I tune him out entirely.
My underwear is clenched in my sweaty palm. My dress suddenly feels shamefully thin and the air-conditioned breeze is finding places it has no business finding. Every nerve ending below my waist is screaming.
And somewhere at the other end of this table, Lukas Lazarev is waiting.
I don’t dare look at him. If I look at him right now, I’ll either burst into flames or climb over this table and do something that’ll get us both arrested.
So I keep my eyes fixed on Preston’s moving lips and wonder what the hell I’m supposed to do next.
The answer arrives moments later.
Lukas rises from his chair and buttons his jacket. “If you’ll pardon me,” he says to no one in particular.
He walks the length of the table. As he passes my chair, his hand extends toward me at his
