By six-thirty in the evening, Dawnat had begun emptying out floor by floor. The once-busy office had slowly dissolved into quietness.
And yet, Penelope Adams was still very much trapped inside Calvin Dawson’s office with approximately seventeen unfinished reports and a rapidly dying will to live.
She stared blankly at her screen. Then at the spreadsheet. Then back at the screen again.
“…I hate figures,” she muttered.
“You’ve said that three times in the last hour.”
Her soul nearly evacuated her body. Penelope spun around sharply to him.
Calvin looked up from his desk without even blinking, one hand still flipping through documents.
“You are like a ghost,” she accused.
“That sounds like a you problem.”
Her lips twitched. So unfair. This man shouldn’t be capable of humor. Not after
