Seven Nights of Sin (Penthouse Affair #2)

Jet lag is a major drag. I never really understood that until last night. I tossed and turned for hours before slipping into a fitful sleep.

After coming to the decision that I have to put my career first, I decide I can’t let these little setbacks affect me. I roust myself out of bed, power down two cups of scalding-hot coffee, and make my way to work like it’s my job.

It is your job, Presley. Wow, I must be tired.

The click-click of my heels on the office floor is a familiar sound. Yes, this is what I need—a consistent and predictable work environment in which I can be the best version of myself. Not an undefined relationship with a man whose mood changes so dramatically that I wonder if he’s really two people. The first, a charming, funny, considerate man. The other, a loathsome asshole with no consideration for the feelings of others.

No, I don’t have time to juggle my work and a man who can’t decide who he is. I’m still figuring out who I am.

My determined stride across the office falters as I spot Jordan, packing his personal items away into a box. Why?

“Jordan!”

“Oh, hey, Prez,” he says in his usual chipper way. But his dimpled smile doesn’t reach his big blue eyes.

“What’s going on?”

The others already packed up. I guess no one

dropped into the cold, dark ocean. Like the plane I disembarked just yesterday hadn’t landed safely at all, but rather had crashed right

pictures of his dog, and an assortment of bobblehead dolls. “It’s reassuring to have Bill Gates and Elon Musk nodding at me in approval all day,” he said to

eyes. “Jordan . .

going to be fine. You’re practically a genius, so you’ll get a paying job in no time. And who can resist this face?” He smiles with his eyes this time, showing off

the enthusiasm, but all I can manage is a

knock-off shoes that I bought in college. They’ve been glued back together so many times . . . if the heel snapped off one

a picture of Michael, a stained coffee mug, some miscellaneous business books, and a preserved sticky note my mother wrote for me back in middle school. I love

Smarts can only get me so far, Mom. But if I’m anything, it’s sentimental. I can’t throw this piece

by one, the pieces of me go into the box, which gets heavier with every memory. Just

“Oh, you’re here already?”

I’d recognize that voice underwater if I had

empty desk kitty-corner

the bitter little girl in me insists. Even

am,” I say over