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meetings pleasant: no coffee, no pastries, just a room full of people, pristine slides and handouts, and, as always, endless work.
    The lobby was empty; the wide space opened three stories up and gleamed with polished granite flooring and travertine walls. As the elevator doors closed behind me, I gave myself a mental pep talk, recounting all the arguments we’d had and the jackass comments he’d made.
    “Type, don’t write anything longhand. Your handwriting looks like a third grader’s, Miss Mills.”
    “If I wanted to enjoy your entire conversation with your graduate advisor, I’d leave my office door open and get some popcorn. Please, keep your voice down.”
    I could do this. That bastard had picked the wrong woman to mess with, and I’d be damned if I would let him intimidate me. I lowered my hand to my ass and smiled wickedly . . . power panties.
    As I expected, the office was still empty when I arrived. I gathered everything he would need for his presentation and headed to the conference room to set up. I tried to ignore the Pavlovian response I had to seeing the wall of windows, the gleaming conference table.
    Stop it, body. Engage now, brain.
    Glancing around the sun-filled room, I set the files and laptop on the large conference table and helped the catering staff set up the breakfast spread along the back wall.
    Twenty minutes later the proposals were set out, the projector was prepared, and refreshments were ready. With time to spare I found myself wandering over to the window. I reached out and touched the smooth glass, overwhelmed by the sensations it brought; the heat of his body against my back, the feel of the cool glass against my breasts, and the raw animalistic sound of his voice in my ear.
    “Ask me to make you come.”
    I closed my eyes and leaned in, pressing my palms and forehead against the window, and let the power of the memories overtake me.
    I was startled from my fantasy by a throat clearing behind me. “Daydreaming on the clock?”
    “Mr. Ryan,” I gasped, spinning around. Our eyes locked and I was once again struck by how beautiful he was. He broke eye contact to survey the room.
    “Miss Mills,” he said, each word sharp and clipped. “I’ll be giving the presentation on the fourth floor.”
    “Excuse me?” I asked, irritation flooding me. “Why? We always use this room. And why did you wait until the last minute to tell me?”
    “Because,” he growled, leaning on his fists on the table, “I am the boss. I make the rules, and I decide when and where things happen. Maybe if you weren’t intent on staring out windows, you would have taken the time this morning to come confirm the details with me.”
    My mind flooded with white-hot images of my fist connecting with his throat. It took every bit of control I had not to jump across the table and strangle him. A smug smile crept over his face.
    “Fine by me,” I said, swallowing my annoyance. “No good decisions are ever made in this room anyway .”

    When I turned the corner into the new conference room, my eyes immediately met Mr. Ryan’s. Sitting in his chair, his hands predictably tented in front of him, he was the portrait of barely contained patience. Typical.
    Then I noticed the person beside me: Elliott Ryan.
    “Here, let me help you with that, Chloe,” he said, taking a stack of folders from my arms so I could more easily maneuver the cart full of food into the room.
    “Thank you, Mr. Ryan.” I shot a pointed look at my boss.
    “Chloe,” the elder Mr. Ryan said, laughing. He took some handouts and sent the stack around the table for the attendees to take. “How many times do I need to tell you to call me Elliott?” He was every bit as handsome as both of his sons. Tall and muscular, all three Ryan men shared the same chiseled features. Elliott’s salt-and-pepper hair had turned silver over the years since I’d first met him, but he was still one of the most handsome men I’d ever met.
    I smiled