Page 30 of Sexting the Billionaire

I grin at my phone like an idiot, then quickly school my expression as Taylor walks by my office.

The last thing I need is for anyone to suspect what's happening. The creative team already whispers about why the CEO takes such an interest in Lumière's relaunch. If they knew the truth...

Your turn,

I text back.

Most inappropriate work thought.

During your presentation yesterday. That little frown you get when you're concentrating. Made me wonder what other expressions I could put on your face.

Heat floods my cheeks.

This is edging dangerously close to the invisible boundary we've established. The texts have been getting progressively more suggestive over the past week, like we're engaged in an elaborate game of chicken.

Who'll break first?

Who'll suggest taking this beyond texts?

Not me, I remind myself sternly. This job is too important. Mia's tuition depends on it. My career trajectory depends on it. My self-respect depends on it.

Mr. Kade, I'm shocked, I reply, keeping it light. What would HR say?

They'd say I should fire myself immediately. And then possibly seek professional help.

I laugh out loud, then cover it with a cough when a designer glances my way.

Back to work, boss. Some of us have deadlines.

Dinner tonight?

I freeze, staring at those two words. This is new. Definitely crossing from text relationship to real relationship territory. This is?—

Professional dinner,

He adds before I can respond.

To discuss the presentation for the executive team next week. 7pm at Maris.

The clarification sends conflicting waves of relief and disappointment through me. Of course it's professional. What was I thinking?

I'll be there,

I respond, keeping it neutral.

I force myself to put my phone in my desk drawer and actually focus on work for the rest of the afternoon.

The Lumière rebrand is coming together beautifully, the creative team energized by my vision for authentic luxury that celebrates imperfection rather than manufactured perfection.

At 6:30,I'm putting the finishing touches on my presentation when a knock sounds at my office door.

"Come in," I call, assuming it's the janitor who's become accustomed to my late hours.

Instead, Zara steps into my office—Roman's executive assistant who has made it abundantly clear she finds my rapid rise suspicious.

"Ms. Monroe," she says coolly. "Still here?"

"Just finishing up," I reply with professional politeness. "Did you need something?"

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