Page 89 of Manhattan State of Mind

Kissing my boss? That’s not my style. I’m careful, cautious. My job is all that’s keeping me vaguely sane right now—even with Taylor as boss woman.

But now, I’ve blurred the lines with JP Wolfe, turning into some stereotypical office joke. From what I’ve seen, these situations rarely end well for the women involved. Meanwhile, the men just carry on, respect intact.

As if I, Memoryless Woman, need any more confusion in my life.

For all I know, he’s got a revolving door policy with the women in the office. Am I the flavor of the week? Would things have gone further if I hadn’t bolted?

Does he regret it?

That kiss.

Hot as fuck.

No man has ever looked at me with such intensity before. He felt thick and heavy and fucking delicious between my legs.

My nipples are still hard, like his phantom fingers are still brushing over them.

I give Daredevil another lingering once-over. He’s tall, ripped, just like JP. Imagine if it were actually him…

But that’s just stupid. JP Wolfe wouldn’t be caught dead at a comic convention.

Matty erupts with a snort so loud, everyone in the villa must hear it. The poor guy bolts upright with a startled expression.

I can’t help cracking a smile. Well, there’s my alarm clock—time to roll up my sleeves and show Taylor and JP Wolfe that I’m not completely useless.

???

Following a lavish breakfast delivered from one of JP’s nearby hotels, we’re huddled around a large table on the lawn. Taylor holds court at the top, next to the glaringly empty whiteboard.

I keep eyeing everyone, trying to work out if any of them caught our steamy little moment. They all seem blissfully oblivious, engrossed in Post-its and half-demolished croissants.

What’s the post-kiss protocol with Wolfe? Pretend it never happened?

“Earth to Lucy.” Taylor clicks her fingers, shooting me a stink-eye. “Are you losing your memory again?”

“Sorry,” I mutter, trying my best to look innocent. “Could you run that by me again? The heat’s making my brain a little… gooey.”

Dwayne stares at me. “I’ve been watching you and something’s not right.”

Oh God.

Taylor repeats her question, saving me from more scrutiny. But then, there’s a shift. Like someone cranked up the voltage, and now the air is crackling with energy.

Uh-oh.

My fingers tighten around the cool glass of orange juice, nerves coming alive in my belly.

I throw a quick, terse reply at Taylor, trying to maintain a professional facade, but the truth is, I’m on edge.

Seriously on edge.

Everyone’s heads turn.

I risk a peek, immediately regretting it.

Holy fucking hell. That’s quite a sight.

Dressed down in snug jeans and a simple white T-shirt, he’s less Wall Street tycoon, and more beach hunk on a photoshoot. This casual JP thing is a disaster; it’s making him way too human.