Naomi

After a short tram trip, I take my time walking to the club, letting the night air cool my overheated thoughts. I’ve spent the entire journey trying to shake Dominic Wylder from my mind, but he lingers. It’s maddening.

I need tonight. I need my friends, a few drinks, and a distraction that isn’t six-foot-three of infuriating, sexually charged trouble.

The moment I’m inside, I spot Jess dancing with her partner Adam, and Logan and Kristy dancing together on the crowded dancefloor.

A year ago, Jess was more of an acquaintance, someone I knew from high school, than a friend. While Kristy and I have always been close, Jess kept me at a distance. Something I found upsetting because I always wished we were better friends. When her life went to shit last year, though, she started talking to me and trusting me, and now she isn’t just one of my best friends, she’s also a client.

Jess grins when she sees me, pulling me into a tight hug.

“Hey.” Her smile slips as she studies my face. “Is everything okay?”

The thing about best friends? They can always tell when you have something on your mind. I’d been looking forward to catching up with my friends, but now that I’m here, I can admit that the last thing I feel like doing is dancing. I’m just…everything Dominic said in that interview keeps rattling around in my head. And I’m tired, the week catching up with me, and hungry. Right now, dinner then bed sounds perfect.

Kristy appears at my side. “Hey, Nay. What’s going on?”

“Nothing, I’m fine.” I force a smile. “My client had a big interview today, and I was so focused on that, I haven’t eaten much. I need food. I don’t think I can make it through a night of dancing without eating.”

“Why don’t we go to the pub, then?” Adam says, wrapping an arm around Jess’ waist from behind and pulling her against him. “Hooligans is just a five-minute walk from here.”

Jess arches an eyebrow at me. Fighting a yawn, I nod. “Sounds good. Providing you guys don’t mind leaving. I don’t want to mess up the evening.”

“Don’t be silly,” Jess says.

“It’s no problem,” Logan says.

Kyle, Jamie and Gemma, the rest of our little crew, join us when Jess waves them over; Kyle giving me a giant hug before I give Jamie and Gemma a quick hug and kiss each and we pile out of the club. I walk with Jess, Kristy, and Gemma while the boys hang back to talk about sport and Kyle’s new car. I thought Adam might have been exaggerating about the short walk time, but it feels like it only takes a couple of minutes to reach our destination. We arrive just as a large group is leaving, so we snag their table.

Once I’ve ordered my meal, and a glass of wine is placed in front of me, courtesy of Adam, I start winding down, the alcohol helping me relax. And when my dinner arrives, the stress of the week starts to melt away. There’s something about good food and good company that boosts my spirits. The alcohol keeps coming, courtesy of my friends buying rounds, and instead of feeling sleepy from the relaxation, I feel better, like this was what I needed all along. As I sip my wine, I contently watch all of my friends.

Kyle is at the bar, hitting on several women at once, not that they seem to mind. My friends did try to set up Kyle and me. Both of us had to tell them that just because we’re the only single two in the group doesn’t automatically make us a match made in heaven. I watch my friends interact, Jamie with his girlfriend Gemma, Kristy with Logan, and Jess with Adam, and I revisit my conversation with Kristy from Monday night.

”I’m so proud of you. You’re awesome. And I know you don’t need anyone else to make you happy. It’s just that you haven’t really dated since Devon. I know you’re busy at work and a huge kick-ass success, but I’d hate to think you’re holding back because of what happened with that man. Just tell me, you’re not lonely, Nay.”

”I’m not. Sure, it would be nice to have someone, but it really is just a case of being time poor.”

It was true when I said it. But this week has been a revelation. It’s been too damn long since I’ve had sex. Too long since someone’s touched me in a way that made me burn.

That interview today—sitting there, listening to Dominic talk about sex, about push and pull, about the way intimacy should be—I felt it. Deep in my belly. In the places I’ve ignored for too long.

It’s not just about him, I tell myself. It’s not just because I’ve spent the last five days consuming his books, his videos, his voice. Not because I can’t stop picturing him when I close my eyes.

Clearly, my poor neglected sex drive is to blame. And it’s time I did something about it. What my ex said has dictated my life for long enough. Even if Devon was right, even if I do lack imagination, I can change. I can learn, I can experiment.

Maybe once I start dating again, I’ll have better luck ignoring my wildly inappropriate attraction to my client. Maybe my libido will stop conjuring vivid, scandalous images of Dominic Wylder in my bed, in my ear, guiding me, teaching me…

I squeeze my thighs together, grabbing my wine.

Nope. Not going there.

“You know,” I say when there is a lull in the conversation down my end of the table. “I think I’m ready.”

“For what?” Jess asks.

I scoop salsa onto my chip before popping it into my mouth. I finish my mouthful, aware of my friends hanging out for me to finish my sentence. “To start dating again. To try balancing work and a love life.”

Jess looks at Kristy, who shrugs, but when Kristy looks at me, she smiles and there’s a gleam in her blue eyes that wasn’t there before my announcement.

Jess sits back in her chair. “Okay…Is this a sudden decision or something you’ve been mulling over for a while?”

“My relationship with Devon ended up feeling like a dismal failure, and I’ve just been happier focused on work, but…I think it’s time to get back out there.”

“Well, okay then. Cheers to you.” Jess raises her glass.

Grinning at her supportive response and amused by Kristy’s giant-arse grin, I raise my glass and clink it against both of theirs. It’s the perfect moment—until my gaze drifts across the room and lands on him.

Dominic.

At a corner booth.

Sticking his tongue down my enemy’s throat.

The sight of it is like a physical blow, knocking the breath from my lungs. As if it isn’t bad enough that I’ve been forced to read about him, watch him, think about him all damn week, now I have to watch him kiss someone else?

Not just someone else—Veronica.

Every muscle in my body locks up, my fingers tightening around my glass. I should be disgusted. And yet, I can’t look away.

The way he kisses her—slow, deep, filthy—like he has all the time in the world to wreck her. His hand grips the back of her neck, his thumb stroking idly over her throat as she tilts her head back, surrendering to him. My stomach clenches, a raw, ugly heat unfurling inside me.

The sharp spike of jealousy is humiliating. The burn between my thighs is worse.

I shouldn’t react to this. I shouldn’t feel anything but disgust. And yet, something in me betrays logic, betrays my better judgment, because my mind is already twisting the scene, replacing Veronica with me.

My breath catches.

Suddenly, it’s me beneath his hands. It’s my throat he’s stroking, my mouth he’s plundering, my body melting into his as he drags his tongue across my lips, coaxing me to part for him.

Heat slams into me fast and sharp. My pulse pounds against my ribs, a raw, needy throb settling between my legs.

The entire group turns to see what’s stolen my attention. Someone makes a disgusted noise when they spot the softcore porn show unfolding a few tables over.

I tear my eyes away, swallowing against the dryness in my throat. I need to snap the hell out of it. I need to stop imagining the way his mouth would feel on mine.

I need to stop wanting him.

“Do you know the people partaking in that disgustingly public display of affection?” Gemma asks.

“Hey, I think I recognise him. Isn’t that-”

“Dominic Wylder?” I cut Adam off, my voice sounding strangled. I try to clear my throat. “Yes, that’s Mr. Controversial himself, and my newest client.”

Jess’s eyes nearly bulge out of her head, probably because she’s heard about me rant about Dominic more than once. “When did that happen?”

“Monday. And if I want to make partner at the firm, I need to turn around public opinion quickly.”

Gemma’s obvious wince tells me she thinks that might be impossible.

“Who’s he with?” Adam asks.

“Naomi probably doesn’t—“

“That’s Veronica Dalton,” I cut my friend off.

Kristy gasps. “Your arch nemesis?”

“Yup.” I nod. “They’re…exes.”

“They don’t look much like exes to me,” Jamie mutters.

I paste a smile on my face. “Well, whatever they are, I don’t want to think about them. It’s Friday. End of the work week. TGIF and all that.”

“Mm, we can move on. But I have to say, I didn’t realise he was so hot,” Gemma says, fanning herself.

Jamie glares at his girlfriend. Logan side-eyes Kristy. Adam subtly checks Jess for a reaction. I roll my eyes. Not even my intelligent besties are immune to how attractive the man is.

I gulp down the rest of my wine.

“Another?” Adam offers.

After I nod in response, Kristy asks, “He was the client you mentioned the other day?”

“Yup.”

“And this afternoon’s interview?” Jess adds.

“The one and the same.”

Jess frowns. “I take it, it didn’t go well.”

“It went fine.” My smile feels forced, and from the expression on my friend’s faces, it shows.

Jess’ gaze flicks between Dominic and me.

“If you’re wondering if my new client has something to do with my desire to start dating, it doesn’t,” I tell her.

Okay, it sort of does, but not in the way I imagine they’re thinking.

“So, you really want to get back into the dating game?” Kristy asks.

“I do,” I say, my grin more genuine, because I’d rather be talking about dating than my new client.

The guys return, bringing more drinks, and as Adam lifts Jess into his lap and the conversation turns to dating apps and bad first dates, I let the topic carry me. I let my friends hype me up.

And when Jess and Adam leave for the night, Kristy and Gemma—who have been matching me drink for drink—manage to convince me that tonight is the night I put myself back in the game. That I should forget the dating apps and profiles and just go for it.

The chosen target is undeniably appealing. Reddish-brown hair, a tailored grey suit over a crisp blue shirt. Clearly a professional. His side profile is tempting. But as he suddenly meets my gaze, my confidence wavers. I muster a tentative smile as a rush of anxiety hits. It’s been ages since I’ve flirted.

“What are you waiting for?” Kristy asks.

“I think…” I exhale. “I might have forgotten how to do this.”

Gemma scoffs. “It’s like riding a bike. You can’t forget.”

This from the woman who has been in a relationship for the past five years.

“It’ll come back to you,” Kristy encourages.

“What will?” Logan asks.

“Naomi’s about to get back on the bike,” Gemma says.

“Start dating again,” I clarify.

“She’s worried she’s forgotten how to ride,” Kristy teases.

Logan smirks. “You’ll be fine.”

“Just don’t seem too eager,” Kyle adds.

“Or too shy,” Jamie pipes in. “Smile and play with your hair, right?”

Kyle shakes his head. “What is this? Primary school?”

“Make plenty of eye contact,” Gemma suggests.

“Yes! Seduce him with your eyes.” Kristy frowns. “But don’t look desperate.”

“No, we can smell desperation,” Logan says.

Kristy shoots him a sharp look, but it’s too late. The over-analysis has killed my buzz.

I push to my feet before they can give me any more advice, smoothing my skirt. I can do this. I’m successful. Smart. A grown-ass woman.

I take a deep breath, straighten my shoulders, and stride toward the bar. But halfway there, an annoying question slides into my mind: What would Dominic Wylder say?

I grit my teeth. No. I refuse to give him space in my head right now. I don’t need his advice.

I need this.

To prove I’m not still trapped by my ex’s words.

To prove I’m not falling prey to the very dangerous pull of my new client.

Even if I can already feel him slipping under my skin.

Get ready! The full book is dropping soon—only on Galatea!

Naomi

My two-tone heel taps impatiently on the pavement outside the radio studio. Dominic is twenty minutes late. No text. No call. How hard is it to be on time?

Thank God it’s Friday. I’ve spent all week pulling strings, calling in favors, and practically performing PR magic to land my client a coveted spot on the Oscar Wentworth show. If he’s late to that interview, I’ll kill him.

A deep, throaty roar slices through my frustration before a sleek motorbike barrels around the corner, coming straight for me. I take a step back as Dominic pulls up, sliding into the space in front of me with effortless precision.

He pulls off his helmet, ruffling his dirty blond hair with a quick hand before leveling me with a smirk that could make women forget their own names. Unfortunately for him, I remember mine just fine.

“You’re twenty-five minutes late,” I snap, the heat in my veins a mixture of anger and something else I refuse to name.

Dominic swings a leg off his bike like he has all the time in the world. “It’s five to four. Technically, I’m early.”

I inhale deeply, counting to ten in my head. Do not kill your client. Do not kill your client.

Dominic Wylder is a problem. A frustrating, arrogant, drop-dead-sexy problem wrapped in black leather and bad decisions. He’s been my client for less than a week, and already, my carefully maintained professional distance is cracking.

I’ve tried to focus on his work—his books, his videos, the empire he’s built off charm and controversy—but no matter how much I force myself to separate the man from the brand, my mind keeps wandering. Conjuring images I have no business entertaining. Images of him demonstrating the very dynamics he writes about, teasing, testing…

It’s infuriating.

“Listen, Dominic, when we go in there, remember this is an opportunity to reshape your public image,” I say, channeling every ounce of restraint I have.

Dominic cocks his head. “Isn’t that your job?”

“I can’t do it without you,” I counter. “Remember your female fanbase. Don’t alienate them. If you go in there and start talking about why a man’s orgasm is more important than hers—”

His expression darkens. “I have never said that.”

I arch a brow. “Maybe not outright. But your work has been… interpreted that way.”

He huffs out a breath, raking a hand through his hair before heading toward the entrance.

“Have you read my books yet?” he asks, voice deceptively casual.

“I’m working my way through them.”

His gaze sharpens. “Then you should already know that alienating women is the last thing I want to do.”

I don’t have time to dissect that before we step inside the building.

“Here he is,” I announce after hurrying up the stairs behind him, not an easy feat in my heels.

The bored receptionist does a double take, her lips parting slightly. The producer who barely acknowledged me straightens, suddenly attentive.

Dominic knows his effect and wields it like a weapon. The shift is instant—the moment he steps inside, his posture straightens, his smile widens, and suddenly, he’s the man everyone expects him to be.

I watch, half-impressed, half-irritated, as he effortlessly captivates the entire studio before even stepping on air. Tossing out easy smiles and casual compliments, he makes every person feel like they’re the most important one in the room. It’s a transformation—a calculated performance, honed to perfection.

This interview is a strategic move. Dave and Donna’s show dominates the millennial market—safer ground before tackling the challenge of Gen Z. If this goes well, I might call in a favor with Adam Granger at Mercury FM, which would put Dominic in front of an even bigger audience.

By the time we’re seated in the sound booth, I’m listening to the interview through a pair of studio headphones, my pulse still slightly elevated from keeping up with him.

Dave and Donna, the co-hosts, dive straight in.

“Dominic, your books have certainly made waves in the relationship community,” Dave says. “Some see them as revolutionary. Others… not so much. How do you feel about the reactions you’ve received?”

Dominic leans back in his chair, casual, confident. “All strong reactions indicate I’ve touched a nerve. Whether people agree or disagree, I’m glad my work sparks discussion.”

Donna isn’t charmed so easily. “You’re about to release your newest book, What He Really Wants: The Untold Secret of Owning Your Desires. Given the strides women have made, why should they want advice from a man?”

Her tone drips with skepticism, and I grip the edge of my chair.

Dominic smirks. “You’re right, the title is provocative. Intentionally so. Today, women are CEOs, astronauts, world leaders. But when the bedroom door closes, sometimes there’s a desire to explore different dynamics. My book is about that exploration.”

Donna’s eyes narrow. “And why should pleasing a man in bed be a woman’s first priority, as your previous book suggests?”

Dominic leans in slightly, voice dropping just enough to command attention. “Because sometimes surrendering control can be the ultimate power move. It’s not about subjugation, but about the exchange of power. Knowing when to lead, and when to let go.”

Donna scoffs. “So, relationships just boil down to power play?”

“Of course not,” Dominic counters smoothly. “Relationships thrive on respect, understanding, and mutual pleasure. But let’s not pretend chemistry isn’t built on tension, on dynamics. Everyone has both masculine and feminine energies. My work encourages people to explore them, not be confined by them.”

I exhale slowly, tension coiling in my stomach. Damn him. He’s good at this.

Even as I tell myself that this is just another interview, another PR job, I can’t shake the thought circling in my mind—

He doesn’t just talk about these dynamics. He embodies them.

“So, you’re saying be submissive to keep your man happy?” Donna challenges, her tone laced with skepticism.

Dominic chuckles, the sound low and indulgent, like he’s amused rather than defensive. “No, I’m saying be whatever you want, as long as it’s genuine to you. But also, be willing to communicate and understand your partner’s desires. It’s a two-way street. The energy you exude in the boardroom might be different from what you bring into the bedroom—and that’s okay.”

I bite my lip, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. He makes it sound so reasonable. So… insightful. Like he’s not the same man who built an empire off bad-boy bravado and viral controversy.

Donna studies him. “And for those who say you’re trying to push women back into traditional roles?”

Dominic leans back, stretching his long legs out, exuding ease. But I don’t miss the sharp glint in his eye—the I know exactly what I’m doing look. “Roles, whether in relationships or society, are like clothes. Try them on, see what fits, and have fun with them. Some people say men naturally gravitate to certain roles, and women to others.”

Donna inhales sharply. “That sounds dangerously close to advocating traditional gender roles.”

Dominic shrugs. “Not advocating. Observing. And it’s less about tradition and more about choice and personal comfort. Just because a role has been prevalent doesn’t mean it’s prescriptive. My message is: understand the roles, play with them if you wish, but never feel confined. It’s about mutual exploration, not mandates.”

Donna nods slowly, still skeptical but intrigued. “And for those who think you’re just being controversial for sales?”

Dominic’s lips curve into a smirk, full of wicked amusement. “There’s nothing wrong with a little controversy if it gets us talking, right?”

I exhale through my nose, pressing my fingers against my temple. He’s impossible. Infuriating. And good.

Dave jumps in. “Some of your critics say you put too much importance on sex in relationships. Do you think you overemphasize it?”

Dominic tilts his head in consideration. “Good sex? It contributes to a small portion of a relationship. But bad sex?” His smirk deepens. “That can end one.”

A flash of memory slices through me. Devon’s frustration. The way he told me I wasn’t enough. My throat tightens, and for the first time in the interview, I want to rip off my headphones.

Donna frowns. “You say you don’t want to perpetuate gender stereotypes, but your work repeatedly suggests that men, at their core, value sex above all else.”

Dominic leans forward slightly, voice steady, unshaken. “At the end of the day, if you want intimacy, sex has to be a part of that. The better the sex, the deeper the intimacy. If your sex life is suffering, your relationship will struggle. That’s not limited to men. That’s everyone.”

I exhale slowly, trying to shake off the way his words settle too close, too deep.

The rest of the interview takes on a lighter tone, Dominic effortlessly winning over both hosts with well-timed quips and flashes of boyish mischief. He knows how to work a room. He knows exactly when to push and when to pull back.

Up close, the man is lethal.

After the interview, we step onto the footpath. I turn to face him, arms crossed, needing to regain my balance.

“So,” Dominic says, dragging out the word, his gaze sharp, assessing.

“You interview very well,” I admit. “Good thing, too, since I booked you for The Oscar Wentworth Show next Thursday.”

A flicker of surprise crosses his face, and I savor the moment. Good. He should be impressed.

“I’m impressed,” he says, echoing my thoughts.

“I did tell you you’d be pleased with my services,” I point out.

“Yes, you did.”

A pause stretches between us, the silence thick. The Dominic upstairs—the smooth, calculated performer—was one thing. But standing here in front of me, there’s a different version of him. One I don’t know how to handle.

To break the silence, I blurt out, “You don’t really believe men value sex above all else, do you?”

The smirk fades slightly, his gaze darkening. It’s only for a second, but it’s real.

“Want an honest answer to that?”

“No,” I mutter quickly. “Forget I even asked.”

His smirk returns, but it’s sharper now. Swinging a leg over his bike, he watches me. “Where are you parked?”

“I walked.”

His eyes drop to my legs. My bare legs, because the skirt I chose for tonight is short, and my sheer, fitted blouse is a little too daring under the streetlights.

I cross my arms over my chest, as if that will make a difference.

“You’re headed out tonight,” he observes.

Not a question. A statement.

I nod. “To Seven.”

His jaw ticks slightly, so subtly I almost miss it.

“That nightclub?” His voice is casual, but there’s something else beneath it.

“I’m going to a spot near there. Need a lift?”

“No,” I say too quickly. “I prefer walking. The fresh air is good for me.”

And so is keeping my distance from a man who could unravel me.

He shrugs, the perfect picture of nonchalance. “Your choice.”

The engine growls to life, but just before he slides on his helmet, his gaze locks on mine, unreadable. His voice is quieter when he says,

“Till next time, Naomi.”

The roar of the engine drowns out my thoughts as he speeds away, leaving me standing on the sidewalk, my pulse hammering.

Dominic Wylder is going to be a problem.

A very, very dangerous one.

Chapter 5

Naomi

I review Dominic’s schedule for his upcoming tour, then we go over the details of his book launch. By the time he finally rises to leave, I need coffee and aspirin—not necessarily in that order.

“I look forward to working with you,” I say as we shake hands again. His grip is firm, warm, too steady—like he knows exactly how good his touch feels.

“I’m eager to see what you can do for me,” he replies, his voice dipping just enough to make it sound like a double meaning.

His gaze locks with mine, and in the charged silence, my mind betrays me. Vivid images of him bending me over my desk flood in.

Desire clenches low in my belly so fast I nearly gasp, every nerve vibrating with a long-suppressed need. Heat licks up my neck, flushing my face. I yank my hand back too quickly.

Dominic Wylder personifies sex appeal. A stark, devastating reminder that I haven’t had sex in far too long. And worse? That my past encounters were anything but spectacular.

Yet everything about him exudes satisfaction, like he knows exactly how to ruin a woman in the best possible way.

The small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth tells me he does, and he knows it.

Clearing my throat, I push aside the very inappropriate images flashing through my mind. “I’ll be in touch.”

Dominic nods before exiting my office. I definitely do not let my gaze linger on how well his jeans fit as he walks away—or admit the man has a body built for sin.

Sinking back into my seat, I kick off my heels and rub my temples, trying to ease the splitting headache that’s been lurking since my meeting with Michael.

Dominic Wylder is not what I expected.

The few times I’ve seen him in TV interviews, he was all smooth talk and calculated charm, working the audience with practiced ease. I expected him to try the same act with me, to flirt and smirk his way through our conversation.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he was blunt. Intense. Magnetic in a way that’s impossible to ignore—the kind of presence that demands your full attention and refuses to let you look away.

I need to be careful. He’s my client. Veronica’s ex. And if I don’t clean up the mess he’s made of his public image, I can kiss my promotion goodbye.

More crucially, if I let his undeniable presence distract me—if I slip—I can say goodbye to my job altogether. Fantasizing about him bending me over my desk is out of the question. Sleeping with a client wouldn’t just end my employment—it would torch my entire career.

Just as I’m trying to gather my thoughts, the phone on my desk rings. “What is it, Zara?” I ask, seeing the light next to my assistant’s name light up.

“Naomi,” Zara whispers, her voice urgent. “We have a code red.”

I frantically search for my high heels under the desk. “Stall her for me, Zara.”

After hanging up the phone, I quickly slip on my red pumps just as Veronica walks into my office.

“Veronica, what a surprise,” I say, forcing a smile.

Her expression is far from pleasant as she slams her palms down on my desk and glares at me. “Dominic Wylder was supposed to be my client. He switched PR firms because he wanted me to represent him. So imagine my surprise when Michael told me you would be handling him instead.”

The hostility in her tone is palpable, but I keep my voice even. “Are you really that surprised? You and Dominic have history, and you know our company’s policy on dating clients.”

The words land between us like a challenge. Veronica’s violet eyes narrow. I’ve seen this look before. The one that says she’s plotting something. That she’s weighing how much damage she can do.

Adrenaline spikes through me, but I don’t let it show. Instead, I open my laptop, fingers poised over the keyboard—a subtle dismissal.

Veronica flips her dark hair over her shoulder and leans in slightly. “You think you can rep for Dominic, fine.” Her lips curl into a slow, dangerous smirk. “Watch your back.”

With that, she straightens, smirks once more, then turns on her heel and strides out.

Once she’s out of sight, I reach for my purse and pull out headache tablets. It’s only Monday, but I already need a weekend.

Thirty minutes later, the ache behind my eyes has dulled, and I manage to focus again.

At exactly five-thirty, Zara strolls into my office, arms full.

“Michael sent these down for you,” she says, dropping two hardcover books onto my desk.

I don’t need to check the covers to know who wrote them.

I sigh. “Thanks, Zara.”

“You know,” she teases, “if you wanted to read these, you could’ve just borrowed my copies.”

I shoot her a look. “I’m reading them because he’s my client, not because I’m a fan.”

Zara smirks. “You say that now.”

She adjusts her bag on her shoulder. “Heading home soon?”

“Not yet. I’ve got a few things to finish up.”

“You work too hard,” she declares. “You should come to yoga with me tonight. It’s great for stress relief. And Todd, the instructor? Total eye candy.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Pass.”

“Suit yourself.” Zara winks as she heads for the door. “Don’t forget to eat dinner, okay?”

I smirk. “Yes, Mum.”

As the door clicks shut behind her, I glance down at the books on my desk.

Dominic Wylder’s name glares up at me in bold silver letters.

I sigh, dragging my laptop closer.

If I have to spend my night reading about bad boys and their so-called irresistible charm, I might as well do it with a glass of wine.

After a long day, I finally leave the office just after eight. I should feel accomplished, satisfied with what I’ve done today.

But as I step into my empty apartment, kick off my heels, and pop a frozen meal into the microwave, a strange sense of dissatisfaction creeps in.

I shove the feeling aside and grab a fork, about to dig in when my phone rings. I swipe up, wedging it between my shoulder and ear.

“Hey, Kristy.”

“Hey, just checking if you’re still up for heading to Seven this Friday.”

“Mm-mm,” I mumble around a mouthful of food. “Definitely.”

“Are you just eating now?” Kristy asks.

“Yeah, I just got home.”

“Keep burning the midnight oil like that, and you’re going to die of exhaustion before fifty.”

“Something for future me to worry about.”

“Naomi,” she chides.

“I have a new client, so I put in a few extra hours today. Forgive me for eating while we chat. You caught me at dinner time.”

“It’s not one of those frozen meals, I hope.”

I stay silent, except for the sound of chewing bland, rubbery chicken breast.

“You should accept my dinner invitations and eat a proper home-cooked meal instead.”

I pick up the box the meal came in. “According to the packet, it’s nutritionally balanced.”

“Well, of course it says that.”

Kristy is actually an amazing cook and baker, unlike me and my reliance on the freezer section.

“I’d much rather be eating something you made, K. Logan is a lucky guy.”

“He knows,” she says smugly, as if Logan was meant to overhear. “I just worry about you, you’re always working.”

“Yes, but remember when you used to work all the time?”

“I do, but I stopped when...”

“When you started hanging out with Logan. Before then, though...”

She sighs. “You’re right, and I don’t want to be that girl. You know, the one who wants you to be happy in a relationship just because she is. I really don’t want to be that girl because that girl drives me bat-shit crazy.”

“I appreciate that, hon. And I know you want me to be as happy as you are. There’s nothing wrong with that. Just know that I am okay. I don’t need a guy, a girl, or any person to make me happy. Work is my significant other. In fact, I landed a new client that practically guarantees my promotion.”

As long as I don’t mess it up.

“I’m so proud of you. You’re awesome. And I know you don’t need anyone else to make you happy. It’s just that you haven’t really dated since Devon. I know you’re busy at work and a huge kick-arse success, but I’d hate to think you’re holding back because of him.”

I sigh. To her credit, Kristy never brings up Devon, my ex-fiancé, and I’m grateful for that. He shattered my heart when he ended our engagement. But he’s not the sole reason I don’t date. At least, not anymore.

“Just tell me, you’re not lonely, Nay,” she presses.

I exhale, rubbing my temple. “I’m not. Sure, it would be nice to have someone, but it really is just a case of being time poor.”

Mostly.

As if sensing my mood shift, Mr. Blobby—my cat, my only consistent male companion—hops up onto the chair behind me, rubbing his face against my back.

“Besides, I have Mr. Blobby.” I scratch under his chin. “And Theo.”

“Theo?”

“My vibrator.”

Kristy bursts into laughter. “Well, as long as Mr. Blobby and Theo are keeping you satisfied, that’s all that matters.”

I smile. “I’ll see you Friday.”

“You will. Love you, hon.”

“Love you, too.”

I hang up, but the conversation lingers.

I told Kristy I’m not lonely. And I meant it.

But as I stare down at the barely touched frozen meal, a hollow feeling sits in my chest.

One day, maybe.

But not now.

I push my food away and reach for the books stacked on the kitchen counter—Dominic’s books.

Looks like I’ve found my reading material for the night.

I tuck myself into bed early, and Mr. Blobby jumps onto the bed, curling up next to my legs. I pick up one of Dominic’s books off my bedside table, “Why Pleasing Your Man in Bed Should Be Your First Priority.” Obviously, a good sex life is important, but just how much of that should be the woman’s responsibility? Shouldn’t the man want to please his woman in bed? Devon left me because we weren’t “sexually compatible.” I agree we didn’t have the greatest sex life, but why should the focus be on his pleasure? Devon hadn’t always cared very much about my satisfaction.

In times like these, when female empowerment is more crucial than ever, it feels like a betrayal to my own gender to even be reading material that seems counter to that movement.

I turn the book over in my hands, studying the picture on the back cover. His hair is just a bit too long, and a light smattering of stubble surrounds his perfectly sculpted lips. He is arguably the sexiest man I’ve ever laid eyes on. That face, those eyes, those lips; I’m suddenly warm enough to throw the covers off.

My fingers trail down the cover, gaze drifting to the way his shirt stretches over his broad chest, the solid line of his thighs beneath his dark denim jeans.

And before I can stop them, the images come to me. Dominic, shirtless. Dominic, pressed between my thighs. Dominic, murmuring filthy things in that deep, knowing voice.

My cheeks flush, and I swipe my tongue over my lips before setting the book aside. I’ll start reading tomorrow. And at some point, I’ll have to watch his videos, too. But not tonight.

Tonight, I just need to forget the way he makes me feel.

I switch off the light, pressing my eyes shut. But it’s too late. Dominic Wylder is already in my head.

And I have a sinking feeling he’s not going anywhere.

Chapter 4

Naomi

The boardroom is deserted as I push open the grand double doors on the fifth floor. I suppose it was too much to ask for my new client to stay put.

I search the fifth floor for any sign of him, then spend the next twenty minutes scouring the floors above and below, even checking the third-floor boardroom in case Mr. Wylder got confused. Losing my client before our first meeting is far from ideal. Finally, I decide to take the elevator back up to my office floor and search there.

The moment the elevator doors glide open, Zara’s voice floats toward me.

“Oh my God, I absolutely adore your Granite channel! I’ve watched every single one of your videos.”

I go still. I don’t need to see them to know exactly who she’s talking to.

“Is that so?” His voice is silk and amusement, deep enough to curl low in my stomach. “I’m lucky to have such a devoted fan.”

Zara giggles. “I’ve also read and reread your books countless times.”

I resist the urge to rub my temples. Ready to bring Zara’s fangirling to a close, I school my expression into something calm, professional, and completely indifferent. No matter what I think of my new client, professionalism demands that I remain courteous and respectful.

But as I turn the corner and Dominic comes into view, my eyes widen, and I draw a sharp breath.

Seeing him in photos and videos is one thing. Seeing him in person is something else entirely.

He stands in profile, weight shifted to one leg, clad in black boots, black jeans, a black leather jacket, and a crisp white shirt that hints at the shape of the body beneath. His dirty blond hair is messy but deliberate—the kind of tousled that suggests he’s been running his fingers through it.

And then he turns his head toward me.

And God help me, those eyes. Dark, melted caramel, framed by thick lashes. Piercing and knowing. The kind of gaze that hits like a slow burn, crawling beneath your skin before you can stop it.

“Handsome” isn’t the right word. He’s breathtaking. With a chiseled jawline, prominent cheekbones, a sun-kissed complexion, and full lips that are currently smirking. Just the barest curve of his lips, something lazy and confident, like he can already see the effect he has on me. He possesses the kind of perfection that leaves you momentarily stunned, forgetting everything but him.

Seconds pass before my training kicks in, and I manage to regain my smile. This is my job. I know exactly what I’m doing. This is just a first meeting like any other, right?

He flashes me a charming grin that I’m certain has caused women to drop their panties all over the place.

He extends his hand. “You must be Naomi.”

I brace myself and take it. His grip is firm, warm, and way too confident.

He doesn’t reek of alcohol or late nights like I expected. Instead, he smells clean, expensive, devastatingly male. A subtle aftershave—something woodsy, faintly spiced, and maybe pheromones, because my mind betrays me with an image of the two of us tangled up in bedsheets. The scent of his cologne mingling with the press of his body, his voice rough and teasing against my ear.

Heat floods through me. The butterflies that had settled with the thought of my promotion now reawaken—but for an entirely different reason.

I release his hand too quickly. He notices. A flicker of amusement passes through his eyes, as if he caught every thought I just had.

Sex has been the furthest thing from my mind while working endless hours—fatigue is hardly an aphrodisiac. I thought I was turning into a born-again virgin, but maybe it’s simply been too long since I’ve encountered a man like Dominic. A man who elicits thoughts of sex with just a gaze.

Pull yourself together, Naomi.

I straighten my shoulders. “Naomi Tate, pleased to meet you.”

“Dominic Wylder.”

“I’m aware.”

“You have an incredible assistant, Naomi.” His smirk deepens, voice dipping into something almost conspiratorial. “She’s been singing your praises for the past ten minutes.”

My eyes narrow slightly before flicking to Zara. What, exactly, has she been telling him? She doesn’t even notice my stare. She’s still wrapped up in the gravitational pull of his charisma.

I clear my throat. “Shall we head back to the boardroom?”

Dominic glances toward my office. “No need, isn’t your office right here?”

He shifts his attention back to Zara for confirmation.

She nods eagerly.

While it’s not uncommon for me to conduct meetings in my office, introductory meetings typically take place elsewhere. My office feels like an incredibly confined space to host a meeting with this client. The boardroom would offer a more professional and less intimate environment.

“Thank you, Zara,” Dominic says, flashing yet another breathtaking smile. “You’ve been tremendously helpful.”

Zara blushes and returns the smile.

Resigned to conducting the meeting in my office, I lead the way. After stepping inside, I close the door and settle into my seat behind the desk, waiting for Dominic to join me. However, Dominic strolls around my office, his movements deliberate yet unhurried.

As he picks up my credentials, flipping through them with a nonchalant air, I sense something calculated in his approach—a subtle test, perhaps, to gauge how I’ll react. He studies the photographs on my desk, his eyes lingering on each one as if assessing not just the pictures, but the person who placed them there.

Finally, he grabs the Rubik’s Cube, a playful smile tugging at his lips as he plops down in the chair across from me, propping his feet up on my desk with an ease that suggests this is just another game for him to play.

I arch a brow. “Make yourself comfortable.”

“Oh, I intend to.”

His eyes gleam.

He’s testing me.

If I don’t set the right tone now, Dominic will seize control of every meeting, every conversation. While he’s the client, and my job is to keep him satisfied—professionally speaking—I refuse to let him dictate the terms of our interactions. He needs to see me as the expert, the one who will shape his public image and make him a household name for the right reasons.

I lean forward slightly, coaxing his attention. “I assume Michael has already given you the welcome speech to East Melbourne PR?”

Dominic tosses the Rubik’s Cube onto my desk and, to my relief, finally meets my gaze. A mistake. My stomach clenches as I take in the sharp intensity of his dark, melted-caramel eyes. “He has,” he says, his voice smooth. “And you came highly recommended—despite the fact that I specifically requested someone else.”

His words are a sharp blow, catching me off guard.

“Oh.” My professional mask almost slips. “Michael didn’t mention that. Who did you ask for?”

Why didn’t Michael tell me? More importantly, why didn’t he honor Dominic’s request?

He drums his fingers against the desk, his scrutiny palpable. “Veronica Dalton.”

“I see,” I say evenly, though my mind is already racing.

“Do you know her?” he asks.

“I do.”

And if Dominic specifically requested her, why am I the one sitting here with him now?

He must sense my confusion because his expression softens slightly, as if trying to make this easier.

“Veronica and I… have history. We were involved a while back. Michael thought it would be more professional if I worked with someone else.”

So, he’s Veronica’s ex-boyfriend. This keeps getting better and better. The last thing I want is Veronica breathing down my neck on this project.

I could try to back out. Go to Michael, argue that Veronica should take him on since Dominic wants her as his publicist. But the truth is, this is my shot. My promotion hinges on making Dominic Wylder a success story. And I refuse to let him—or Veronica—stand in my way.

I picture myself in the spacious and lavish office I’ll have once I’m promoted before forcing myself to maintain steady eye contact with Dominic.

“Company policy prohibits representatives from dating clients,” I explain.

He furrows his brow at me. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

I stand up and walk around my desk, gently but assertively pushing Dominic’s boots off and leaning against the sturdy wood. Hopefully, standing will give me an advantage here. I’m using every trick I know to boost his confidence in my abilities.

“I assure you that I am more than qualified for this job, and I guarantee you’ll be pleased with my services.”

Dominic narrows his eyes, and my stomach twists in response. I shouldn’t take his scepticism personally, right? It’s not personal; he wanted Veronica, and he’s simply disappointed.

“You see, Naomi,” Dominic says softly, leaning in. “If you’re going to be my publicist, shouldn’t you at least be familiar with the product you’re selling?”

His question catches me off guard. Stupidly, I hadn’t anticipated it.

“What makes you think I’m not?”

His smirk deepens. “Are you?”

I hesitate. That’s all the answer he needs.

He leans in, elbows braced against his knees, his gaze locked onto mine. “Have you watched my videos?”

I clear my throat. “I’ve seen a few of your interviews.”

Technically true. Just not the whole truth. His interviewers always fall all over him and it’s nauseating watching him charm them.

Dominic tilts his head. “Have you read any of my books?”

Heat creeps into my cheeks. “I haven’t—yet,” I admit, quickly adding, “but I will.”

His eyes flick over my face, searching, before he leans back in his chair, stretching his arms out casually. “Does my work offend you, Naomi?”

“No,” I answer too fast. Too defensive.

One side of his mouth quirks up, as if he’s caught me in a lie.

“I don’t judge clients,” I amend smoothly. “I simply haven’t had time to fully familiarize myself with your content. But I intend to.”

Silence stretches between us. A beat too long.

And then, something shifts. His smirk fades, replaced by something unreadable. And, absurdly, I feel like I’ve disappointed him. Like I failed some invisible test I didn’t even realize I was taking.

“Listen, Naomi,” he says at last, “I’m sure you’re good at what you do. But Veronica at least understands my ideas. Maybe we’d both be happier if you convinced Michael to let her take over.”

A direct hit.

I straighten, ignoring the instinctive sting of rejection. If Michael already denied his request, he’s not likely to approve mine. Besides, pushing Dominic off on someone else would make me look incompetent.

“How do you know Veronica wants to represent you?” I counter.

“We’ve had a conversation.”

Nothing about this new client is going my way. I exhale slowly, keeping my expression composed even as frustration builds. Desperate now, I try to buy time.

“How about this?” I propose. “Give me a month to prove myself. If you’re still unsatisfied, I’ll talk to Michael about making a change.”

Dominic studies me, weighing the offer. He doesn’t look convinced.

So I push a little harder. “If you have any interest in rekindling things with Veronica, it would be better for me to represent you. The company’s policy is strict about that.”

His lips press together, and for the first time, I see hesitation flicker across his face.

“Are they really that strict?”

“They are. Engaging in a romantic relationship with a client leads to immediate termination.”

He exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. He doesn’t look pleased, but he also doesn’t argue.

A tense silence lingers before he finally mutters, “Well then, I suppose you’ll have to do.”

Not exactly the glowing vote of confidence I was hoping for, but I’ll take it.

I force a smile, injecting a confidence I don’t entirely feel. “You won’t regret this.”

His gaze darkens slightly. “And you’ll actually read and watch my work?”

“Yes,” I say firmly. “I intend to start this evening.”

The tight smile he offers me bears no resemblance to the one he gave Zara earlier. “Alright. One month it is, then.”

Relief washes over me, but it’s short-lived. The task ahead is daunting. Dominic Wylder is a brand—one built on controversy, polarizing opinions, and carefully cultivated charisma. If I don’t control the narrative, he will. And if I fail to clean up his image, my chances of being promoted are zilch.

I need his cooperation and support to do my job, and if he doesn’t believe in my abilities and refuses to let me represent him, he could make my life—my job—impossible.

Nevertheless, I press on. “Great. Now that we’ve addressed that, let’s get down to business.”

Chapter 3

Naomi

A crisp, enthusiastic knock pulls me out of my concentration. I blink, dragging my gaze from my laptop as Zara, my assistant, appears in the doorway. She never barges in without reason.

I close my laptop, already bracing. “What’s the matter?”

Zara practically bounces into my office, her energy infectious. “Michael wants to see you. Right away.”

My heart kicks up a notch. “Right now?”

She nods dramatically. “Immediately. Should I tell him you’re heading up?”

A jolt of adrenaline shoots through me. This job is built on urgency, quick thinking, adaptability. It’s exhausting. Exhilarating. Exactly what I live for.

But could this be it? The promotion I’ve been waiting for?

“Yes, please, Zara.”

Her grin widens. “I think this is the moment. He’s finally going to promote you. Just don’t forget about me when you become a partner.”

I let out a laugh. “As if that’s even a remote possibility.”

Zara is impossible to overlook. Today, she’s wearing an orange blouse, a red skirt, and a brown-and-orange scarf tied as a belt—an ensemble as bold as her personality. Her fashion sense has raised more than a few eyebrows among our clients, but she’s exceptional at her job. Her loyalty and instinct for handling crises make her invaluable.

“You never know,” she teases, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You might become besties with The Barracuda and have no use for me anymore.”

I roll my eyes as I grab my handbag. “I’d rather befriend a shark.”

“Sharks are awesome.”

“You think so.”

Zara smirks but then softens. “Hey, Naomi?”

I pause, meeting her gaze.

“You don’t need it, because you’re incredible, but… good luck.”

Something tightens in my chest. She means it.

“Thanks, Zar. That means a lot.”

She blows me a quick kiss. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

As she dashes out, I take a steadying breath and head for the elevator. Butterflies swarm in my stomach, and my palms are slightly clammy as I press the up button. When the doors slide open, I step inside, catching my reflection in the mirrored walls.

I smooth my black-and-red dress, tousle my auburn waves, and add a touch of lipstick. Professional. Polished. A woman who deserves this promotion.

Making partner by thirty—that’s the goal I set the moment I walked through these doors fresh out of university. Eight years of twelve-to-fourteen-hour days, weekend sacrifices, and countless late-night and early-morning calls have led to this moment.

I have earned this.

Watching my friends settle down and build lives outside of work has made me question my priorities at times, but this—my career, my success—is where I find my confidence. My last relationship? A spectacular disaster. Work is where I thrive.

With my thirtieth birthday looming, I was starting to lose hope of meeting the self-imposed deadline. However, the way I handled the Tate Dawes fiasco solidified my reputation as one of the top public relations managers in Melbourne.

“Thank you, Tate Dawes, for being a challenge that only I could conquer,” I murmur as the elevator dings open.

I step out, shoulders squared, and make my way toward Michael’s office. His assistant is stationed outside like a sentry, her steel-grey bun pulled tight, her mouth perpetually pressed into a line of disapproval.

I widen my smile. She scowls.

“He’s waiting for you,” she clips out.

Nothing can dull my confidence now. I walk past her, knock once, and push open the door to Michael’s expansive corner office. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase a sweeping view of the East Melbourne skyline, the city buzzing with life beneath us.

Michael smiles and rises from his seat upon seeing me. “Naomi, come in and take a seat.”

The butterflies that have been fluttering in my stomach morph into something bigger, wilder. But I keep my stride measured, my expression composed as I settle into the plush beige chair with its elegant gold trim.

Michael steeples his fingers, his sharp grey eyes studying me. “Naomi, you know how pleased we are with the way you handled Tate Dawes?”

I offer a smooth smile. “Tate was all bark and no bite. Once he realized I was on his side and I could deliver what he wanted, he was putty in my hands.”

Michael chuckles. “Don’t be modest. You performed a miracle with that kid. I don’t think anyone else could have achieved the same result.”

Satisfaction hums through me.

“Thank you, Michael.”

Zara was right. This is it.

Eight months before my thirtieth birthday, and I’m about to become a junior partner. I clasp my hands in my lap, fighting the urge to jump up and celebrate. Champagne is in my near future. Jess, Adam, Kristy, Logan—Zara, of course—will have to join me.

Michael leans back in his chair, assessing me.

“You thrive on challenges,” he remarks.

I allow a small smile. “I certainly do.”

Michael leans back in his chair, running a hand through his neatly styled black hair, streaked with just enough grey to make him look distinguished. “We’ve recently acquired a more… demanding client, and I thought you might like to be the first to handle him.”

I blink. “Sorry?”

The bubble I was floating in—the one filled with champagne and celebratory toasts to my impending promotion?—bursts so violently I practically feel the splash. The swarm of butterflies drops dead on impact. Rest in peace, hope.

Despite my fading smile, Michael’s remains perfectly intact.

“Originally, we had Veronica slated for this client,” he continues, as if he hasn’t just obliterated my moment of triumph. “But after seeing how you handled Tate Dawes, we believe you’re the right woman for this… challenge.”

Veronica Dalton. The Barracuda. My rival from the moment I stepped into this firm. Ruthless. Brilliant. Two years my senior and fast-tracked to junior partner before I even had a shot.

If she didn’t loathe me, I might actually admire her.

She thrives on high-stakes clients, the kind most publicists would kill to land.

And now, I’ve been given one meant for her.

This isn’t just a client. It’s a statement. A massive one.

But a challenge? Haven’t I already proven myself? Was Tate Dawes not enough?

Exhaustion presses at the edges of my mind, but I shove it aside. I will do whatever it takes to prove I deserve this promotion. Even if it means more sleepless nights and long, punishing days.

I flash a megawatt smile—the same one I reserve for high-profile clients and crisis negotiations. “Absolutely. I’d relish the chance to showcase my capabilities.”

Michael’s expression warms. “That’s what sets you apart, Naomi. Your exceptional attitude. Your hunger. The partners have taken notice. If you can reshape public opinion with this client, I promise you—the promotion is yours.”

Not today. But soon.

All I have to do is not mess this up.

I lift my chin, feigning total confidence. “Who’s the client?”

Michael’s smile wavers. Just for a second. “Dominic Wylder.”

Heat floods my face. My pulse skyrockets.

“The Dominic Wylder?” My voice almost cracks. “The man behind those ‘Why You Should Sleep with the Bad Boy’ books? And those godawful videos on Granite?”

Michael nods, clearly amused by my reaction. “That’s the one.”

No. No, no, no.

Of all the clients in the world. Dominic Wylder doesn’t need a publicist—he needs a full-time handler. He’s a walking PR nightmare, straddling the line between cult idol and canceled-before-the-week’s-out controversy.

His empire started with a blog that exploded into a global brand. Then came the viral videos, the millions of followers, the book deals, and now? The downfall.

His “bad boy manifesto” schtick worked—for a while. His audience ate up his so-called “brutal honesty” about dating, relationships, and sex. But times are changing. Fast. And lately, the tides have turned against him.

His biggest critics call him toxic. Sexist. Outdated.

And if I take him on, his reputation becomes my responsibility.

Michael, ever the diplomat, simply leans forward. “His public image has been rather… volatile lately.”

I snort. His Granite channel is bleeding subscribers by the thousands. Women—the very audience that built his career—are turning against him. The masses are finally waking up to the reality that Dominic Wylder’s only qualifications are partying, womanizing, and monetizing his ego. And now, I have to clean up his mess?

My stomach twists.

I know how to rehabilitate a public image. I’ve done it before. But this might just be career suicide.

“I thought he was represented by Marlo and Sons,” I say, hoping for a loophole—any excuse to hand this problem to someone else.

“He was,” Michael confirms. “But he wants to expand into new media, and Marlo and Sons couldn’t deliver. If we succeed, it’ll solidify us as the go-to firm for high-profile, high-risk clients.”

I nod, processing. A miracle, that’s what Michael is asking of me. He sees a jackpot. I see a disaster waiting to happen.

“It’s perfect timing,” he adds smoothly, “since he’s about to release another book that’s bound to hit the bestseller lists.” His eyes practically glow with dollar signs. “We just need to polish up his image a little.”

A little?

I bite back my instinctive response, but my skepticism must show because Michael chuckles.

“Come on, Naomi. You love a challenge.”

Not this one. Everything in me is screaming to say no. To let Veronica sink her teeth into this walking PR disaster and focus on something—anything—else. But Michael’s earlier words echo in my head. If I can reshape public opinion with this client, the promotion is mine. And I want that promotion; I’ve earned it.

So, I plaster on another flawless smile, ignoring the anxiety creeping up my spine. “Of course,” I say, my voice smooth, steady. “I’ll handle it. When do I meet him?”

Michael grins like I just made his year. “He’s actually here. You probably passed him on your way up. He’s in the fifth-floor boardroom, and he’s eager to meet you.”

Oh, I’m sure he is. If he thinks I’ll be just another woman falling at his feet, he’s got another thing coming.

Still, I rise gracefully from my seat, keeping my expression neutral. “I’d better not keep him waiting, then.”

“Naomi,” Michael calls out as just as I grasp the doorknob. “One more thing before you go.”

I turn to face my boss, a sense of dread already settling in my stomach. “Yes?”

“Dominic is going on tour in a month. As his representative, you’ll be accompanying him.”

I swallow hard. “They still do book signing tours?”

Michael chuckles. “They sure do. And this one isn’t just about signings. He’ll be speaking at events, engaging with fans. Big publicity opportunity.”

Without a muzzle, how am I supposed to keep him from torpedoing himself into permanent cancellation?

My jaw tightens, but my voice remains even. “How long is the tour?”

Michael’s grin widens. “Four weeks.”

“Great,” I say, injecting fake enthusiasm into my tone.

I turn sharply, gripping the door handle. I need air.

But as I step into the hallway, Michael’s parting words chill me.

“Good luck, Naomi,” he says, amused. “I have a feeling you might need it with this client.”

He chuckles as the door swings shut behind me. And as I exhale slowly, rolling my shoulders back, I know one thing for certain. I just stepped into the most dangerous PR campaign of my career. And Dominic Wylder? He’s going to make me fight for every damn second of it.

Chapter 2

Summary

Naomi Tate is a publicist on the brink of a career-defining promotion. Her challenge? Rehabilitate the image of Dominic Wylder—a notorious "bad boy" author whose controversial views on relationships have made him infamous.

Cleaning up his reputation should be the hardest part of her job, not resisting their undeniable chemistry. Because the firm's number one rule is clear: never sleep with a client.

Dominic knows he isn’t the good guy. But when he's challenged to seduce Naomi to ensure her downfall, he finds himself doing the opposite—trying to get her a date to make her less tempting. The problem? The more time he spends with her, the less he wants her with anyone but him.

This standalone sequel, spanning over 100,000 words, can be enjoyed independently and read without prior knowledge of the first two books, "Trusting the Enemy Next Door" and "I Love You, My Neighbour." While it is designed to be a self-contained story, please be aware that there may be some spoilers for the previous books within its pages.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5