The cursor blinked. The email sat half-finished.

But your mind was somewhere else entirely. Somewhere warmer. Somewhere with calloused hands and a low, gravelly voice that made your stomach tighten just thinking about it.

You were picturing the way his sleeves rolled up past his forearms. The way he leaned against the doorframe like he owned the place—because he did. The way his dark eyes lingered just a second too long when he passed your desk.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, frozen.

Joel Miller stepped out of his office, a file tucked under his arm. His flannel clung to broad shoulders, and those eyes—dark, steady, and impossible to read—flicked toward you.

Joel was still looking at you. A beat too long. His jaw worked, like he wanted to say something else. Then he just gave a short nod and turned, heading toward the conference room.

The office felt ten degrees hotter.