“Hi, I'm Mia Bonney. I believe someone arranged office space for me?”
“Of course, Ms. Bonney. Mr. Taylor mentioned you'd be coming.” She hands me a visitor's badge. “Eleventh floor.” She gestures to a girl with a bright smile, approaching us. “Amanda will show you to your temporary office.”
Mr. Taylor?I don't have time to ask before being ushered toward the elevator by the young assistant.
As the elevator doors begin to close, a hand shoots out to stop them.
Of course.
Dark hazel brown eyes, full lips, broad shoulders, and the kind of slow, confident energy that makes a woman instantly rethink her emotional boundaries—Grant Taylor steps inside like the universe sent him just to test my last thread of sanity.
He’s dressed differently today. No cowboy hat. Just neatly styled chestnut hair—the kind that curls slightly at the nape of his neck in a way that practically begs for fingers to slide through—a tailored button-down under a dark blazer that fits far too well,dark blue Wranglers and a grin that settles somewhere deep in my stomach and sets up permanent residence.
Our eyes meet. His flicker with recognition, then something hotter—mischief and challenge all wrapped up in one damn smile spreads across his face.
“Well, well,” he drawls, leaning one arm lazily against the wall. “Mia-from-not-around-here. You stalking me, darlin’?” his voice drops deep and low.
I snort, trying to maintain composure. “You caught me. I arranged for my flight to be redirected, my luggage lost, and my entire itinerary upended, just to trap you in an elevator. I’m very committed.”
His laugh fills the confined space. It’s warm and low and does unholy things to my pulse.
“Nowthat’sdedication,” he says, eyes gleaming.
“Excuse me,” I say, shifting my stance, straightening my spine, with my chin lifting in challenge, crossing my arms—unintentionally also pushing out my breasts.Great. Real subtle, Mia.
His gaze drops, slow and unhurried, drinking me in like he’s got all day, dragging from the curve of my bust back up to meet my eyes.
And hell if he doesn’t look like he just enjoyed the view.
And I hate how my skin prickles with awareness at the attention.
“Reverse stalking doesn’t work the same way as reverse psychology, you know,” I mutter, pretending his gaze doesn’t affect me in the slightest.
“I don’t know,” he murmurs,thatsouthern drawl thick enough to lasso someone with. “but it sure sounds exactly like what someone experienced in stalkingwouldsay.”
I roll my eyes so hard I nearly sprain something, while he reaches to press the PR floor button—never mind the fact it's already lit and glowing like his ego.
Amanda clears her throat. I’d forgotten she was even here. Her eyes bounce between us like a spectator who walked into the wrong elevator and therightsoap opera.
“You two know each other?” she asks.
“We met at Millman’s.” his eyes never leave mine. “Over underwear.”
Amanda’s eyebrows shoot up so high I’m surprised they don’t detach. My entire body floods with heat.
“It wasn’t like that,” I blurt. “Mr. Taylor was just… helping me pick up something I dropped.”
“Always happy to lend a hand when lace is involved,” he says with a wink thatshouldbe illegal in confined public spaces. It lands like a lightning strike. My panties? Vaporized. Gone. Rest in peace.
The elevator dings, and Amanda escapes like she’s running from second-hand sexual tension. I make a move to follow.
“This is my floor too,” he says, falling into step beside me.
Of course it is.
“What brings you to Taylor PR?” he asks casually.
“I'm a writer. My editor arranged temporary office space while I sort out some...travel complications.”
