CHAPTER EIGHT - DAMIEN

I stared at the cooling coffee on my desk, wondering why it tasted so damn good. I wasn’t a man who praised people or things, but the coffee spoke for itself—and no one could hear my thoughts anyway.

I rubbed the bridge of my nose and forced my gaze away from the scattered files. The numbers were finally done right. No thanks to the people paid to do the work. But thanks to a pair of sharp eyes that didn’t belong where they insisted on being.

Tanya Reed.

There it was again—her name crawling through my mind like an itch I couldn’t scratch. I hated that. I didn’t get distracted. Not by people. Not by women. And definitely not by cleaners.

I leaned back in my chair, letting the leather sigh beneath me. Maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe it was the fact that I hadn’t gotten laid in… hell, longer than I cared to admit.

Fine—several months.

A drought of my own making. I’d been too busy, too impatient, too uninterested in small talk, dinner dates, or women who mistook my silence for mystery instead of disinterest. Especially the ones who agreed to “no strings attached” then got attached anyway. They’d become such a nuisance that I’d basically taken a vacation from sex.

Sex had always been transactional for me. So I made sure I paid well enough for it. I also made sure they used protection—every time. The shot, the pill, you name it. I refused to get trapped by a desperate woman who wanted money, love, or both.

So maybe that explained the flicker of interest. The momentary lapse. The way my attention snagged on the fullness of her lips… the soft curve of her hips… unintentionally provoking.

Annoying. Infuriating.

I sat forward and shoved the thought away until my jaw tightened. This was ridiculous. I had an entire corporation relying on my competence. A board breathing down my neck. A father who considered mistakes a personal insult. A half-collapsing finance department to rebuild.

I didn’t have time to entertain the memory of a woman who didn’t know how to modulate her sarcasm.

Greyson knocked. “Sir?”

“Yes.”

“Your flight details are finalized. Wheels up at five forty-five. The London conference begins tomorrow morning.”

Good. The unavoidable, extremely public circus where CEOs and investors gathered to pretend they liked one another. Normally, I hated it. But today? It sounded like the break I needed.

“Send the itinerary to my phone,” I said. “And tell James to prep the car.”

“Yes, sir.”

I called HR and PR next. “What’s the plan for the situation at hand?”

“A top director from our Dreamsville branch will be here first thing tomorrow as we find a replacement for Hale,” HR said.

“And the media?”

“We’ve put measures in place to ensure nothing leaks before the official statement,” PR added.

“That will be all.”

Two more meetings—partners, the regional board—dragged through the afternoon.

By 3 p.m., I stood, grabbed my coat, and left. The elevator chimed open into the underground garage where my black Maybach waited. James stood beside it, immaculate.

“Sir,” he greeted, opening the door.

“Airport.”

“Your bags were sent ahead.”

“Good.”

I slid into the seat. As the door shut, something in my peripheral vision caught my attention. I ignored it. I didn’t have time for cowardly employees who hid whenever they saw me.

I tried to keep my mind blank, but the image resurfaced anyway. The way she’d stood in my office—exhausted but sharp, stubborn but calm. The way she’d leaned over my desk, hair falling forward, smelling faintly like lavender. Pointing out the error confidently enough that even now—

Fuck.

I rolled my shoulders back.

This wasn’t attraction. This was lack of release paired with mild intellectual admiration. A biological glitch. One I would correct soon enough.

It had been too long. Far too long.

The London conference would straighten my head out. The board would be there. Foreign investors. People who demanded precision. People who didn’t leave sticky notes with neat, taunting handwriting lying around.

And if that didn’t work, I was going to get laid.

The car merged onto the highway. The private airstrip came into view. James parked.

I stepped out, cool air hitting my face as I made my way toward the jet.

“Have a pleasant flight, sir,” James said.

I nodded. “Handle everything here.”

“Of course.”

I boarded the plane, sat, and opened my laptop. Work flooded the screen—figures, demands, projections.

Good. Numbers were predictable. Women were not. Women with sharp tongues, even worse. Women who didn’t fear me… problematic.

I started typing, focus restored. Out of sight. Not out of mind. Not yet.

But soon. London would cure this. Distance would cure this. And when I returned, the irritation would be gone. She would fade back into insignificance. I would never think about Tanya Reed again.

That was the plan.

A stupid one, apparently.

Because for the first time in years, as the engines roared and the jet angled into the sky, my mind didn’t go to numbers. Or investors. Or my father’s expectations.

It went to her.

A cleaner who stood too tall for her job, who analyzed decimals like breathing, who talked to me like I didn’t own this city.

I closed my eyes and cursed.

It had been too damn long since I’d had sex.

That had to be the explanation.

It was the only one I was willing to accept.