Well, it is past noon already.

Only something like six short hours of fun remain.

Plenty of time to stroke his ego… not that it needs any stroking. Frankly, his ego likely needs its own office chair… C-Suite size. And it definitely cannot walk out the small door. It would never fit through the frame.

The person who needs some stroking is you. That hot guy at lunch… you’d let him stroke you. Not that his girlfriend would let him, of course. You noticed the daggers in her stare when you very subtly dropped your credit card and had to pick it up, somehow accidentally displaying your creamy cleavage… gravity has a way to help you flaunt your best asset.

His distracted glance, and the **** threats in her suddenly icy eyes, suggest that isn’t the plastic rectangle you picked up from the linoleum.

Weird fact: whenever you meet a hot guy, it’s either him or you who’s dating some loser.

Mostly you, actually.