But James Blackwell was a strategist. A man who didn’t take—he made you beg to give. And God help me, I was getting close to begging.

The next day, I walked into the office in the tightest pencil skirt I owned. No blazer. Just a silk cream blouse tucked in, with buttons daringly undone—more than office protocol would allow. But after last night? Rules had already been broken.

By noon, I’d gotten no call from him. No glances. No secretive messages.

Nothing.

Was he pretending it ...