In the days following our disastrous first "date" Max and I found ourselves inadvertently thrust into the harsh glare of the rumor mill spotlight.

The speculation swirled with salacious glee - was I just another tawdry office fling for the city's most notorious playboy CEO? Or was the great Max Pemberton himself slipping between the sheets with a member of his own staff?

The scrutiny and innuendo only emphasized the charged atmosphere between us. Amidst the public spectacle of our dinner, Max's professional demeanor and intense gazes signaled our mutual disregard for propriety. We existed on our own wavelength, unaffected by outside opinions.

So, in the aftermath of becoming Manhattan's latest "it" couple du jour, I threw myself headlong into Operation: Max-imal Charm Offensive with a zeal that would impress - or possibly terrify - even the most ardent romantic.

True to form, Max seemed utterly unfazed by my increasingly over-the-top overtures. In fact, I'm fairly certain he derived a perverse sort of amusement from the whole mortifying spectacle.

It began innocuously enough - I had a dozen long-stemmed roses delivered to his office with an obnoxiously large card featuring a breathless, schmaltzy poem about the depths of my ardor.

Max didn't so much as bat an eyelash as I presented the garish bouquet, simply arching one brow in that infuriatingly impassive way of his. "Getting a bit ahead of ourselves, aren't we Ms. Bennett?" was his only dry remark before dismissing me with a curt nod.

Undeterred, I doubled down the next morning by arranging for a bevy of cherubic cupids - AKA local elementary school kids I'd bribed with candy - to release a kaleidoscope of heart-shaped balloons and confetti in the main lobby just as Max arrived. He paused only briefly to regard the spectacle, deftly sidestepping the squealing, tutu-clad hellions with a look of long-suffering patience. Though I didn't miss the slight upward twitch of his lips as one particularly rambunctious "cupid" managed to pelt him square in the chest with a fistful of confetti.

"Your efforts are...valiant, Ms. Bennett," was all he said as he brushed the tissue paper detritus from his jacket lapels. "Though I'd stop short of describing them as successful just yet."

"I'm barely warming up, Pemberton," was my reply to his taunting comment.

It continued like that for the next few weeks. Until I had a stroke of pure genius with my latest attempt to get Max to beg me to stop. I was going to cover his office in an avalanche of sticky notes from wall to wall. I couldn't help but feel a delicious evil laughter at the thought of it all.

Instead of crafting the romantic notes myself, I recruited the same gang of rowdy elementary school "cupids" I had used for the balloon stunt. I figured letting those rambunctious little gremlins take a swing at composing heartfelt poetry would yield maximum cringe-worthy hilarity. And boy, did those sticky-fingered cherubs deliver!

I arrived at the office bright and early before the cleaning crew and set myself to decorate Max's entire office space - every conceivable surface completely wallpapered with a gaudy mosaic of sticky notes in clashing neon hues. I did a delighted little spin, drinking in the saccharine chaos with immense satisfaction.

That is, until I started actually reading the "love notes" scrawled in that unmistakable messy child scribble:

'U R KUTE LADY' one bright orange note declared beside a lopsided heart doodle.

'Marrie me and ill give you my Lego sets.' Proposed a green one hopefully. I barked out a shocked laugh at the unintentionally creepy proposal before scanning the surrounding areas.

There were dozens more equally baffling and off-the-wall notes:

'I love yur musctache!'

'Want to see my bug colektion?'

'Merry my dad so I can get candy everyday!'

Dear lord, what had I done? By the time Max arrived with his typical punctual flourish, I was doubled over in a fit of horrified giggles. He stood in the doorway, taking in the garish note wallpaper with an arched brow and thin-lipped grimace.

"I...don't believe I even want to know, Ms. Bennett," he sighed, sidestepping a minefield of sticky notes emblazoned with crude drawings and...were those song lyrics about digestive functions?!

I watched, mask of propriety slipping as he plucked a hot pink note from his desk globe. 'Be my...girl-crushed?' He wrinkled his nose in distaste. "On second thought, I clearly do NOT want to know."

With a shake of his head, Max simply shrugged off his suit jacket and got to work, seemingly oblivious to bizarre non-sequitur notes like 'Milk is greate on ritzz!' or 'Can I get my candy now?'

I collapsed into a nearby chair, wheezing with laughter at the utterly bananapants absurdity of it all. Clearly, conventional romance was utterly lost on Max Pemberton - only pure, unlicensed chaos and pandemonium would ever make a dent!

Things escalated rapidly from there. One sunny Thursday afternoon, I pulled out all the stops - planning an obnoxiously public serenade to ambush Max.

He had insisted we continued to meet daily to go over meaningless busywork, no doubt his way of goading me on in my attempts while maintaining plausible deniability.

Max claimed the frequent meetings were a necessity to smooth out any disruptions to Pemberton Financial's professional image and operations.

Of course, I saw it for what it really was - the arrogant bastard silently challenging me to step up my "apology tour" of romantic gestures and shenanigans. Well, if infuriating mind games were what he wanted, I was happy to oblige.

I hired wandering mimes, Shakespearean actors to shout sonnets through an old-timey caller's trumpet, and a marching band's worth of trombonists belting out Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You."

All this while carrying a large sign that read "HOT FOR SMUG BOSS: CHARLOTTE ❤️ MAXI POO 4-EVER". Safe to say, productivity ground to a screeching halt at Pemberton Financial that afternoon as the spectacle grew increasingly disruptive.

Max finally stormed from his office looking utterly thunderous, somehow managing to appear both fearsomely imperious yet deliciously disheveled with his shirt collar undone and ash brown hair artfully tousled.

God, the man was fatally sexy when his unshakeable control began to slip, a fact that did unspeakable things to my traitorous insides. "Bennett!" he barked amidst the cacophony, emerald eyes blazing. "Kindly dismantle this juvenile carnival at once. You've made your point quite spectacularly."

I very purposely did not hurry to make nice with the troupe of performers I'd hired, instead letting Max's infuriated form drown in a swarm of body-rolled choreography and off-key serenading for several charged moments. When the clamor eventually died down and we were finally alone in the wrecked aftermath, Max turned a look of pure, molten promise on me - the air between us crackling with a heady sort of tension.

"Getting desperate for my attention, are we?" His voice lowered to a velvet rasp that tickled deliciously along my sensitized nerves. He prowled closer on those powerful strides, forcing me to tip my head back and meet that torrid emerald gaze head-on as he crowded into my personal space.

My heart kicked up a stutter burst of wild staccato - part adrenaline, part something infinitely more reckless and forbidden. I refused to so much as blink beneath the smoldering heat of his slow perusal.

"Just evening the playing field," I lied with a boldness that belied my traitorous body's molten reaction. "You wanted me to 'seduce' you after all, Mr. Pemberton. Can't exactly accuse me of doing it halfway." With a sweet but utterly wicked smile, I purposefully stepped closer, gently pulling at his tie. "I'll be a good girl and stop, all you have to do is ask me, nicely."

Max made a low sound of purest sin in the back of his throat - a rumbling hum of dark masculine appreciation that resonated straight to my core. The torrid promise in those emerald forest-fired eyes stripped me utterly bare in a way his heated stare never had before.

He reached out, capturing my hand with just two fingers, delicately peeling it off his tie. His touch set a fire right in my low abdomen, a silent acknowledgment of our dangerous dance.

"That I cannot, Ms. Bennett," he murmured, his voice a velvet caress in my earlobes that held both warning and invitation. "Wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea here." A smirk played at the corners of his lips, a silent challenge lingering in the air between us. With a subtle flick of his wrist, he released my hand. "But, well played indeed..."

And with that blistering flirtation still sparking between us, Max turned on his heel and stalked away, leaving me breathless and reeling in his wake as a liquid thrill blazed through my veins.

God, what a delicious bastard - riling me into quivering disarray with little more than a voice dripping like hot caramel and a stingy mock of a caress. It was the ultimate power play, dangling the scorching promise of capitulation yet never fully committing to more than this infuriating erotic tension.

Well, two could most certainly play at that particular game...

From now on,Operation: Max-imal Charm Offensive wouldn't just be about embarrassing my arrogant employer into a groveling submission.

No, this had officially become a tantalizing dance of escalating romantic provocations - a flirtatious game of seductive brinkmanship to see which of us would inevitably buckle first beneath the smoldering heat and agonizing restraint of our chemistry.

And judging by Max's final dark, unreadable look before leaving me to simmer in my own thwarted desires, the ruthless man wasn't interested in throwing in the towel anytime soon.

My heart raced with giddy excitement, blissfully unaware that its naive keening was the mournful sound of fate's cruel die being cast. The game was forever altered - and there would be no walking away unscathed.