RONAN
I wasn’t supposed to think about her outside of the office.
But I found myself doing it anyway.
It started simple enough—I’d hear a song on the radio and think it sounded like something she’d hum without realizing it. Or I’d see a girl in a coffee shop, dark thick waves tumbling over her shoulder, and for a split second I’d think, Lyra.
I should’ve known better.
I did know better.
But when she walked into my office last week wearing that black sweater—the one that hugged her in all the ways I was trying not to notice—I knew I was in deep.
She had curves that could turn steel soft, and eyes that burned when she was angry. Lately, she was always angry.
Her hair looked like it would still smell like expensive perfume after a storm. And her mouth… I should not be thinking about h
