Page 21 of Sexting the Billionaire

The first page has the standard resume header: Cassandra Monroe. Nothing remarkable there.

But her contact information catches my eye, and the world stops spinning.

That phone number.

I know that number.

I've had explicit conversations with that number. I've opened that number's messages more times than I care to admit in the past forty-eight hours.

It's her.

My mystery texter.

The woman with the emerald dress and spectacular photo.

The woman who wants to be bent over kitchen counters and pressed against walls.

She's applying to be my Creative Director.

"Roman?"

I glance up to find everyone staring at me.

Right. The meeting. The projections.

The fact that I'm supposed to be leading this discussion rather than having an existential crisis over a job applicant.

"Continue," I say to Jenkins, who looks mildly terrified at having had to prompt me. "The Asian market expansion won't execute itself."

I close the portfolio, but the image of that phone number remains imprinted on my retinas. It's confirmed. Not coincidence. Not wishful thinking.

The universe really is this perverse.

"She's waiting in Conference Room C," Melissa from HR tells me three hours later, looking slightly intimidated. I don't blame her.

I rarely involve myself in hiring below VP level, but something about this particular candidate has me... invested.

"Her credentials?" I ask, as if I haven't already memorized her file.

"Impressive conceptually, though not as experienced as some other candidates in terms of leadership roles," Melissa says. "But her portfolio is exceptional. Fresh perspective while honoring brand heritage. Exactly what Lumière needs."

"Make her wait twenty minutes," I instruct, ignoring Melissa's surprise. "I want to review her materials again."

It's a lie. What I need is twenty minutes to get my head straight. Twenty minutes to remind myself that I am Roman Kade, not some hormonal teenager. Twenty minutes to prepare for meeting the woman whose sexual fantasies I've been imagining fulfilling for the past two days.

I spend fifteen of those minutes on emails, deliberately focusing my mind elsewhere. The remaining five I allow myself to consider the cosmic joke that's unfolding.

This job candidate is undoubtedly my mystery texter.

The question now is: what exactly am I supposed to do with that information? Pretend I don't know? Acknowledge it? Make some kind of wall-related comment to see if she faints?

Christ. I'm losing my mind.

I straighten my tie, button my jacket, and head to Conference Room C with the steady stride that's become part of my brand.

Roman Kade doesn't rush.

Roman Kade doesn't fidget.

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