No.

No, no, no.

This is bad.

This is so, so bad.

I cannot be attracted to Callahan. I cannot be doing this to myself. I cannot be fantasizing about my colleague while I have a boyfriend. I roll onto my stomach, screaming into my pillow, the sound muffled by the fabric.

This is Amanda's fault.

This is Caleb's fault.

This is definitely not my fault, because if I accept that, I'll have to deal with the absolute crisis that is my life.

I need sleep.

I need to forget this ever happened.

I force myself to breathe, to calm down, to pull the blankets over my head like that'll help, like I can hide from my own desires.

Tomorrow.

I'll deal with everything tomorrow.

My alarm screeches to life, and I groan, slamming my hand against the nightstand until I find my phone and silence it.

I am not ready for another day.

I barely slept. Every time I started drifting off, my mind decided to replay the absolutely filthy things I did to myself last night. Or worse—it started shifting them. Caleb's voice fading into Callahan's. The AI-generated fantasy bleeding into something real. Something I can't have. Something I shouldn't want.

I groan again, finally rolling out of bed. I need a reset. I shuffle into the bathroom, turn on the shower, and try to scrub away the absolute mess that is my brain. The hot water beats against my skin, washing away the physical evidence of the night but doing nothing for the mental spiral I'm trapped in. By the time I throw on some makeup and tug on my blazer, my phone vibrates on the counter.

Caleb

Morning, pretty girl. Did you sleep well?

I don't answer right away. Because no, I did not sleep well. Because yes, I came thinking about my colleague. My extremely infuriating, impossibly broad-shouldered, maddeningly intense, unfairly attractive, stupidly competent, too-confident-for-his-own-good colleague. The one who notices when I don't eat, who watches me like I'm a puzzle he's determined to figure out. The one I definitely should not be thinking about in the context of bending me over a surface.

And yet, here we are.

What the actual hell am I doing?

I lock my phone, shoving it into my bag, refusing to deal with this right now. I'm already running late. I grab my coffee—no breakfast, obviously, because who has time for that—and head out the door.

I make it exactly five steps into the store before I walk straight into Callahan.

Again.

The coffee tilts dangerously, almost spilling on him before I manage to steady my grip. The collision knocks the breath from my lungs, and his scent—crisp, masculine—hits me fast, sending my heart into overdrive.

His hands go to my arms, steadying me, and for a second, I swear he tightens his grip. I try not to think about how good his hands feel on my body. How big and strong his fingers are. How they might feel stretching me-

-No!

I pull back, flustered, glaring up at him like this is somehow his fault. My cheeks feel warm, and I hope he attributes it to embarrassment.

"We have got to stop meeting like this, again," he says, amused.

I huff, straightening my blazer with one hand. "We have got to stop blocking doorways, again."

One brow lifts. "Blocking doorways?"

"Yes," I say, scowling. "You're always in my way. I'm starting to think you're doing it on purpose."

His mouth curves slightly. "Or maybe you're always running into me. And, I'm starting to think you're doing that on purpose."

I roll my eyes, but before I can snap back, he tilts his head slightly, his eyes scanning my face. Those impossibly green eyes I pictured so vividly last night study me in a way that makes me want to squirm.

"You look tired."

I freeze.

Because HOW does he always seem to know? I clutch my coffee closer to my chest like it can shield me from his observation skills. "Wow. Thanks. That's exactly what every woman wants to hear first thing in the morning."

He does not look amused. "Did you eat?"

I sip my coffee. "This is breakfast."

He scoffs. "We went over this yesterday: coffee is not food."

I swear, if I had a dollar for every time he said that, well, I'd have like two dollars, but still. His concern is as frustrating as it is oddly touching.

"Look, I'm fine," I say, already done with this conversation. "Do you have something for me, or are we just going to play Intervention: Breakfast Edition every morning?"

His expression shifts slightly, and just like that, I know I'm not off the hook.

"We need to go over the security brief," he says, switching gears too smoothly. "I have a full outline for our approach during the holiday rush, including additional staffing and emergency response procedures."

I nod, trying to refocus. Right. Security. The thing he's actually here for. The reason we interact at all. But my brain is not cooperating. Because now, when he talks, all I can think about is last night. How I came with the very vivid image of him bending me over the conference table. I grip my coffee tighter, my knuckles turning white.

Nope. Nope. Nope.

"You seem distracted," Callahan says, eyes sharp.

Oh, you have no idea.

I clear my throat, fighting the heat creeping up my neck. "Nope. Totally fine. Just... thinking about the schedule for today."

I need to get out of this conversation before my brain betrays me even more. Luckily, I have an actual excuse. A legitimate reason to avoid being alone with him.

"I can't do a full sit-down review this morning," I say quickly. "We've got a very important VIP coming in, and this person's been trouble before. I need to be close by."

Callahan tilts his head. "A very important VIP?"

I nod, halfway through pulling up the schedule. "Yes. Like… very important."

He blinks at me. “So… a Very Important Very Important Person?”

I pause. "...Shut up."

He doesn’t smile, but he looks amused with himself.

I mutter something under my breath about regretting ever speaking to him.

“Relax,” he says, as if my discomfort is almost entertaining for him. “We can watch the security feed from your office, then.”

"Oh, that's really not necessary⁠—"

"Shouldn't be a problem," he continues, like I didn’t just try to stop him. "Better than reviewing on the floor with distractions."

I scramble for an excuse. "That's really okay⁠—"

"It makes sense." His voice is final. "I'll walk with you."

I stare at him. Because now I have no way out. Which means I'm about to be locked in my office with him.

With a desk.

A very sturdy desk.

And desks are very similar to tables.

I need to stop.

I force a tight-lipped smile, turning toward my office. "Great. Let's do that."

I move ahead quickly, hoping he won't notice the fact that I'm actively trying to put distance between us. It doesn't help. Because he follows—long, steady strides, completely unbothered, moving like he owns the damn space. His presence fills the hallway, making it feel smaller somehow.

I tell myself not to look. But of course, I do. Because how could I not? He walks with that quiet, commanding energy, like a man who doesn't just exist in a room—he dominates it. His sleeves are rolled up just enough to be a problem. Because I can see his forearms—tan, strong, laced with muscle. And the edges of his tattoos, peeking out from beneath the crisp fabric of his button-down, ink curling up his skin.