Phoebe's POV
I quickly realized where I was—Harold's private break room.
Grabbing my phone, I checked the time. Mid-afternoon already. Had I really been asleep that long?
I stood up, got dressed, and ran my fingers through my messy hair.
While answering some WhatsApp messages, I pushed the break room door open.
Brennan was saying, "Mr. Bailey, Mr. Garvin's meeting got moved to tomorrow at noon. I'll double-check the time with you later.
"Oh, and Miss Kemp wanted dinner tonight, but I politely declined for you..."
The conversation stopped dead the moment I stepped out.
Brennan's jaw dropped so wide you could've rolled a baseball into his mouth.
He stared at me—hair completely disheveled, clearly fresh from bed—then looked at Harold, who sat there with his usual composed expression.
I could practically see the gears turning in Brennan's head.
He was thinking, 'Holy shit.
'No way.
'This is incredible. Time to party.
