Wendy
If direct attacks and midnight seduction campaigns in his study weren’t enough to break Reed Wyatt’s self-control, then it was time to deploy my most reliable and shameless strategy.
I needed my tiny five-year-old accomplice.
Friday morning arrived bright and warm, sunlight spilling through the kitchen windows in soft golden streaks.
Reed was sitting at the head of the breakfast table looking unfairly composed in a charcoal-gray suit, one hand wrapped around a coffee mug while the other scrolled calmly through emails on his tablet.
He looked relaxed. Controlled. Completely unaffected by the psychological warfare I had spent the last two days unleashing on him.
Which was honestly insulting.
William was sitting beside him, happily drowning an entire stack of blueberry pancakes
