I press the link.

And, it navigates me back to her page.

Tess Armstrong of Domina Designs.

I scroll down, passing over the photos I’ve seen for the umpteenth time. They’re all pictures of her posing with her clients, next to her designs, but I stop on her headshot.

The fullness of her lips are coated with her signature red lipstick and they sparkle against her crystal blue eyes. Her hair is pulled back, showing every flawless inch of her face.

Uhh… what the fuck am I doing?

Who am I?

This is not Austin Randall. I do not fucking creep on women, let alone daydream about them. Fuck that. Remember, baby, it was only a few chapters ago I was jerking off to these pictures. Why am I so fucking caught up in her?

Fuck. Fine, I’ll admit it. This isn’t the first time I’ve gone to her website today and it’s not even noon yet. It’s getting fucking ridiculous, I know, but it’s all in the name of preparation. Right? I have to know my competitors both inside and out.

So far, I’m doing a damn good job at both.

I exit out of her site in frustration.

I’m really never like this. Ever. I’m a man who needs no woman. They have their purpose in my life, of course, but like I said before, it’s temporary. I cast them aside as soon as they stop screaming my name in utter appreciation. I’ve never thought about any of them after that.

One and done. Always.

But fucking Tess.

It has to be because she’s my competitor and she knows how to put me in my place. And, that’s occasionally below her. I will always loathe being second place, all I want to do is stand behind Tess and look at her perfect ass. Grab it. Squeeze it.

Fuck.

I need to get my head back in the fucking game.

I slam my computer shut and push it to the end of my desk. Grabbing the blueprints for my sofa, I look over the dimensions to ensure their accuracy and go over the specifications of the leather material I’m using. I also triple-check my invoices, making sure the materials will be here on time.

Everything looks ready to go, which is not a surprise.

I grab my desk phone and hit my assistant’s button.

“Mr. Randall,” she answers almost immediately and in an upbeat tone.

“Miranda, when did the team say they’re going to have the sofa completed?” I ask, a sudden ball of anxiety forming in my gut.

I need to win this round. I can’t let Tess take this from me again. Regardless of what I think I might be feeling for her, she is still my motherfucking competition.

“Tonight. However, I have something you might be interested in. Do you need any more coffee before I come in?” I hear her rummaging around her desk, rifling through some papers and what not.

“Sure, that’d be great. Thanks.”

Momentarily, the door opens. Miranda enters with a folder tucked under one arm and a steaming hot mug of coffee in the other hand.

“What’s that?” I take the coffee out of her hands and take a sip, nodding towards the folder she’s holding.

She pulls the folder out from under her arm and props it open in front her. A small smile curves her mouth when she looks inside.

“Seriously, Miranda. I don’t have all day,” I press her.

“Ok, well, I have some information that will give you the advantage for the next contest,” she says, raising her eyebrows.

“And…what is that information?”

“Here, read it for yourself,” she closes the folder and hands it to me.

I put my coffee down and open the folder, splaying the varying documents around on my desk. I read over Miranda’s oh-so intriguing information, trying to uncover what it is that’s so damning.

But, as soon as I settle on the letters spelling out, Domina, sofa, fabric…my interest is sincerely piqued.

“Have you been doing some investigative work?” I scold Miranda sarcastically.

“It’s my belief that everyone should be overly prepared when going into each round of a competition. And, that requires ample amount of research on both the client and the competitors,” she says in such a professional tone it makes me grin.

“Well done Miranda.”

“Thank you sir.”

I continue to parse through the rest of the files, sipping on my coffee every now and again.

Oh, shit.

Is this true?

I clasp the piece paper in my hand, darting my eyes between Miranda and the document. My shocked expression telling her everything she needs to know.

“Yes, exactly.” She smiles, nodding her head to emphasize how big of a deal this is. Then she crosses her arms and leans on her heels, feeling very confident in herself. As she should.

This folder contains everything I need to know to win the next round. To win this whole fucking competition.

Not only will I win—I’ll be putting Tess in her rightful place. Under me.

Or, really, second place.

She’ll be going down and it’ll be in a grand fashion—bigger than any scheme either of us has pulled.

And all I need to do is sign on this dotted line and authorize the purchase.

I reach for a pen on the side of my desk and scan over the wording on paper once more before I open the cap.

For a moment, I’m still. This might be a competition and I am willing to do just about anything to win, but it’s Tess I’ll be railroading.

Can I do that to her?

Is this all worth it?

I look up at Miranda again, and she senses my hesitation. Loosening the grip on her arms, she lets them hang by her side and leans over my desk to see if I’ve sign it or not.

Her brows furrow in concern and she opens her mouth to say something.

“Mr.—”

I hold my hand up to stop her from saying something I don’t want to hear. I definitely don’t want to get into why I’m feeling this way…and especially with my employee.

Goddamn it, I’m fucking Austin Randall. I’m not some love-struck teenager who’ll throw everything away because some woman gave me attention. I’m sorry, baby. If you thought I’d be that romance hero who’ll drop his livelihood for a woman, you’re reading the wrong book because that’s not me.

I made this company into what it is and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let that dwindle away anytime soon. I will continue to do whatever it takes to make Oakmont Furniture the best it can be.

And Tess Armstrong will not deter me from that.

I sign my name on the dotted line, piling the papers up in a neat stack when I’m done. Handing the folder over to Miranda, I feel vindicated and powerful.

Like Austin Randall should feel.

But as soon as Miranda leaves, I look at the door shutting behind her and the reality of my signature sinks in.

If I wanted this so badly then why do I feel like I just made a terrible mistake?