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?”

is over. The others already packed up. I guess no one

into the cold, dark ocean. Like the plane I disembarked just yesterday

better get packing too.” Jordan hands me an empty box, then turns back to his almost empty desk, once covered in his alma mater’s insignia, pictures of his dog, and an assortment of bobblehead dolls. “It’s reassuring to have Bill Gates and Elon Musk nodding at me

my eyes. “Jordan .

don’t worry. We’re 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

could return the enthusiasm, but all I can manage

a battle cry and more like the cheap knock-off shoes that I bought in college. They’ve been glued back together

and a preserved sticky note my mother wrote for me back in middle school. I love my smart

the trash. Smarts can only get me so far, Mom. But if I’m

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

“Oh, you’re here already?”

I’d recognize

empty desk kitty-corner to

bitter little girl in me insists. Even as angry as I am, I know how immature

say over my