The elevator smelled like war. That crisp, cold corporate tension kind of war... with a hint of sandalwood cologne that must have been tailored in Paris and rubbed into the bones of Greek gods before landing on Ryan Glasgow’s neck. I didn’t plan to be alone with him. Hell, I avoided it like it was toxic gas. But fate, that rotten little mistress, had other plans. The elevator doors opened on the twenty-second floor, and there he was, standing like a black-and-white movie scene... dark suit, unreadable face, the kind of man who looked like he could ruin your taxes, your career, and your self-esteem in five seconds flat. I tried to pretend like I didn’t even see him. Like he was a coat rack. A six-foot-three emotionally stunted coat rack who once made me feel like the earth spun exclusively
