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JUNO

Istared at my phone. The text message sat there. It was professional. So why in the hell was I freaking out?

I prepped something for the meeting. Can I drop it off for you tomorrow?

My cup of green tea had nearly spilled in my lap when I first read the text. Drop it off. Just like that. Like it was normal for him to swing by whenever he felt like it.

I pulled my knees up to my chest, wrapped my arms around them, and burst into laughter. I was debating my response like he had asked me on a date. And then I realized I was wearing pajamas.

Not sexy PJs meant to tantalize a man. Nope. Ratty old college sweats with a hole in the knee and a faded shirt that had seen better days. Hollis Blackwell was not interested in me, and he wouldn’t be even if I was wearing sexy lingerie.

I stared at the bottle he’d given me the other day, now sitting on my counter. I hadn’t touched it. It just sat there, mocking me.

This was ridiculous. It was just a text message. A completely normal, professional text message about work. So why was I overthinking it like a teenager?

If I answered right away, would I look desperate? Too eager? Like I’d been sitting here waiting for him to contact me?

I hadn’t. I never expected him to text me at all.

I could just ignore it. But then he’d probably show up anyway. Just waltz into my office with that insufferable confidence, acting like he owned the place. I set my phone down on the coffee table and stared at the ceiling instead.

“Juno, get it together, girl!”

How many texts did I have with other business associates? Hundreds. Freaking out over a very reasonable request was stupid.

The read receipt was on. He knew I’d seen it.

Great. Now if I waited too long, it would look weird. Like I was playing games or couldn’t make a simple decision.

I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to banish the image of him looking far too devastating for my own good.

“Stop it,” I muttered to myself. “Stop it right now.”

I grabbed my phone.

It’s not that deep. It’s a simple yes or no.

I typed: Sure.

That was it. Simple, straightforward, professional.

My traitorous brain kept replaying the way he’d looked in my office. He was a walking, talking fantasy and I was supposed to sit with him and pretend he was just some average Joe.

There was nothing average about that man.

That sent my thoughts into a place I had no business visiting when it came to a coworker.

I spent way too long the next morning deciding what to wear—again. Why hadn’t I diversified my wardrobe?

I settled on gray slacks that I felt made my ass look great and a cream blouse with the top few buttons undone. My stilettos. My feet would hate me, but at least I’d look good.

Professional. Put together.

By the time I got to the office, I’d convinced myself this would be quick. He’d drop off the thumb drive, maybe make some comment about the meeting, and then leave. Five minutes, tops.

I was reviewing quarterly reports when Kari buzzed my desk.

“He’s here,” she whispered into the phone.