Smith’s gaze flashed to mine with something that looked like concern. “It’s casual,” he said, directing his attention back to my brother.

“Isn’t it always with you, my man?” Cullen said with a wide grin.

A minute later, I managed to remove myself from the conversation with a mumbled excuse about needing to get something done, but for the rest of the morning, the scene replayed in my head.

This thing was supposed to be exactly that. Casual. What did it matter if Smith was seeing other women?

But, God, did it matter. I couldn’t get it out of my mind. If I kept this up with Smith—seeing him, flirting with him, kissing him—was I setting myself up for the heartbreak of the century?

Taking another sip of coffee from my trusty to-go mug, I opened up the design program to review the campaign I’d finished last week.

As I looked at the images of boy shorts and camisoles in the new spring line, in spite of my heartache over the reminder of Smith’s bad-boy nature, my mind wandered to much racier things . . .

The way Smith’s full, sensual mouth slid over terms like lace bodice, sweetheart cut, and ruching made my panties wet. And instead of teasing me for my overly complicated drink order like Cullen would have, Smith memorized the damn thing. A triple-shot venti soy-mocha latte with no whip. And delivered it to my desk without fanfare. No big production. No thank-you required. He gave it to me because he wanted to, knowing it would make me happy. Simple as that. Just the fact that a man was willing to do that for me without getting anything in return sparked something inside me.

The hardest part of all of this was that after our brief encounter, it wasn’t the sex that stuck with me. It was the intimacy that I missed. The way he’d gathered me up in his arms, pulled me in close to his chest—close enough to feel his body heat, to hear the steady thump of his heartbeat.

I missed the care he took with me, the tenderness I felt when his fingers moved over my skin, tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear. I hadn’t felt that kind of close connection with a man in a long time.

This might have been about sex when I started, but it had grown into something more. I didn’t want just sex like I’d initially thought. No, I wanted a man. And the man I wanted was Smith.

The building’s shared receptionist/secretary, Marjorie, poked her head into our office, and I resisted the urge to fan my face.

“You feeling okay, Evie? You look a little flushed,” she said, cocking her head as her perceptive blue eyes tried to peer into my soul.

She was a perfect secretary. Shared by all the tenants who rented offices in this building, she was the glue that held everything together. Super organized and a real scheduling wiz, but times like this, I wish she were just a tiny bit less observant.

I cleared my throat and pressed a hand to my cheek. “Yeah, I, uh . . . stopped at the gym during lunch for a yoga class. It’s been a while, so I’m a little overheated.”

She stepped into my office and slid a file folder onto my desk. “Oh, cool, what gym?”

What gym, indeed—liar, liar, pants on fire?

“It’s not really a gym gym, per se. It’s like, you know how they have pop-up restaurants around the city? There are pop-up yoga classes. It’s sort of an underground thing, so that’s probably why you haven’t heard of it.”

Or maybe it was the fact that they only existed in my all-too-fertile imagination?

“Ooh, that sounds so cool! When is the next one? I’ll go with you.”

I let out a semi-hysterical laugh that I disguised as a cough. “See, that’s the thing. You never know. Every so often, they just . . . pop up.”

Her brow furrowed and she opened her mouth like she was going to ask more questions, but then seemed to think better of it. “Interesting. Well, in any case, keep it up. You’re positively glowing.”

She hurried out of the office, and the second she closed the door behind her, I folded in half and banged my forehead on my desk with a groan.

Smith wasn’t even in the room, and he was still wreaking havoc on me. My brother noticed me acting weird, and even the receptionist had known something was up. If Smith and I didn’t have sex—and soon—I was pretty sure I was going to wind up in a room with padded walls.

I snatched up the file folder and managed to get lost in work for a while. Once I had come up with a new design concept for an ad, I headed into the copy room so I could blow up the printed version to tack on my wall and see it side by side with the last one to make sure they were different enough, but still cohesive.

I had just tugged the still-warm sheet of paper from the copier when goose bumps popped up on my arms. A second later, warm hands slid around my midriff.

“Want to play bad boss and naughty secretary with me?”

Smith’s breath tickled my ear, and my nipples instantly went hard.

“Smith, let me go. What if—”

“Marjorie and your brother are on a conference call in the conference room down the hall. They’ll be at least ten minutes,” he murmured, nipping at my earlobe in a way that shot a bolt of heat straight through my body.

Or they could get done early, and one of them could walk in.

But I couldn’t get the words out because Smith’s hands were sliding up from my waist, higher until he closed them over my breasts. I gasped, and the sheet of paper fell from my limp fingers and fluttered to the floor. He pressed forward until I was pinned against the machine and could feel every inch of his rock-hard length against my ass.