You were running late.

The law firm’s lobby was packed—investors, corporate clients, too many suits and too much ego. You ducked into the elevator just as the doors began to close, brushing shoulders with a tall man in a charcoal-gray coat, his phone pressed to his ear.

“I don’t care if they’re offering seven percent,” he snapped. “If it’s not ten, I walk.”

He ended the call with a sigh, then glanced at you.

And smiled.

Arrogant. Charming. Dangerous.

“Bad day?” you asked, because for some reason you couldn’t help yourself.

He chuckled. “Worse now that I’ve been run over by a hurricane in heels.”

You raised a brow. “Excuse me?”

“You’re late, you’re out of breath, and judging by the folder sticking out of your bag, you’re here to argue with someone. Am I wrong?”

You rolled your eyes. “What are you, a corporate psychic?”

“No,” he said, extending a hand. “I’m the CEO you’re about to go up against in the boardroom.”