I almost kissed her in my office.

My feet connect lightly with the surface of the treadmill in my personal gym. I converted one of the guest bedroom suites into a fully appointed workout room a year ago, but I don’t normally spend time here. There’s a private fitness center on the second floor that I prefer. 

That I usually prefer. I’ve spent so much time exercising this weekend that the trip downstairs, even by private elevator, seems like an unnecessary hassle.

I’m out of ideas. I can’t get her out of my mind. Those curves under that skirt suit, those eyes gleaming from her flawless face—they’ve flashed into my thoughts over and over again from the moment she walked out of my office until now.

I almost kissed her.

I might be the next in line to assume complete ownership of Pace, Inc., but that doesn’t absolve me of the kind of trouble that would ensue if Christine walked in on me with my tongue buried in a woman’s mouth—especially if that woman is one I might ultimately be making a business deal with.

Not that that stops me from wanting to bend her over that desk, Christine be damned.

I almost lost control. That’s the part that shakes me the most. Isabella Gabriel’s eyes, her lips, the way she was practically on her knees begging me for a way out of her dilemma—all of it combined to intoxicate me, to overwhelm me.

An evening’s worth of drinks with Dominic Wilder and company didn’t clear my head. I have a standing arrangement with him and a few other guys who take business seriously. Once a month, we get together. When the first round comes out, we talk strategy, acquisitions, plans. Once the second round is served, all business talk is off limits.

Isabella Gabriel’s name was on the tip of my tongue all Friday evening. None of the women fluttering around the table in their too-short dresses and makeup designed to entice made an impression. I opened my mouth to mention her, but every time, the words caught in my throat.

Why? 

I bump up the speed on the treadmill, my lungs burning with the effort.

Why couldn’t I mention her?

Why is she so impossible to stop thinking of?

I run for another mile, then slap my hand down on the stop bar.

Weights. I need weights. I choose a set that’s almost too heavy and force myself through a full circuit, my muscles growing more fatigued with every second that passes by.

A weekend of this. Weights. Treadmills. Round after round of drinks. Sunday afternoon, and I’m considering going into the office, finding something to do...but sitting behind my desk will only make me think of her, her fingertips against the shining surface...

I throw the weights back into the rack and thunder through my penthouse. The staff have the day off, so I’m completely alone.

There’s only one more option, and I’ve been keeping it at arm’s length since Friday afternoon, when Isabella Gabriel waltzed into my office and took over my brain.

In the shower, I turn the water on hot and let it cascade down over my shoulders and back—anything to delay taking the next step with this. I don’t want her to know how much she’s already consumed me, but I’m not in the mood to call anyone from Dominic’s group and plan another outing. I also can’t sit around in the penthouse all evening, my phone—and my last resort—burning a hole in my consciousness.

Screw it.

I step out, towel off, pull an outfit from my closet—sweatpants and a soft t-shirt. I’m not going out again. I’m definitely not going to try to run into Isabella. The city is too big for that kind of goose chase, and without knowing her plans...

Which I have no reason to know. Not for another week.

In my living room, I sit back on the cool leather cushions on the sofa, phone in one hand, glossy business card in the other.

Before the door to my office was finished swinging open, Christine interrupting the most charged moment of my entire life and the impulsive kiss I was going for, Isabella had straightened up, pulling herself far enough out of my grasp that I’m almost certain Christine didn’t see anything. Then, a little smile playing over her lips, she’d reached into her purse.

“Here’s my contact information, Mr. Pace,” she said, as if we were concluding a run-of-the-mill business interaction, as if the little standoff she’d had with Christine had never happened at all. Her eyes flashed, lingering on mine, but her voice gave nothing away. “Stay in touch.”

I’d taken the card between my fingers and slipped it into my pocket, nodding at her with the kind of professional smile I’d use to dismiss someone from my office. A slight raise of her eyebrows, just for me, and then Isabella was heading for the door, stepping neatly around Christine, leaving me there with an enormous bulge in my pants and a whirlwind in my mind.

The card has her name printed in bold letters. Underneath, it reads “Founder and CEO, Gabriel Luxe.” Across the bottom are two phone numbers, office and cell.

I punch the cell number into my phone, saving it as a contact, and then I bring up a text message. Calling her will seem too desperate, and I’m not willing to give her that satisfaction. Other satisfactions, yes. Knowing that she’s taken over my thoughts all weekend, no.

I type out I’ve been thinking of next Friday and delete all of it. What the hell am I thinking? 

Start over.

What’s your dress size?

I laugh and stab my thumb against the screen, sending the message before I can think about it anymore. That will have her wondering. That will have her staring at her phone somewhere in Manhattan and imagining exactly what I’m planning.

The answer comes back almost immediately.

Who’s this? I don’t give out my measurements to strangers.

Did I—did I not give her my phone number in the office? No. Of course I didn’t. Jesus.

You don’t recognize my number?

Good save.

There’s a longer pause.

 I should have known it was you.

Then she doesn’t say anything. A minute ticks by, then two.

She’s toying with me.

I sit there with the phone in my hands, my thumbs hovering over the screen. Wait thirty seconds more. Another thirty…do not send her another message.

I’m on the verge of giving in when another message arrives.

Four.

Victory.