Ivy Ellison is all woman, and that’s the fucking problem. Hips that don’t just walk into a room, they take it hostage. Lips built for much more than arguing. A mouth that could ruin a man likeme. She doesn’t apologize for the space she takes and doesn’t give a damn whether you notice.
Andoh,Inotice.
The other thing I notice? She’s the smartest person in the room. Ivy doesn’t build campaigns; she builds skyscrapers. Every beam load-tested, every bolt torqued to spec, every possible point of failure mapped before the first floor goes up. By the time she pitches anything, she’s already survived seventeen versions of it collapsing on her head.
