"You’re going to regret this in the morning," he muttered. He bent his head, brushing a kiss against her forehead instead of her mouth, clinging to restraint. "I will stop by to see the look on your face." The corner of his lips tugged with wry amusement, masking the storm he was hiding.
"Good night, sexy." Her slurred farewell rolled off her tongue.
Winn gave a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as he rose to his feet. Sexy. She thought him sexy. He adjusted his suit jacket, his body screaming at him for walking away, and headed out of the house.
Maybe he should have stayed with Sharona instead. She had offered coffee at her place while he waited for his Uber, her smile calm and unreadable, her presence alluring without being desperate. Sharona was a different kind of temptation—polished, deliberate, a woman who knew her worth.
She didn’t fawn, didn’t cling, didn’t flirt, yet Winn had no doubt if he’d dropped his pants, she wouldn’t have said no.
Ivy woke the next morning with her skull pounding. The sunlight knifed through her curtains, and she groaned, dragging the pillow over her head. Her throat was dry, her stomach uneasy.
She lay in bed for several minutes, piecing the night together. The party. The drinks. Reuben’s laugh. Winn’s steady hands, his commanding presence as he took her away from the crowd.
And then—oh God—the way he had carried her, his arms strong and unyielding, as if she weighed nothing.
The memory hit her all at once, and Ivy shot upright in bed, clutching her throbbing temples. "What the fuck?" she blurted out. Her heart raced.
Then she vaguely remembered details—blurred flashes of her drunken self, pulling Winn’s hand, begging him to touch her. The heat of her own desperation burned through her foggy memory.
"Oh my Lord. Ivy fucking Morales, what did you do?" she whispered to herself, pacing in a panic before collapsing dramatically back onto the mattress. "Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh God! Kill me now, please." She buried her hot face into the pillow, muffling a groan. "Ivy, what have you done?"
Her heart pounded as she stared blankly at the ceiling, trying to convince herself maybe—just maybe—it hadn’t happened the way she remembered. There was no denying it. She had begged her boss to kiss her again, to touch her. Professionalism? Gone. Pride? Shattered. Dignity? Buried six feet under.
She rubbed her temples. That’s when she noticed an aroma floating through the apartment. Coffee.
Her stomach dropped. Oh God, what now? Did he stay all night? She staggered out of bed, still clad in last night’s scandalous red dress. Her mascara smudged under her eyes gave her the tragic look of a raccoon who had been up all night partying. Either way, she wasn’t ready to face anyone.
Still, she followed the scent into the kitchen.
Standing there in her tiny, modest kitchen, looking absurdly out of place in his tshirt and jeans and military-straight posture, was Reese. His broad shoulders dwarfed her cabinets, his presence sucking the air right out of the room as he stirred sugar into a mug.
"Reese?" she squeaked. "What...what are you doing here?"
He turned with the same calm expression he always wore, as if catching him in her kitchen at the crack of dawn was the most natural thing in the world. "Mr. Kane charged me with keeping an eye on you since you were too out of it to lock the doors."
Her mouth fell open. "He asked you to stay?"
Reese turned back to the counter and poured steaming coffee into a mug. "He will be here soon," he added matter-of-factly, handing her the cup with a steady hand. "And I will be out of your hair."
"Oh my head is killing me," Ivy groaned, taking the mug.
"Why...why is Mr. Kane coming here?" Ivy asked.
Reese shrugged, utterly unfazed. "Check on you himself?"
"Why would he care? I’m just his secretary." Yeah, she should have remembered that last night when she’d been busy throwing herself at him. The memory burned, searing her insides.
Reese’s phone vibrated on the counter, its screen lighting up. He picked it up, glanced once, then slid it back into his pocket. "You should ask him yourself," he said with infuriating calm. "His Uber just dropped him off."
Ivy’s blood drained from her face. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t face him. Her body went into survival mode. She bolted, running out of the kitchen, back into her bedroom.
The second she shut the door behind her, she began pacing. "Oh God. Oh God. Oh no. What the hell do I do?" Her reflection in the mirror mocked her—hair a wild mess, last night’s dress still clinging to her body.
A knock broke through her spiraling thoughts.
"Shit!" She snapped, eyes darting around the room, desperately searching for an escape route.
"Ivy, I am coming in."
Panic clawed at her chest. She backed away from the door as if distance could save her, her hands flying up to smooth her hair, her lips muttering prayers to God.
The doorknob twisted, the hinges creaked, and then Winn pushed the door open.
He stepped inside casually, dressed in a plain black T-shirt that stretched indecently over his chest and shorts that showed off thighs no man had any business flaunting. He looked infuriatingly relaxed. And on his face was a smug smile.
That smile said I remember everything. I enjoyed every second. And so did you.
"Good morning, Morales," Winn drawled, his eyes raking over her from messy hair to bare feet. "You look...well-rested."
Ivy gaped at him. Her pulse thundered, her palms damp. Damn him.
"Mr. Kane, I am so sorry. I know it is unprofessional of me to... I don’t even know what came over me." She wanted the floor to open and swallow her whole.
"Good," he murmured. "You sobered up." He tilted his head ever so slightly, his mouth curving with a challenge. "Tell me... what happened last night?"