As I sat down and began the interview, my mind wandered to Cannon. He’d been gone this morning by the time I got up. For a moment, I thought I’d dreamed everything that had happened yesterday afternoon. But the evidence of his early-morning rituals had been there: a damp towel hanging next to mine in the bathroom, a coffee mug in the sink. But even more intriguing had been a large bouquet of fuchsia and crimson wildflowers that had been sitting in a glass of water on my kitchen table, along with a package of dog biscuits. It was a nice gesture; I’d give him that.

Only once I was in the shower had the memory of our late-night encounter come rushing back. My eyes had shot open, soap bubbles stinging as I blinked and gasped under the harsh spray. There was no forgetting last night.

Now that wouldn’t have seemed out of place in a dream—one I’d deny in the morning and replay with my BOB at night. His nude body rivaled those marble sculptures at the art museum. I’d been overwhelmed at the sheer size and hard maleness of him. Broad shoulders, toned pecs leading down to six fully defined abs, and a tapered waist, the likes of which I’d only seen on male models. The fine smattering of hair told me he manscaped thoroughly and often. And the way he’d stood there, still damp and flushed from the shower, his smirk unapologetic, his large half-erect penis hanging between his legs like an anaconda escaped from the zoo . . . a warm shudder passed through me at the memory.

“Uh . . . ma’am? Is something wrong?” Ben asked, breaking off his response to the question I’d posed thirty seconds ago and now couldn’t remember.

Shit. I nodded rapidly. “I’m fine, thank you. Just a little tired. Please continue.”

I was the exact opposite of fine. Every detail of Cannon’s naked body refused to leave my head—and that stuff just wasn’t something I should know about my best friend’s little brother. But it was too late. My brain was permanently altered. From here on out, I wouldn’t be able to think of him as anything other than a sexual being.

And the thing that had really gotten to me?

Cannon’s voice had remained calm and certain, like he wasn’t the least bit embarrassed about standing on display before me. He’d remained rooted there, shamelessly confident, letting me peruse him in all his glory. And he watched me watch him, his eyebrow raised flirtatiously, almost as though he was challenging me to react. Daring me to look my fill, come closer, touch him, satisfy my . . . curiosity.

Clearing my throat, I picked up Ben Stevens’s résumé. “Can you go into more detail about your previous role, and how that fit into your planned career path?” Hopefully I could get my shit together enough to pay attention and evaluate his experience this time.

Ben dutifully launched into a dull and lengthy description of every task required of him at his old company. I jotted notes as he spoke, trying to focus on him and not my body’s breathless, heart-pounding reaction to the memory of Cannon.

Twenty minutes later, I still didn’t have any idea if Ben was the right person for the job. My brain was so scrambled, I was having a hard time concentrating.

“Can you tell me why you’re interested in the office-manager role?” I asked.

Ben’s brows drew together and he frowned. “You already asked me that.”

“Right.” I nodded, smiling while screaming internally.

My phone vibrated on the conference table beside me. I grabbed it, grateful for the brief reprieve—until I saw it was a text from Cannon. Flipping the phone over on the table without reading it, I took a deep breath. I didn’t want to be rude to my candidate. But knowing there was a text waiting for me from Cannon meant I was even less focused on what Ben was saying than before.

A few minutes later I ended the interview, thanking him for his time, and told him I’d be in touch. Once he was headed toward the lobby where the receptionist would show him out, I lunged for my phone, typing my passcode wrong twice before finally getting it right.

Cannon: Sorry about last night. I hope you weren’t too traumatized.

My jaw dropped open. God, the man was ballsy. I’d give him that. Most people would want to forget the whole thing ever happened. Yet here he was, calling attention to it, trying to push me for a response. Or maybe he was just trying to embarrass me.

Well, fuck that. If he wanted me to freak out—or collapse onto his dick in surrender—he was messing with the wrong girl.

Paige: Next time you want me to see you naked, ask first.

Cannon: Noted.

I chuckled to myself before realizing that I’d implied there was going to be a next time. My laughter died on my lips. I’d unintentionally given him the upper hand.

Cannon: I have a rare weekend off, so I just wanted to check in and see if you had any weekend plans. Don’t want to cramp your style.

Paige: No plans as of yet.

I hoped I didn’t sound too lame typing that.

Cannon: Then I guess I’ll see you at home.

I tucked my phone into the pocket of my jeans, trying to ignore the warning bells ringing in my head. I headed back to my office at the far end of the building, my heart thrumming with the news that I’d be subjected to forty-eight hours of Cannon’s sexiness.

On one hand, I couldn’t deny I was looking forward to the eye candy. And it would be refreshing to have a conversation partner who responded with words instead of barks and tail wags. But I liked my routine; I was used to a certain amount of alone time. If Cannon was this distracting when he wasn’t even physically present, how could I hope to be around him all weekend without losing my mind?