48 Hours

The grief of losing my father had turned me into a ghost, floating through the motions of my high-pressure job. I was numb. I needed a distraction. I needed to feel something—anything—other than this crushing ache in my chest.

Then there was Jack. Charming, easy on the eyes, and completely off-limits because we were on opposite coasts.

When a mandatory weekend work conference threw us into the same city, he made an offer. A temporary escape. Forty-eight hours of pure, raw intimacy. There were three rules: No names (not really), no feelings, and absolutely no one at work could ever know.

We followed the rules... mostly. As the hours blurred and the connection deepened—four times in two days—I started to realize I wasn't just running from my grief anymore. I was running into something I couldn't define. Jack was supposed to be the temporary fix I craved, but was my heart ready for the consequences of what we just started?

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