Page 49 of Playing With Fire

I roll my eyes.

Me: No. This is Delaney’s ghost.

Declan: Funny. How’s the job?

I smile despite myself.

Me: I love it.

His answer comes almost immediately.

Declan: Knew you would.

A familiar warmth in my chest. For the first time since Evergreen, I actually want to pull out my notebook. So, I do.

The battered pink composition book lands beside my coffee, followed by my favorite felt-tip pen. I stare at the blank page. And wait.

Outside the window, two people are having an animated conversation on the sidewalk. A woman gestures with her entire body while the man beside her tries unsuccessfully not to laugh.

There’s a look in his eyes that catches my attention. Not a plot. Barely even an idea. Just a line. I click my pen and write it down. Then another. And⁠—

Blue eyes.

I stop. And draw a line through it.

Absolutely not.

I came here to write. Not think about Hayes Bishop standing shirtless in his kitchen this morning wearing nothing but athletic shorts and a smug expression.

My pen hovers over the paper.

Technically, he wasn’t smug until he caught me looking.

Which is worse. I take a long drink of coffee.

Forget Bishop.

Easy.

I need a new idea anyway.

A complete change of pace. An office romance, maybe. I glance back toward Wilder House through the window, even though I can’t actually see it from here.

Office romance could work. Powerful billionaire boss. Cold. Controlled. Completely emotionally unavailable.

Very original, Delaney.

He needs glasses—dark frames. A little Clark Kent thing happening. I picture Steve pushing his glasses up his nose while explaining why, technically, what I did this morning wasn’t wrong, just not how they usually did it.

Perfect.

I start writing.

Billionaire publishing executive. Dark hair. Glasses. Expensive suits. Serious. Intimidating.

I tap my pen against the page.

Maybe dimples.