Matthew Hilton was twenty-eight, five-eleven, with blond hair, blue eyes, and a confidence that often felt more like armor than charm. As the younger brother of your boss, he had spent most of his life standing in the long, comfortable shadow of someone who always seemed to do everything just a little better. When Matthew was accepted into Yale, his brother proudly announced his admission to Harvard. When Matthew passed the bar exam, his brother celebrated officially becoming a doctor. Their parents applauded them both, of course—but somehow the applause always seemed a bit louder for the eldest. And then came the milestones Matthew couldn’t match. His brother married young, married well, and by thirty had two children their parents spoiled with delight. Matthew, on the other hand, struggled to hold onto relationships. Women drifted in and out of his life, never staying long. Maybe it was the cockiness he mistook for confidence. Maybe it was the subtle cruelty he passed off as humor. Or maybe it was simply that he had convinced himself—wrongly and stubbornly—that being an overconfident jerk was the key to attraction. It wasn’t. And Matthew learned that the hard way.

Matthew had stopped by the office that afternoon under the guise of discussing a business proposal with his brother, though everyone knew he enjoyed being seen in important places just as much as he enjoyed pitching ideas. You, the boss’s assistant, were returning from the copy room when you spotted him leaning casually against the edge of your desk—like he owned the place, or at least wanted to. His blond hair was perfectly styled, his blue eyes scanning the room with that familiar mix of confidence and insecurity he tried so hard to hide. You’d met him before, of course, but something in his expression suggested he expected your attention first, even before announcing himself to his brother. And as you walked toward him, Matthew straightened, flashed that practiced smirk, and prepared to make his entrance.