Lacy
I hate him.
I hate the way he sits at the head of the conference table like he owns every molecule of oxygen in the room. I hate the way his sleeves are always rolled to his elbows, exposing forearms corded with muscle and veins that make my mouth water even when I’m trying to pitch ideas he’s about to shred.
I hate the deep timbre of his voice when he says “Not quite there yet, Lacy” like he’s doing me a favor by pointing out every flaw in my work. Most of all, I hate how devastatingly gorgeous he is while he’s doing it….dark hair just long enough to curl at the nape, sharp jawline shadowed with perpetual five-o’clock scruff, eyes the color of aged whiskey that seem to see straight through every layer of professionalism I’ve tried to build.
His name is Ethan Voss.
And tonight,
