45

I was in the middle of sorting through one of Declan’s files when the phone on my desk rang. When a call came from an interoffice line, it showed who the caller was. In this instance, it was from the office directly behind me, the door closed, the dickhead tucked inside his dark chamber.

I sucked in a deep breath and picked up the receiver. “This is Hannah—”

“I need you.” Declan’s voice was rough, deep. A mix between a lion and a Rottweiler. At first, I was semi-excited by his choice of greeting until he said, “Get in my office now,” and I knew I was about to face a rabid pack leader.

He hung up before I could respond.

I placed the receiver back in the cradle and pushed myself out of my chair, finding a steadiness on my heels before I hurried to his door. I didn’t bother to knock—it would only waste more time—and I found myself no longer breathing the second our eyes connected.

Since it was nearing the end of the day, his tie was slightly loosened, and his jacket was off. The sleeves