The morning sun filtered weakly through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Sinclair Group Headquarters, casting a pale light across the sleek conference room.
Dianne Blake adjusted her blazer nervously, tapping a pen against her notebook. She had spent the last few hours reviewing every detail of the brand overhaul report, determined to appear calm, collected, and completely unaffected by the lingering memory of Roy Sinclair’s touch the night before.
Professional first, Blake. You’re not falling for him. Not now. Not ever.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the soft click of the conference room door. She looked up, and there he was — Roy — every inch as infuriating and magnetic as she remembered. He leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, the faintest smirk tugging at the corners of
