Macy’s heart pounded as she stepped into Luke Harrington’s private office at 10:47 PM. The rest of the 40th floor was completely dark and silent. Only the soft glow of his desk lamp illuminated the room.
Luke sat behind the massive glass desk, tie loosened, the top buttons of his crisp white shirt undone. At 41, he looked every bit the powerful CEO — sharp jaw, dark hair slightly tousled from running his hands through it, and those intense blue eyes that pinned her in place the moment she entered.
“You’re late, Macy,” he said, voice low and controlled. “I told you 10:30.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Harrington,” she replied, clutching the revised quarterly report to her chest. Her tight navy pencil skirt hugged her hips, and her white silk blouse was unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of lace br
