The other desperately tugging the hem of Jake Sullivan’s oversized gray college T-shirt lower over her thighs.
Her sharp executive mind—normally capable of negotiating million-dollar deals without blinking—was completely blank.
The smell of pancakes filled the air.
A small girl sat at the kitchen counter.
And Jake Sullivan, the quiet architect she barely spoke to at the office, stood in front of the stove holding a spatula like a man facing a firing squad.
“Mr. Sullivan,” Mia said carefully, each word clipped with her usual authority.
“I believe… I require some explanation.”
Jake slowly set the spatula down.
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