I walk into Byron DeWitt’s office and beam him my best smile.
What I’d really like to do is drop to my knees and crawl to him.
“Good morning, Mr. DeWitt,” I say brightly, extending my hand over the top of his ruthlessly organized desk. “It’s wonderful to meet you. I’m going to plan the heck out of your company Halloween party.”
He still hasn’t looked up from the memo he’s writing.
Hasn’t even acknowledged my presence.
I leave my hand right where it is, smiling even wider, taking the opportunity to study the man up close. He’s been starring in my waking thoughts and dreams alike for two years. The suit jacket that hugs his thick shoulders? I know the tailor who fitted him. The shaving cream he uses to stave off that black stubble that plagues his square jaw? I know the brand he uses. How it smells. And the sharp green eyes that finally tick up to mine?
They are responsible for every beat of my twenty-three-year-old heart.
He drops his pen when our eyes lock, his Adam’s apple squeezing past the tightly buttoned collar of his dress shirt. Hastily, he pushes up his black rimmed glasses and stands, upsetting a coffee mug on his desk. It splashes onto a neat stack of paperwork, black liquid slithering along the gleaming surface of his desk like a river. We reach for the box of tissues at the same time and our hands collide, stealing the strength right out of my knees. I fall into the chair facing his desk, my pulse haywire.
Cannon fire booms in my ears and the skin beneath my blouse is turning clammy, but I order my hands to move and we manage to sop up the coffee before it does too much damage, tossing the damp tissues into a waste basket.
“I’m sorry about that,” he says gruffly, the tips of his ears red. “I didn’t expect…no one told me to expect someone who looks like you.” Immediately, he pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly scolding himself on the inside. “That’s not what I meant. Well, it is what I meant, but it can’t be appropriate for me to say something like that. About your appearance. Jesus, I don’t usually have this problem—”
“Because most of our employees are in sweatpants and haven’t showered in a week?” He thinks I’m attractive. How am I not floating? How much longer can I act normal around this man who haunts my mind? “Don’t worry. I plan parties for software companies in Silicon Valley. Coders like to be comfortable.” I trail a finger down the row of buttons on my shirt and he tugs on the side of his collar. “I’m used to being the overdressed one in the room.”
“Right,” he rasps, his gaze briefly warming my breasts, before he determinedly pins it on the wall over my shoulder. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“Jane,” I say simply, begging him to repeat it. Please. Please.
A hot pulse begins between my thighs, the urge to touch myself fierce. Almost undeniable. It’s what I typically do when I think of this man. Byron DeWitt. CEO of the booming Silicon Valley technology company, Firestarter. He’s brilliant. A genius. He created a universal app for transportation information, putting train, bus, taxi and flight data at users’ fingertips—and that was only the beginning. Since then, he’s brought technology to its knees. Everyone else in the Valley is just trying to keep up.
Did I mention how beautiful he is?
Hot Nerd. That’s what the other girls at my event planning job call him.
Byron is six foot three, naturally muscular. Thick in places it should be illegal. And he clearly has no idea what to do with all of that size and strength. It’s untouched and untested. The buttons of his dress shirt struggle to remain closed, black hairs that match the unruly waves on his head peek out over the top. The fly of his slacks is strained. God bless his tailor for hugging those bulky male lines. He’s doing the lord’s work.
This is the first time Byron has ever arranged a party for his software firm.
And it’s about time.
I’ve only been slipping advertisements into his mailbox—real and virtual—for a year.
“So what made you decide to plan a party, Mr. DeWitt?”
He realizes he’s still standing up and takes a seat, but not before bumping the desk with his knee and wincing adorably. “Call me Byron, please.”
“Byron,” I murmur, winking at him, watching the flush creep up his neck.
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