Off Limits - Lola Darling

OFF LIMITS

LOLA DARLING

CONTENTS Copyright Dedication Epigraph 1.

Chloe

2. Max 3. Chloe 4. Max 5. Chloe 6. Max 7. Chloe 8. Max 9. Chloe 10. Max 11. Chloe 12. Max 13. Chloe 14. Max 15. Chloe 16. Max 17. Chloe 18. Max 19. Chloe 20. Max 21. Chloe 22. Max 23. Chloe 24. Max 25. Chloe 26. Max 27. Chloe 28. Max Epilogue Excerpt of Teach Me Chandler by Laurelin Paige

Acknowledgments About the Author

Copyright © 2016 by Lola Darling All rights reserved. Cover designer: Jennifer Watson, Social Butterly PR Photographer: WANDER AGUIAR :: PHOTOGRAPHY Cover Model: Jacob Cooley Cover Designer Jennifer Watson, Social Butterfly PR No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

As always, for E.H. and R.F. Love you both to the moon and back.

“There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable.” MAR K TWAIN

ONE

CHLOE

"One more round everybody, just stick with me!" I tuck my hips and rest my hands on them, elbows sticking out in my best imitation of the toned and tanned woman on my flatscreen TV. When Suzie Steel does this move, she looks like a rockstar posing in front of her adoring fans. Me? I'm rocking more what looks like an awkward chicken dance. This is why I don't go to the gym. I'll stick to embarrassing myself in the private of my own home, thanks. "Knees bent, remember, and stick that butt out. Now, we're going to try a modified squat here. As you come out of each one, I want you to rotate those hips— remember, rub it in!" she calls with a gleeful smile as she demonstrates the move, which will no doubt set my ass on fire, yet looks effortless when she does it. I grit my teeth and join her in the next set. "Yes, ladies, right there. Circle those hips, rub it in good." It takes all my concentration not to burst into laughter, especially given how uncoordinated I feel to begin with. Rub it in. Yeah, okay Suzie. "Better sore than sorry!" she adds with a painfully cheerful grin as I dip into the next set of squat-stand-rotate. My thighs ache, and my ass, sure enough, burns like hell. I'm going to regret this when I have to haul said ass to work in less than an hour. Especially given the heels I’ve chosen to wear today. But hopefully, if I can keep this up for the next couple of months, I might be decently toned in time for the summer. Lazing on the beach looking even remotely as svelte, flat-stomached and sexy as Suzie Steel—despite the fact that she's at least twenty years older than me —will be totally worth it. Right, Chloe, a little voice at the back of my head interrupts the daydream. Like you're going to have time to relax on a beach. Or anywhere, for that matter. I suck in a deep breath and hit the next squat hard, trying to force that voice out of my head. Okay, true, I've been a little overworked for the last . . . several years. And yes, last summer I basically forgot to take a vacation. And yes, I backed out of going to my best friend Heather's summer beach house not once, but three times. But this is a new year. New me. Look, I'm even rocking this whole working out

thing. "Five more reps, ladies! Excuses burn zero fat per hour, remember that." I narrow my eyes at the screen and bend my knees again, my thighs shaking with effort. "I'll give you excuses, Suzie," I mutter under my breath. Okay, so rocking it is an exaggeration. More like staggering through it like an ungainly imbecile. But I’m doing it! That’s what counts, right? God, how many more days of this? “Your ass isn’t going to tone itself when you sit on it,” Suzie says, as if she heard me thinking. Damn her. “Come on, with me, last two reps now. And rock those hips, shake it out, now rub it in.” This time I really do let an unladylike snort escape as I rock my hips in motion with hers. Honestly, I love Suzie’s workouts, but the cheesy one-liners kill me at times. Maybe that’s the point? Distracting me from the hellish pain that is my ass right now? “Aaaand, done. There we go, how do you feel?” Suzie asks the screen with a painfully sincere, huge smile. I glare at her. “Like death warmed over in the microwave,” I mumble, leaning over to stretch my legs as best I can. The video leads me through a few cool-down exercises, and I follow for as long as I can before the clock catches my eye. Crap. I’m going to be late if I don’t jump in the shower now. I shut off the video with a sigh. Hmm. I do feel a little more awake than usual, though. None of that postexercise endorphin high that the girls at work talk about getting at the gym—to be honest, I’ve never experienced anything post-workout besides the crushing urge to lie in a hot tub—but I am kind of proud of myself. I woke up an extra hour early for this and everything. Today is going to be a good day, I tell myself as I step out of my sweaty yoga pants and into the warm embrace of my shower. I can just feel it.

My brand new Louis Vuitton heels clack on the marble floor of our office as I scroll through my Blackberry, typing addendums to my schedule as needed. 9:30 a.m. – meeting with boss. 10:15 a.m. – meeting with my client. 11:20 a.m. – meeting with Cheryl from accounting to talk about invoicing issue. 12:13 p.m. – leave to hit bank in time. 12:30 p.m. – lunch with Martha—mental note: make sure to ask how her son is doing, and also if she’s had a reply about the Daniels’ case? I’m still adding notes when I nearly stride right into the glass door of the meeting room adjacent to my boss’s office. I smooth my Armani skirt with one hand, hoping nobody in the hallway noticed that slick move, and then I push

through the door into the room. Paul’s not here yet, which is good. Tardiness is one of his personal pet peeves, so I always try to arrive at least a couple minutes ahead of schedule for our catch-ups. Which is why I’m surprised when, after five minutes of me shuffling the files I’ve brought with me around, there’s still no sign of him emerging from his office. I check the delicate gold watch around my wrist subtly. Or so I think. “Hope I’m not detaining you from anything more important,” my boss’s familiar voice interrupts just as I look at the watch. Most people would freak out to hear him say that—Paul Greaves has a way of setting even the partners on edge, and not just because his father founded his law firm fifty-some years ago. But I’ve worked alongside him long enough by now to know his moods. He’s not annoyed. There’s an almost playful smile hanging on his mouth, which is mostly hidden behind an XL cup of Starbucks. “Just worried you might have triggered the apocalypse is all. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this late,” I reply, a hint of teasing in my voice, considering it’s only two minutes past the hour. “Yes, I believe the end is nigh. My end, anyway, if this morning’s headache is anything to go by.” I frown. “Are you feeling okay? We can reschedule if you’d like; I have an opening tomorrow morning, or—” Paul waves an impatient hand in my direction. “Good lord, you sound like my daughter. I’m fine, it’s just a headache. Nothing a few mugs of this won’t cure.” He hefts his Starbucks with another smile, though this time, now that I’m watching closely, I can see the faint wince behind it. I chew on the inside of my lip, where he won’t be able to see. To be honest, Paul worries me sometimes. He doesn’t take care of himself, and he’s not exactly a spring chicken anymore. He’s been a close friend and mentor to me ever since I set foot in this company and he took me under his wing—I’d hate to see anything bad happen because he’s too distracted with work to worry about his own health. But I can tell that pestering him about it right now won’t get us anywhere. So I flip open the file on top of my stack instead. “Right, so, the Daniels’ case,” I say, one hand unconsciously reaching to readjust my glasses as I read. Each of my files for the case are neatly stacked, labeled with color-coded sticky notes, and organized in alphabetical order. “I’ve got a few things I wanted to go over with you, if that’s all right? I had a question about the court report from—” “Chloe.” I pause and blink at him. First the being late, then the headaches, now the interrupting me? Normally with Paul, the best approach to take is to get straight down to business. No small-talk, no waiting for him to take the reins. He appreciates an employee who is forthright, and who comes into a meeting with their own agenda. Something seems off today. More than just his mood.

“Yes, Paul?” I try to keep the note of trepidation from my voice. My stomach tightens. This is an unfamiliar sensation for me. I’m always onpoint—work is the one thing in my life that’s completely, totally, perfectly on track. There’s already been whispers around the office that the reason Paul likes me so much, meets with me so often, even though he has at least 5 other direct reports, is because he’s grooming me to take his place. It’ll be a couple years yet, before he’s ready to retire and a new spot for a partner opens up, but I’m only thirty now. If I could make partner before I even hit my mid-30s . . . Except. Now he’s frowning at me. “I’m moving you off of the Daniels’ case. Please compile your notes and pass them over to Rich this afternoon.” The floor drops out from under me. It’s hard, for half a second, to catch my breath. Luckily I’m quick at recovering. “Can I ask why?” You can hardly even hear the tremor in my voice, I tell myself. There’s no way he can tell that my throat is closing in on itself. Not at all. I’ve spent the better part of three months on the Daniels’ case. I’ve done everything by the book, made all the right calls, kept everything shipshape. We’re almost ready to go to trial next month, and I might even have been able to push up the court date the way the client wanted. And now— “Because I need you working on something bigger right now.” I pause mid-mental-freak-out. Er . . . What? I pause to take a slow breath—at least he’s not mad at me—but even with that long pause I still can’t think of anything more poised to say. “What?” I ask, feeling stupid. “Don’t worry,” he says with a hint of a knowing grin in his eye. Dammit. I guess my freak-out was that transparent. “It’s a good thing. This is a high-profile case. We need our best people on it. I would have taken it myself, except I’m still tied up with Murphy. This is the kind of case that can really prove to the partners how dedicated and poised some of our associates are. The kind of case that can point out who might be . . . well. Partner material, some day.” My heart skips a full beat in my chest, I swear to god. I can practically hear the blood swimming in my ears, trying to keep up with the stutter. Yes, I’ve suspected Paul might be grooming me before. But he never actually comes out and says it—he never says anything, really. He plays his hand close to the chest, and he’s taught me to do the same. If he’s saying this now, revealing the partner-potential card, he has a reason. I might not understand it yet, but . . . “Sounds like I’ll love it,” I hear myself saying, before I even have time to think it over. Who cares what the case is? I’ve tackled so many in my years here, I’m confident I can handle anything he throws at me. “I think you will.” He nods. “There’s just one small thing.” I hardly even register the hesitation in his tone anymore. I’m too far gone. Too far ahead in mentally planning how I’m going to own this case—whatever the heck it is. I’ll pull double-time, work weekends, I don’t care. I’ll do whatever it takes to knock this one out of the park. These make-or-break career opportunities only come around a couple times in a lifetime, and at times like those, you need to just

push everything else out of your way, knuckle down and work your butt off until you win. “Due to the, ah . . . very public nature of this case, and the fact that it will likely attract at least some media attention—and due to the fact that, as I said, we won’t be able to have a partner on the case directly—we would like to really make sure that every angle is considered, every potential taken into consideration. We feel it would be best to have as many experienced, trusted eyes on this as possible, so with that in mind—oh, here we are.” I blink, startled at the sound of the office doors clicking open again behind me. I spin around in my chair, and frown in confusion at the man standing just inside the glass doors now. I know Max Davis, of course. Resident cocky asshole, bent on singlehandedly seducing our entire female staff. Everyone in the office knows all about Max fucking Davis, and his various sexcapades. Yes, plenty of people sneak around the non-fraternization policy we have here, but he makes a damn contest of it, I swear. If there’s a single woman in this company he hasn’t banged or tried to bang, I’ll eat my shoe. Hell, he tried to get me to fall for his shit when he first started. Thank God I make it a policy never to mix business and pleasure. It doesn’t help that he’s ridiculously, stupidly, unfairly good-looking. Hudson Pierce good-looking. Even right now, at 9:45am on a Monday, he’s got effortlessly tousled black hair falling just far enough into his dark green eyes that it makes it seem like he doesn’t try to look this hot at all, it just sort of happens. Ugh. I’m still staring at him in confusion as Paul keeps speaking behind me. “We would like the two of you to partner on this case.” Say what now? the part of my brain not distracted by warring sensations of disgust for and attraction to Max. “You two are the most promising young litigators we have here at Greaves, Morrell and Stuyvesant, and all three of us are confident that you will bring two differing, but equally important work styles and views to this case. Really, it’s a perfect partnership, I think.” Oh hell no. No, I am not sharing this case—this make-or-break, could land me on the partnership track case—with Max Davis. He’s the last person I would want to co-host a general office meeting with, let alone work on a case that could change my entire career. But Max just stands there, smiling at Paul—no, at me, his eyes are on me now, and fucking hell, those have to be contacts, right? Nobody’s eyes are that green, like shards of emerald got trapped in his irises. “I can’t wait to get started,” he says, and just like that, I feel doom closing in on me.

TWO

MAX

It’s not like I’m any more thrilled about this assignment than she is, but Chloe MacIntyre could at least pretend not to utterly loathe the idea of working with me on this. I’m not sure whether to find it irritating or flattering—I honestly thought the girl had a better poker face than this. She’s a shark in the courtroom, all fire and fury. Not gonna lie, the one time I watched her speak, I had to sit hunched over the whole time. Something about her soft, supple curves, combined with that fierce mouth of hers makes the blood rush to my cock every time. Anthony Stuyvesant, my boss slash mentor slash personal torturer here at the firm insisted on sending me to watch every single one of my colleagues litigate over the course of a year. Of everyone I watched speak, Chloe was the most memorable. She had a way of twisting every eye in the room to her—and not even in a sexual way. Yes, she was drop-dead gorgeous, and between her petite yet striking frame—at a guess, perfect B-cups, a tight ass, and shapely legs, made even shapelier by those heels she insists on wearing every single day—her sharp hazel eyes and her head full of riotous blonde curls, I’m sure she gets people staring at her on the regular for more reasons than one. Not to mention the dark-framed glasses she wears, which amp up the sexy librarian vibes by about a thousand. But in the courtroom? She has a whole other level of energy. Every word out of her mouth is calculated, precision-honed to pierce its target for maximum effect. On the street she’s the kind of girl you’d hit on, then limp home after being shut down, but in court, she’s goddamn terrifying. I have no problem admitting that. Unfortunately, it also makes her pretty judgmental of the rest of us mere mortals. The first week after I watched her litigate, I asked her out for a beer after work, mostly to pick her brain, look for pointers on my own game. To say that she shot me down would be putting it lightly. She basically verbally eviscerated me. So, okay, some part of me is enjoying watching the disbelief and dismay war on her face as I pull out the chair beside her and plunk myself down across from Paul Greaves. Turnabout is fair play. The moment I sit down, she scoots her chair as far from mine as possible. Paul’s

still busy with digging around in his papers for some files, so I wheel my chair a little closer to hers. “I don’t bite, you know,” I murmur, low enough that only she can hear. “That’s not what I’ve heard,” she responds without even a glance in my direction. I lift an eyebrow. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.” “Oh I don’t. But in your case, the evidence is rather overwhelming.” Her lips twist into a moue of distaste. Fucking hell, she’s hot when she’s angry. It makes me want to piss her off more often. It also makes me take a deep breath. Any more of that death glaring from her and I’ll get hard right here. “Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?” I ask. Before she can reply, Paul finally withdraws the papers he’s been looking for and slides them across the table to us. “I’ve put together some basic details on the case,” he says. Chloe pulls herself together enough to stop glaring daggers at me and picks up her copy of the file instead. I page through mine, though truth be told, I already have the details. Anthony gave me a heads-up in our catch-up this morning, about an hour before he sent me over here. This should be an interesting one. “The client is Suzie Steel.” Chloe’s eyes go wide. “The Suzie Steel? From the exercise videos.” “That’s her.” Paul nods. “The one with all the catch phrases. You know, shake it out and—” “Rub it in,” Chloe supplies with a sarcastic smirk. I can’t help it. I bark out a low laugh at that one. It only earns me an even narrower glare from Chloe this time. “Actually, that’s what the lawsuit is about,” Paul says, interrupting what was shaping up to be a pretty interesting staring contest. I think it’s the glasses. Even when she’s scowling Chloe looks hotter than anyone I’ve ever laid eyes on. Or maybe I just think of hot librarians when she scowls at me. Please, Chloe, tell me what you want me to do to you. “Suzie trademarked that saying when she first launched her videos back in ’95. But now there’s a new company that’s just started up, selling, ah, what’s it called . . .” Paul rifles through his copy of the case document. “The Rotator,” I supply without a glance at my own files. After all, I spent the last hour researching it. “Not the most creative name ever. It’s basically just a chair with a weight system attached. It’s supposed to work out your hip flexors and your obliques when you, well . . .” I cast a sideways glance at Chloe before I rock my hips around the office chair to demonstrate. “Rub it in.” Her eye-roll is so strong it practically registers on the Richter scale. “Figures you’d be familiar with that.” “Hey, these washboard abs won’t maintain themselves.” I pat my stomach.

Even Paul laughs at that, though I notice he quickly tries to hide it by taking another gulp from his coffee cup. “Calm down, Gym Tan Laundry,” Chloe mutters. “Okay, so they’re using a saying that’s too similar to hers, is that the problem?” Her eyes flash back to Paul, to the case at hand. She’s no fun. “Part of the problem, yes. They released a commercial with a voiceover using that line, read by an older woman, smoky voice—she sounds an awful lot like Suzie, to be honest. But Suzie insists it’s not her. She never gave the company permission to use her tagline, either.” Chloe purses her lips thoughtfully. “So this new company is trying to play off of her brand. Make it look like she endorsed them.” “Precisely.” “It doesn’t help that the machine doesn’t look all that safe, either,” I add. “I watched a couple videos of it this morning. I can see what Ms. Steel means, when she said she wouldn’t suggest her followers use something like that. Just a little too much weight, and you could really strain your lower back muscles if you don’t know what you’re doing.” Chloe’s eyes flash at me again, like she’s annoyed. I can’t imagine about what this time. She pushes the glasses farther up her nose, and I fight sudden urges to tear them off her face. No. Actually. Leave the glasses on. Just tear everything else off of her . . . “So, what do you think, Chloe?” Paul asks, and she snaps to attention. I raise an eyebrow. Anthony doesn’t talk to me like that. Of course, Anthony has a very different management . . . ah, style, shall we say, than Paul does. He’s more of the Here’s what you’re doing, if you don’t like it, get the hell out of my firm type of boss. Chloe scans the case file in front of her. A single lock of her long, curly hair falls over her shoulder as she does, brushing across the page. I have to fight a sudden, inexplicable urge to brush it out of her way. Actually, more than that, I want to catch all her long hair in my fist, turn her toward me again, see that glare on her perfectly sculpted face as I lean over her and . . . Shit. What the hell, Davis? You don’t have time for this right now. Almost like she heard that thought, Chloe steals a peek in my direction. “It’s interesting, that’s for sure. And I can see why you want us to keep a close eye on it,” she says. “Suzie’s still a pretty big public figure. She’s been on a couple of talk shows lately, and there’s some buzz about her releasing a new training regimen for older women this year, too. This case could attract a lot of media coverage.” “My thoughts exactly.” Paul nods. “But I’m confident that the two of you can handle this one. After all, two heads are better than one, no?” He flashes me a wide, friendly smile. It’s weird—I’m used to seeing him act all aggressive and temperamental in meetings. Chloe must bring out his softer side. “I’ve managed dozens of big name clients,” I reply, grinning, even as I can sense

Chloe’s eyes rolling once more. “Suzie Steel is in safe hands with me.” “With us,” Chloe interjects. “Right. That’s what I meant.” I wink at her, and her cheeks flush. Angry, blushing librarian, even better. “Great.” Paul claps his hands. “Well, I’ve got to be off to my next meeting—I’ll leave you two to get acquainted with the case for now. And each other, of course.” The moment the door to Paul’s office clicks shut behind him, Chloe levels her gaze on me again. Ouch. If looks could maim. “So you had time to watch those videos first,” she says, her voice low and sarcastic. “It’s good to know you come prepared.” Ah, I see. She’s irritated that I’ve got a head start on her already. “Don’t worry. I always come prepared for anything.” “I’m sure you do when it comes to, say, avoiding contracting gonorrhea. But this case is huge for me, so you’re going to let me do the preparation from here on out, got it?” Fat chance, sweetheart. “That’s not really how I roll, Chloe. I’m very hands on.” “Yes, well I’d prefer that you keep your hands off, in this case.” She glances down at my hands where they’re resting on the table, as if they’ve personally offended her. I fold my hands in an exaggerated move, drawing them back off the table as though to say, See, don’t worry, I won’t touch you. Even though there’s nothing in the world I want to do more right now. “Look, we’re going to have to work together whether you like it or not, Chloe. You might as well enjoy it.” She raises an eyebrow. “Is that what you tell all the ladies?” “Only the shy ones. I’d promise you I’ll be gentle, but you don’t seem like the shy type, to be honest . . . .” Chloe’s gaze narrows even farther, accentuated by the sharp, dark frames of her glasses. “Thanks, but I prefer to drive rather than riding the company bike.” I smirk. “You know, I hear slut-shaming is out of style these days.” “Funny, I heard the same thing about hooking up with your secretary.” It takes an effort not to crack a grin at that one. Touché. I shake my head a little. “Rumors are like cockroaches. Where you see one, there’s at least a thousand more lurking right behind it.” “So what you’re saying is, for every one I’ve heard, there’s thousands more I haven’t? Good to know.” She peers over the top of her glasses at me almost thoughtfully. “Let me just mentally do the math on how much worse you look right now, hang on . . .” “If you’re done discussing my personal life, could we get back to work here? I thought I was meant to be the bad influence, y’know?” Her eyes dart to the clock on the wall. “I have a meeting with a previous client in ten minutes. I’ll need to meet with them, then find Rich to brief him on us swapping projects, and go through handover notes with him this afternoon . . .”

She trails off and snatches up her Blackberry to swipe through it. I try not to focus too much on the way she gets this little pout of concentration on her lower lip as she’s reading, or the way that piece of hair falls across her face again. Pull your shit together, Davis. For all the rumors about me, I’m really not an STD-riddled pickup artist. I just happen to be very popular around the office, that’s all. Mostly with my female colleagues. It’s not like I encourage the attention. Much. Besides, it’s harmless fun. But Chloe . . . I’m not sure if it’s the way she so obviously, openly despises me, or the fact that I’ve seen her speak in court and I know how smart she is, or if it’s just those fucking librarian glasses. For some reason, she affects me differently. She makes me want to prove all the rumors true. I zone back in on her perfect, plump red lips forming words. Sentences. Fuck. Pay attention. Stop thinking about those pert lips wrapped around your cock, man. “Fifteen-minute window tomorrow afternoon, 4:25. Does that work for you?” “I really think we’re going to need more than 15 minutes to cover the preliminaries on this one.” “I’ll book in a longer meeting in a couple of days. For now, fifteen minutes is all you get, so you’d better prove that you were right about your preparation skills.” “My preparation—and my follow-through, I might add—are just fine.” She lifts a single eyebrow over the rim of her glasses. “Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it.” I grin and scoot my chair a little closer to hers. “Well, actions speak louder than words. If you’d like, I’d be happy to prove just how good my follow-through is.” To my surprise, she leans in too, close enough that I catch a whiff of the perfume she’s wearing. Something delicate, probably expensive as hell. Sweet and a little spicy. It makes me want to taste her, run my tongue over her naked body to see if it matches her flavor. “Please do,” she purrs, and it takes every ounce of restraint I possess not to close the gap between us and claim her mouth right here and now. She’s leaning closer, I could make a move . . . Then she slaps my chest with a file, which I catch belatedly, slow on the uptake after my short, moment of weakness. “In the courtroom, that is.” She’s already pushing away from the desk and standing up. Her tight pencil skirt has ridden up her thighs, and I catch a glimpse of the tops of her stockings, before she yanks the skirt back into place, all the way down to her knees. Dammit. Cut-off stockings and garters? Who knew our sweet little Chloe had a kinky side? I suppress a smirk as I meet her eye. “I’m going to need more than fifteen minutes eventually, you know.” She glares at me again, which either means she caught me checking her out, or just that this is her favorite facial expression. “That’s good. If you finished in fifteen minutes every time, I’d have to call that less than impressive.” With that, she sweeps out of the room, leaving me torn between a laugh and a scowl.

This might be an even tougher case than I thought. Mostly because watching her curvy, luscious ass storm out of the room makes me hard as a rock. I try to force her out of my mind for the rest of the afternoon, but it’s no use. I’m pretty much useless with how distracted she’s made me. To the point where I catch the elevator down to the second floor, lock myself in an empty conference room, and jerk off, leaning against the table, wishing it was her I had pressed against the wood instead. Fucking hell, I think as I come, my mind still full of images of her—eyes narrowed behind those sexy glasses, full lips pursed in distrust. I haven’t been this turned on at the office since I can’t remember when. It’s gonna be a long couple of months.

THREE

CHLOE

I pace across the kitchen floor in my stockings, the ridiculous ones with the garter belt, because everything else I own was out with the laundry people today. I’m still wearing my work shirt, though it’s unbuttoned over my bra, but I tossed my skirt into a heap on my couch the moment I walked through the front door. Not like there’s anyone here to impress or offend anyway. “And that’s not even the worst part,” I say into the phone, which I have awkwardly cradled between my ear and my shoulder as I yank open the freezer and dig through it for the pint of Ben and Jerry’s I know I still have somewhere in here. I’d prepped a whole series of meals for the week, which I cook on Sundays and freeze for defrosting other nights. But screw it. Tonight, I’m having Americone Dream for dinner. “Worse than being taken off the case you’ve spent like two months straight on?” asks the voice on the other end of the line. Heather Healey, my best friend in the world. Well, okay. Possibly my only friend right now, since I all but fell out of touch with Sheri, Ang and their squad. But it’s not like I had time to go to all the brunches and soccer games and shopping spree trips they’re into anyway. I’m not the biggest social person around. And I have to focus on my career right now. Especially with so much happening for me. “So much worse.” I pull out the Ben and Jerry’s with a triumphant hah, and kick the fridge door shut with one stockinged foot. “You remember that one creep I told you about? The one who’s slept with like, half the office at this point?” “Ben the slutty intern?” I laugh. “No, he’s long gone. The other one. Max Davis. The one who’s Stuyvesant’s chosen favorite, gets first pick on all the best cases usually?” “Not ringing a bell, sorry Chlo. I can’t always keep your work frenemies straight, you know, when they change every other week.” I pull open a drawer and fish out a spoon. “No, you remember this one. He asked me out one time, for a beer after work? Right after I heard from Martha that he’s dating Melanie what’s her name from rights management?” “Ohhhh, God, that guy? Ugh, yes, I remember. There’s dipping your pen in the

company ink, and then there’s trying to double dip.” “Talk about shitting where you eat,” I agree as I stab my spoon heartily into the ice cream container. Screw bowls. Again, it’s not like there’s anyone else here for me to impress or offend. “Anyway, they’re putting me on a new case. Big, highprofile one.” “That sounds like good news?” Heather says, and I hear the tentative note in her voice as she waits for the But. “I’m paired with him on it.” I scoop out a healthy serving, and stuff a mouthful onto my tongue as Heather makes all kinds of indignant groaning noises on the other end of the line. The vanilla and fudge flavors melt together on my tongue, somewhat ameliorating my terrible mood. However, I probably took too big a bite, because the cold starts to pool against the roof of my mouth and sends tendrils of pain shooting into my forehead. Ugh. Brain freeze. I keep eating the ice cream anyway, wincing as I do. “How much say are you going to have? I mean . . . okay, so he’s a manwhore and a bit of a creep. But you said he’s Stuyvesant’s favorite, right? Kind of like how you’re Paul’s fave? So maybe he’s a good lawyer, even if he’s a shitty person. You can stick it out for one case, right?” Trust Heather to always look on the bright side. She has a point, though. For as notoriously judgmental, aggressive and condescending as Anthony Stuyvesant is, any protégé of his must at least be competent in the courtroom. “True. It’s just . . . ugh, this is going to be a long one, I can already feel it. I spent all afternoon buried in the files. I’m just not loving the fact that not only will I have to work overtime and weekends for yet another month, I’ll have to do most of it with someone I don’t like.” “For a month? Really?” There’s a new note in Heather’s voice now. Hurt. I blink a few times. Shit. What have I forgotten now? “Yes, probably. I mean, I’m just guessing. I guess it depends on how the case goes. Why?” Her voice goes small and quiet. “Did you forget about our plans on the twentieth?” I chew on the corner of my lip, even as I whip my Blackberry from my purse. “Of course I didn’t forget,” I say, speaking slowly to stall for time as I scroll frantically through my calendar. “I know that voice, Chloe MacIntyre,” Heather snaps. “That’s the I’m doublechecking right now voice.” “It is not!” I protest. Aha. Twentieth to the twenty-first. Shit. Weekend away at the spa Heather found a coupon for. It was supposed to be our impromptu girl retreat. Nails, hair, massages, facials, the works. Plus, they have a Jacuzzi thing with all these salt crystals or something that was supposed to feel like heaven floating around in. “I was really looking forward to the spa weekend. I mean, I am really looking forward to it, assuming I can finish enough of the case by then to—” “Ugh. Forget it. Why do I even bother, Chlo? Honestly. It’s like being friends

with a robot. No, not even a robot—I’m pretty sure even robots power down for a couple hours at a time. Do you even remember the last time we had a conversation in person, face-to-face?” “Of course I do. We went for drinks at that rooftop bar, and the cute waiter hit on you.” “That was four months ago, Chloe. Did you know that? Four months. I live less than a twenty-minute drive from you. That’s weird, okay?” “It’s been a really hectic few months,” I mumble halfheartedly. “As soon as things calm down a little—” “Things are never going to calm down. Not until you make them. You need to start prioritizing your life, too. Not just your career path.” I bite back an easy for you to say. Because that’s not fair. Heather doesn’t want the same kinds of things that I do. She’s happy to run her flower shop, spend her days arranging bouquets for weddings, and take as much time off as she wants to travel, explore, eat out, go on dates. Sometimes I wish I could be more like her. But every night when I close my eyes, I can still picture Mom’s place. The crappy closet of an apartment she was stuck in. The ramen noodles she lived on, except when I forced better food on her during a visit. She spent her whole life indulging—buying whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted, and working a crappy retail job, maxing out credit cards to support herself. She spent the last years of her life in a hovel. I need to avoid that. I need to do better. And I need to support her, too. It might be her fault she’s broke, but I’m not letting her suffer just because she wasn’t a practical kid. That’s my job. Being the practical one. I thought Heather and I could bridge the gap between our lives, but maybe we’re just too different. Sometimes lately, I’ve started to wonder. I guess she’s been wondering too. “Heather, I’m sorry that it’s been so long since we hung out,” I say. She cuts me off. “Don’t. Don’t apologize. Don’t say it’ll change. It never does. Call me when you’ve decided I’m worth something, okay?” With that, the call disconnects, and I’m left standing barefoot and alone in the middle of my huge, expensive, gorgeous kitchen, holding a spoonful of slowly melting ice cream over a tub that’s freezing the fingers off my hand. I click the phone off, toss it on the counter, and pace out into my living room. Normally, this apartment makes me happy. It’s a constant reminder of how far I’ve come, and everything I’ve managed to make out of my life. The hardwood floors, high ceilings, and leather furniture strewn with cozy fur blankets and comforters is everything I used to dream about as a kid, watching home decorating shows on my parents’ crappy black-and-white TV, in our rundown living room that converted to my bedroom at night, since we could only afford a one-bedroom place. Now, the TV takes up my entire wall above the fireplace, and I can totally

immerse myself in any movies or shows I choose to watch. When I have time to. Which, admittedly, is pretty much never. I sigh and cross the room to slump onto my couch. Out the window to my left, the lights of San Francisco sparkle in the distance. But in here, I keep the lights off, and my head buried in the pint of ice cream. Ice cream that I need more than ever tonight, even though, after that phone call, it’s pretty much lost all its flavor for me. What am I doing with myself? But I already know the answer to that. I’m building a better life. A better future than my mom’s. No matter what it takes.

FOUR

MAX

“And then, I shit you not, she says ‘So are you coming to my place, or what?’ Can you believe that worked?” “I really, really can’t. Sure you didn’t just dream that part?” I lift my beer for another swig as Marcus aims a slug at my arm. It doesn’t even interrupt my drink. “Weak, Marcus.” “Whatever, man, you’re just jealous. How long has it been since you got any action?” “None of your business, that’s how long.” Across the table, Jim whistles in response. “So that’s at least six months to a year, don’t you figure, Jim?” Marcus shoots back, though he’s grinning as he picks up his own pint glass. “That, or someone’s hindered by the non-fraternization policy,” Jim points out, and hoists his eyebrows significantly at me. “Tempting as it may be, I don’t mix business and pleasure,” I reply evenly. “Tell that to the new girl at the front desk.” Marcus smirks. “What’s her name? D-something—no, wait, that’s her cup size.” “It’s Hannah,” I interrupt. “And she’s not really my type.” Too much giggling and following me around the hallway all day for my taste. But I don’t need to add that. Clearly the guys already noticed. Great, I wonder how long this rumor train will last. Couldn’t be any worse than the time Marcus told half the office I was hooking up with that girl Melanie in accounting who wouldn’t stop interoffice mailing me Sweetheart candy, at least. That was a new personal low. “If she’s not your type, you’re either a zombie, or you’re more into Marcus here,” Jim replies, jerking a thumb at Marcus, who has chosen this moment to stuff a fistful of loaded fries into his face. “Pass.” I push back my chair. “I’m going for another round, anyone else?” They both nod, so I head up to the bar to order three more. The pub is quiet tonight. It’s a tiny little hole-in-the-wall a block from our office—a shit hole, really, with sticky floors, a weird smell that I’m pretty sure is still lingering from back when you used to be able to smoke inside dives like this, and only one bartender slash server, the

gruff old Irish guy Seamus who runs the joint. In other words, exactly the dive we always need after a long day of bullshit. As I collect our beers, Seamus slides me a shot glass filled to the brim with what smells like Jameson. “Look like you could use it,” he says. I toss back the shot. Great. Even the bartender can tell I’ve had one of those days. And all thanks to Chloe goddamn MacIntyre. The more I review the files, the more annoyed I get. This case is going to need a lot of attention, and she only wants to slot me in for 15 minutes? I’m going to spend half the day tomorrow working on this, and she’s acting like it’s just another normal case. Not one with a celebrity that could land us more attention than anything I’ve worked on in my career here so far. Not to mention her attitude in the meeting today. I mean, yes, okay, it was kind of sexy the first couple times she death-glared at me. But after a while that disdain gets old. I know exactly what she thinks about me, like it or not. Suck it up, Davis. Ignore her attitude. Ignore her shapely ass. Ignore your constant mental images of tearing that silky blouse off of her body and pushing that tight skirt up her legs, leaving the garter belt and her glasses on. Ignore the constant throb of your cock every time you fucking think about her. After this case, if I can prove myself, Anthony has already hinted at giving me a lot more freedom. I’ll be able to pick and choose my own cases, select the ones that I think will take me the farthest career-wise. Hell, he’s even hinted, in his roundabout, somehow-still-insulting way, that I could be on a partner track, if I step up my game now. This is no time to let a little thing like one colleague throw me off. If anything, I just need to look at her as a new challenge. A challenge I need to avoid conquering. Much as I might want to get my hands all over her sexy curves, Chloe is now a no-fly zone. Forbidden fruit. I slide back into my usual seat at our usual table and hand out the usual orders: Guinness for me and Jim, and Corona for Marcus, because he’s a chick. Small favors—it seems like the topic has shifted while I’ve been away. Thank fuck. “Keep hearing rumors about it,” Jim is saying, “But nothing confirmed as of yet. At least, nothing that fucking Rubin is going to tell me, since he’s had it out for me since the day I started reporting to him.” “I heard it’s starting next month.” Marcus shrugs. “What’s starting?” I wrap my fist around my second beer. The glass is cool, sweating against my palm. “The restructure,” Jim says, with one of those Did you seriously not know about this looks that he gets. I blink at the two of them for a minute before the term settles into my skull.

“Hang on. What restructure?” Did I seriously miss an office rumor of this magnitude? Christ, I really am losing my edge. “Not sure exactly. Only hearing it through the trickle-down at the moment.” Marcus shrugs again, before taking a long, healthy chug of his beer. “Rumor-mill says cutting mostly in accounting and office assistants. But probably about 20 of the litigators too.” Shit. That’s a significant chunk of our work force. Paranoia sets in. Why didn’t Anthony warn me about this? He must have known, as a partner. Unless he didn’t tell me because I could potentially be on the chopping block? Normally you’d give anyone you cared to keep a heads-up before news about this kind of thing starts to circulate. Hey, FYI, this is coming our way, but don’t freak, you’ll be fine. Fucking hell. “At what level, do you think?” I take a healthier gulp of my drink than I probably ought to, considering I’m driving later. But screw it, if I have to cab it home, so be it. “Don’t know. Probably we’ll hear more next week or the week after. You know how these things go. You hear the rumors first, then the rumor cover-ups, then the truth comes out after the higher-ups have spent a couple of weeks panicking among themselves about who let this shit leak.” Jim laughs, though it seems forced. All of us are pretending to be unfazed by this news. Drinking more quietly now, but other than that, no one outside of our table would probably be able to tell a thing was wrong. Which is fine by me. I’d rather not anyone know how much I’m worrying right now. If I lose this job, it all comes crashing down. The apartment loan I could live with; pay it off as I go. But everything else? The location, the ease it gives me for everything else I need to be doing during the day. . . No use panicking prematurely, though. All I can do at this point is keep my head down, do my work, and get on with my day. The chips will fall where they will, and at the end of this, we’ll see how I stand. One thing is for sure. I definitely need to knock this case with Chloe out of the park. Tomorrow, I decide, I’m going to corner her and make her see sense. If she doesn’t want to work on this with me, then she can ask Paul to reassign her. Otherwise, I’m gonna need her to be all in on this one. For both our sakes.

FIVE

CHLOE

At 4:15pm, I start to shuffle together the files I’ve prepared. After a long morning of answering handover questions for Rich about the Daniels’ case, I’ve spent the entire afternoon frantically catching up on everything I need to know about Suzie’s. I think I have a pretty good handle on the thing, but it remains to be seen how this whole working with a partner thing is going to go. Especially a partner like Max Davis. By 4:20, I’m ready for the meeting. At 4:25, I shove my office door open, a subtle hint. By 4:30, I’m rolling my nails across my desktop in annoyance. Really? Mr. Slacker breezes in at 4:31pm with a broad smile on his face. Which is, really, unreasonably chiseled. Who has a jawline that solid, or cheekbones that high? His two-day stubble looks more like shadow painted on to accentuate just how sharply his bones cut across his face. And are those glasses? Sweet mother of all that’s holy, talk about panty-melting. “Got held up in a prior.” He kicks the door shut behind him, and even though I set out a chair on the opposite side of my desk for him, he drags it around to sit right beside me instead. “So, you all caught up now?” My jaw clenches, and it takes every ounce of resistance I have not to let anything else visible clench, too. Caught up? Like I’m the one who’s running behind. “What was it you were telling me about your preparation, before?” I mutter, with a glance at the clock over my office door. “Well, maybe if I had a larger window to aim for, I’d be on time.” He stretches his arms out behind his back lazily. Ugh. We don’t have time for this. Ignore him and get straight to business, Chloe. “So, the main problem I see is that Suzie never officially registered ‘rub it in.’ She has some protection under the unregistered trademark regulations, but we’ll have to prove that she used it first and regularly, and that this company’s use of it is confusingly similar to hers.” “Have you looked at their video yet?” He pulls out a tablet and taps on the screen, flooding it with a full-screen view of a lycra-clad woman on what appears to be a chair stuck on top of a ball vacuum, to my untrained eye. I resist the urge to sigh. He’s right; we should view this together, and pick it

apart while we can. “Go for it.” He taps play, and we lean in over my desk to watch. His shoulder brushes mine for a second, before I readjust in my seat. Don’t touch him, he’s probably contagious. He does smell amazing, though. Some kind of deep, forest-like scent, and beneath that, something that’s all him, savory and masculine. I try to breathe in a little deeper without letting on. The video starts with the woman on the chair gyrating her hips in a slow grind. The chair rotates beneath her, not just in a circle, but up and down, side-to-side, like she’s rolling across the top of an exercise ball, but in a seat. “Looking to flatten your stomach, define your abs and tighten your rear? Well, your ass isn’t going to tone itself just from sitting on it!” “That’s Suzie’s saying too,” I murmur, and ignore the sideways, startled How did you know that glance from Max. Let’s pretend I’m not that familiar with Suzie Steel’s workout videos, shall we? On the screen, the camera spins around the model so we can watch her tiny butt rotate that chair from every angle. “Our all new patented technology lets you perfect your problem areas, ladies.” The voiceover woman really does sound like Suzie. Complete with overly peppy intonations and her gruff, low voice, a strange yet oddly effective combo for making me stick with my shabby workout routine. “Just take a seat, crank the resistance setting up as high as you want—” There’s a brief pause as the model elaborately mimes turning a dial on the side of the chair—“Then rub it out.” Cheesy music floats through the background as the girl on-screen mimes gritting her teeth and grinding her ass even harder around the chair. Not going to lie, it looks like she’s having the most painful orgasm of her life. I bite down hard on my lower lip to keep from cracking up. One sideways glance at Max tells me he’s having the same problem—and he’s even worse at disguising it. He’s just straight up silent-laughing, his shoulders shaking as he watches the video roll on. “Say it with me ladies—Rub it out!” A whole chorus of scantily-dressed girls in Rotator chairs repeat the slogan this time, beaming despite the fact that they’re supposed to be getting the tough workout of their lives. The video cuts to sales and ordering information—“Just ten easy payments of $9.99 when you call now!”—and I trade bemused looks with Max. “Just when you thought that phrase couldn’t sound any dirtier,” he says with a smirk, “they get a whole chorus line to recite it.” “Plus they’re trying to market this to women, right? You’d think they’d have a bunch of guys half-naked on the video instead.” His dark green eyes latch onto mine, suddenly intense. But after a moment, all he comes out with is, “So the ice queen has a type after all,” and an infuriating smirk. I roll my eyes. “Oh yes, meatheads really do it for me.”

“No? Well, figures you’d be more into the intellectual types.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” I mutter, even though he’s right. “Nothing. Just that you probably prefer your hookups have a strong muscle between their ears, too. Which I can respect.” “Why? It rules you out.” I side-eye him. He smirks. “You know, I’m not who you think I am, Chloe.” “So you’re not the toned, skimpily dressed swimsuit model type?” I reply, jerking my thumb toward the screen, where the video has begun to automatically replay, the girls’ chests bouncing as they run through their rotating chair workout routine. “I didn’t say that. Just that I prefer an intelligent, toned, skimpily dressed swimsuit model type.” He winks. “You claim you aren’t who I think you are, and yet that’s your type?” “I have a lot of types.” “What’s your favorite, then?” Shit, I immediately think, the moment the words are out of my mouth. Why did I just ask him that? He pauses for a moment, humming softly as though he’s pondering the question. “Bitchy,” he finally says, and my whole face floods with heat. I narrow my eyes. “Are you calling me a bitch?” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize my mistake, and I wish I could clap them right back in. He leans a little closer to me—and we were already too close as it was—bending over his small tablet screen. I can feel his breath ghost across my cheek. At this distance, I can count his eyelashes, smell mint on his breath, notice small pinpricks of blue mixed into the mostly green of his eyes. Why is my heart beating so fast? Why have I forgotten to breathe? He’s not saying anything, just holding my gaze, staring deep into my eyes, and I have the sudden, overpowering urge to lick my lips. Just another couple of inches between us would close this gap, and then . . . “Who says you’re my type?” he says, his voice low and conspiratorial. Then he winks again. And of course, to make matters worse, my face feels like it could start a small forest fire now. Ugh. Damn him. Two can play at that game. I twist in my seat, arcing my back just a little, in a posture that I know sets off my curves to perfection, not to mention makes my shirt gap just a little, enough to show a hint of cleavage near the top. Then I arch a brow at him over the thick frame of my glasses. “Really? So yesterday when you were stealing glances at my ass, that was just, what, an accident?” The moment I say it, his eyes drop down along my body, like a command. I resist a little shiver of power, knowing that whatever he might claim, he’s clearly having trouble keeping his eyes off of me. “You might not be my type, but you can’t blame me for being a red-blooded male, Chloe.” Just the sound of my name on his lips sets off a flare in my chest. Anger, yes, but

also desire. Fucking hell, I want him. What is wrong with me? “Sure I can,” I respond. “Watch me, Max.” “Oh so you do know my name. I’d been wondering, Miss MacIntyre .” I push my chair back to stand and pace across the room, on the pretense of going for another file. Really, I just need space away from him. What the hell was that reaction? What the hell did my body want me to do, kiss this bastard? I’d probably contract syphilis. With my back still to him, I say, “We’re going to have to work together on this. Which means we’re going to have to at least try to be civil with one another.” “Who’s being uncivil? We’ve established that neither of us are each other’s types, that’s good. We wouldn’t want any . . . unresolved tension while we’re working this case, would we?” Just the way he says it is a challenge. He’s daring me to admit I feel something. Daring me to call him out for feeling it too. When I turn around again, he has a killer smile on, which shows off his perfectly white teeth. One of his eyeteeth, I notice, is a little crooked, snagging across his canine by a few centimeters. Somehow, it just makes the whole smile sexier, because of that one tiny flaw. Double ugh. The only thing I can do is shut him down. “Great. Glad we’ve established that we’ll be polite.” My eyes dart to the clock over his head. 4:42pm. Shit. I’m late for my next meeting already. “That said, since someone was late to our already tight meeting today, I’ve got to head out already.” “What’s that, fifteen minutes have flown past already?” He raises a single sardonic brow. “I guess next time we’ll need to pencil in more time.” Which was what he was complaining to me about yesterday. Which probably means he was late on purpose just to point out to me how inadequate 15 minutes was. “You know, 15 minutes can be plenty of time when you stay on task,” I reply evenly. “I know it’s probably not a concept you’re familiar with.” “I can do a lot in fifteen minutes, Chloe, believe me.” I roll my eyes. “Maybe next time we can talk about the case instead of spending the whole time engaging in provocative banter.” “That wasn’t provocative.” His grin sharpens. “You’ll know when I’m really provoking you.” I swallow hard. The way he’s staring at me right now, like he could eat me alive, is setting flames off in parts of my body I’d forgotten existed. I want to slap him, or kiss him. Or both. It takes every ounce of effort I have to draw my professional self to the fore, and crush my stupid sex drive. “What part of I need to leave for another meeting now did you not hear?” “The part where you aren’t actually leaving.” He gestures at me, still calm and collected, leaning casually against my desk. I could scream. Instead, I grab my folder from my desk, and lean across to snatch up my Blackberry. He makes no secret of the fact that, as I lean over the desk, his

eyes graze my body, traveling straight down the loose silk shirt I’m wearing. Definitely leaning toward slapping him. But dammit, it feels good to have him stare at me. To know that I’m affecting him too. That he can’t get enough of my body. I narrow my eyes at him, but he just smiles in his best imitation of innocence. “Try not to break anything, if you’re staying here,” I say as I straighten up and head for my own office door. “Email me your schedule for the week. I’ll set up our next appointment.” “As you wish, captain,” he replies, giving me a salute and leaning back in his seat while kicking his feet up onto my desk, making it obvious he’s not about to vacate the premises anytime soon. Whatever. I don’t have time for this. I storm out of the door and slam it behind me, then pause to lean against it and breathe deeply. Did he just chase me out of my own office? It’s only been one day and I’m going crazy. How am I going to stand a whole month of this? No time to worry about it now. Pull yourself together, Chloe. Next item on the to do list. I march off down the hall, and try not to think about the fact that my brain won’t stop replaying that conversation—or, worse, the moment when we’d both leaned in across the tablet, our eyes locked, breath mingled. I am so screwed.

SIX

MAX

“Great, so we’ll have that done by next Tuesday, and after that’s finished, we’ll need. . .” I zone out a little as Chloe talks. Or rather, I get distracted by the way her lips— red today, a dark color that reminds me of cherries—form words. I can think of so many better uses to put those full, pouty lips to. I imagine kissing her, claiming that mouth as mine. I picture her on her knees before me, that pout wrapped around my hard cock as she takes me into her hot, wet mouth. Her shirt today is tighter than the one yesterday, even lower-cut in the front, and I can just picture the view I’d have looking down at her as she worked me. . . “Max.” Damn. What did she just say? The annoyance in her voice drags me forcibly back to the present. It also drags my eyes up to hers, which are narrowed behind her dark tortoiseshell frames. “Did you hear anything I just said?” “You’re setting up a client meeting with Suzie for tomorrow at 9am,” I repeat, only registering the words that had just come out of her mouth as I repeat them. Thank god for my ability to multitask. It’s come in handy more than once in an extra-dull meeting—I can let half my brain drift while the other half keeps recording whatever the other person is saying. If anything, though, she looks even more annoyed that I was able to answer her question. “I asked if that time works for you. Maybe if you weren’t so busy staring at my chest, you might’ve replied faster.” “In my defense, at this angle it’s harder not to stare.” I let my gaze dip down her neck again. Especially with the way she hunches forward over the desk, arms splayed on the surface, I mean, any man in his right mind would be unable to resist. “Did you buy that shirt with the express purpose of distracting your enemies? Because I have to admit, it’s definitely working.” She rolls her eyes skyward. “So you’re blaming me for your inability to keep your eyes to yourself.” “Blaming makes it sound so negative. Let’s call it appreciating. I appreciate that you work what you have, Chloe, and you do it damn well.”

Chloe crosses her arms over her chest. Okay, she has to be doing that on purpose. “You’re unbelievable.” “So I’ve been told.” I flash her a wide smile. Is it my imagination, or is she actually blushing? Before I can determine, she leans back in her seat and tosses her head. The motion makes her curls cascade over her other shoulder now. There’s something irresistible about that completely untamed, unruly hair, paired with her perfectly poised everything else—the shirt I’ve been making fun of, for all its slight immodesty, is neatly ironed, and seamlessly tucked into her knee-length pencil skirt. Every inch of her makeup is spread across her face as if she puts it on with a ruler in the morning—which I wouldn’t put past her, honestly. But that hair gives her away. That hair tells me that little miss prim and proper has a wild side hidden somewhere underneath the prissy work clothes and wicked glare. And I want to be the one to unleash it. Something tells me that Chloe will be as fucking relentless in bed as she is in the courtroom. “Look, if we’re going to work together, can we lay out some ground rules?” she says, her voice stern and commanding. The stern, sexy librarian look is strong with this one. “Fine by me. I love rules and regulations—though I should warn you, I’m very good at finding loopholes.” She lets out a little half-laugh at that, then proceeds to look even more annoyed, like she wishes she hadn’t let on that she finds anything I say funny. She holds up a finger. “First of all, stop trying to sleep with me.” I heave a deep sigh and rap my knuckles on the tabletop gently to stop her right there. “Is that what this is about? Chloe, sweeets—” She glowers. “Not a fan of sweets? Okay. Chloe, despite what I know you’ve heard about me, I take my job quite seriously. I am not trying to get in your pants. Or up your skirt.” Not strictly true. I can’t stop thinking about getting up her skirt, actually. Every goddamn minute lately, it feels like. I can’t so much as pass her in the hallway of the office without being in serious immediate danger of getting hard. Never mind after hours, when I’m alone in the privacy of my apartment, free to fantasize about everything I want to do to this woman. Every dirty thing I want to say to her while I’m buried balls deep in her tight, hot little pussy. Every way I want to make her beg for mercy. That is, when I don’t feel so frustrated by her that I could scream. Yet, for a moment after I say that, just a split second really, I could swear that a new expression flickers across her face. Not anger, not even annoyance, or the mild disdain that seems to be her base level feelings toward me. For a second, Chloe MacIntyre looks almost . . . disappointed. And for an even briefer second, as I watch those soft, red lips drop into a frown, then curl back into an angry pout, I could swear that I am, too. Any other time. Any other place. I give my brain a good internal shake. Do not go there, Davis. Chloe MacIntyre is a shark. She’d eat you alive.

“Well, good,” she’s saying, and I have to agree. Glad we’ve cleared the air. She opens her mouth to start on some other pronouncement, but as I glance away, my eye snags on the clock over the door. Shit. “On that note, I’ve got to run to my next appointment.” “You have a lunch meeting?” Her gaze follows mine to the clock, which reads 12:10pm. Fucking hell. I’m late. I push to my feet and grab my files, stuffing them into my briefcase. “Yes,” I say, with my back to her, so she won’t notice the evasion on my face. Somehow I doubt it will slip past Chloe’s notice. “With who? Can you reschedule? We still have to prep for our meeting tomorrow, and—” “Afraid it’s urgent. Email me anything you need me to catch up on.” She stands too, now, and plants her hands on her hips. I assume she’s trying to look threatening, though the fact that she’s only about 5’9” even in the towering heels she’s wearing doesn’t help. “You’re the one who insisted we spend more time on this case.” “We have. And tomorrow we’ll have even more time. Have a good rest of your day, Miss MacIntyre.” I breeze past her toward the office door. But as my hand closes around the doorknob, she lets her parting shot fly. “Give Hannah my regards,” she mutters. I step out of the office without a reply, and swing the door closed behind me. Let her think whatever she wants. Let her think the same thing as everyone else in the office. It doesn’t matter. Chloe MacIntyre might be the sexiest distraction at the office, but I can’t afford to lose track of my priorities.

SEVEN

CHLOE

Warm, strong hands run down my sides. They skate the curves of my hips, almost but not quite brushing my lower back, then dipping lower to grip my thighs. One hand lifts my leg easily and wraps it around a tight, perfectly sculpted ass. “Chloe.” Max’s voice is a deep rumble that I can feel thrum through my veins— not least because I’m pressed against his chest, my hands digging into his muscular back, my breasts crushed tight against his hard, bare chest. I drag one hand around to trace his washboard abs—God, he even has that little V where his muscles dip into his waistband. I want to bite my way down that V, yank off his jeans. He’s way ahead of me, his hands already sliding their way back up my thighs now, beneath my skirt—no, not a skirt, a dress, something loose and flowy, not at all my style. It makes me pause, but only for a second. Because then his hands sear higher along my skin, and his fingers grip my bare ass around the tiny thong I’m wearing, and I forget to worry about anything else. “I’m going to fuck you.” His breath comes hot in my ear, just before he catches my lobe in his teeth and bites down, hard enough that I can feel it. “Right here. Right now.” His hand tightens on my ass, and I can’t help myself. A tiny, desperate moan escapes my mouth. Without warning, he grabs my hips and spins me around—I probably leave claw marks on his back as he does it, but then I’m facing away from him, towards my desk, and he’s pushing me across it. What if someone opens the door? I think, but I don’t say it out loud. I don’t actually want him to stop. Fucking hell, I’m so goddamn wet. He parts my thighs, and I can feel the hard pressure of his cock against my ass as his hands grab at my thong, prying it aside. I’m practically shaking in anticipation now, my hands digging into the edges of the desk, but he’s stopped moving. “Do it,” I say, then raise my voice louder. “Fuck me.” He drives into me, and it’s almost more than I can take, a hot, exquisite pressure. He strains at my walls, his cock filling every inch of me, and when he draws back for the next thrust, I gasp in protest at losing that sensation. I don’t have to wait long, though. He slams back into me, and my hips buck into him as we

find our rhythm, both of us thrusting hard, crashing together again and again, until I can’t contain myself anymore. A loud cry escapes my lips— I blink, startled at the sound of my own voice. There’s no desk. No warm body pressed against mine, no cock buried inside me. I’m curled under my silk sheets, in my empty, silent bedroom. The bright red clock on my nightstand blurs as the time shifts. 5:24am. Shit. Just a dream. I catch my breath, and try to ignore the fact that there’s a faint sheen of sweat across my skin, and an ache between my legs, a painful throb of unfulfilled desire. “You really need to get laid, Chlo,” I mutter to myself in the quiet, dark apartment. It’s been a while since I’ve had any kind of a sex dream, and I’m pretty sure dreaming about the guy I’m currently butting heads with at work is a first for me. I roll over in bed and yank the pillow over my head, before groaning in frustration into it. This is what happens when you haven’t had sex in . . . well, an embarrassingly long time. You start to take out your frustration in all the worst possible places. It was just a dream, I tell myself as I haul my ass out of bed. No use going back to sleep now, since I’ll only have to wake up again in half an hour. Might as well get an early start. I have a feeling today is going to be a long day.

The elevator doors swing open on our floor just as Max and a tall, thin redhead stroll past, coffees in hand. Her teeth catch the fluorescent light and practically glow at me, they're so white, as she tosses her head back to laugh harder than is believable at whatever he just said. Her hand flits to his forearm and squeezes gently as she tapers off the laugh. “Honestly, I swear that’s how it happened,” he’s saying. “You are such a liar, Max.” The redhead’s shrill voice cuts through the office air. He stops dead in the middle of the hallway to raise his eyebrows at her, the expression on his face torn between fake offense and a sly grin. “Tell me, is this the face of a dishonest man?” Yes, I resist snapping. “I’ll admit you have the innocent look down pat, lawyer boy,” the woman purrs. At that moment, Max's eyes flash straight to me, and his expression shifts. Now it seems caught between polite amusement and annoyance. I assume the latter is because I've just burst into the middle of his latest office flirtation. And yet, my stupid, traitor lizard brain can't stop reliving the dream this morning. His hands tracing over my body, searing hot, and our torsos pressed

together, my nails digging into his sculpted back. . . My cheeks flush, and he lifts an eyebrow. I swallow hard and cross the lobby, trying to pretend that my body has not become suddenly, acutely aware of his every shift, the way his body tracks mine, so he's facing me my whole walk across the entrance. I swear I can feel his gaze boring into me, even though I avert my eyes. "See you in ten, Chloe," he calls, just before I reach the hallway, where I can escape him for a few more minutes before our client arrives. "Who's that?" I hear the redhead ask, and then I'm thankfully around the corner and away, safely escaped from the thudding of my heart in my chest, the strange nervous sensation firing through my veins. What the hell is wrong with me? I know what Max Davis is like. Irrefutably. Just look at him out there now, for Christ's sake. Inside my office, I shut the door and take a few deep breaths. The sight of my desk and the sharp memory of being bent over it in the dream does not help calm me the hell down. I toss my purse on it, grab everything I'll need for this meeting, and leave early for the client interview. I spent half the night last night rewatching the couple of Suzie Steel workout videos I own. The woman has charisma, I'll give her that. And she definitely motivates me to get off my ass and break a sweat. I can see how she got so famous at what she does. Still, it's one thing to be familiar with the public personality. It's quite another when, a few minutes later, I'm shaking her hand face-to-face as my assistant escorts her into the conference room I've booked. She's my height, which is funny —in the videos, I always pictured her as taller for some reason. As I rise, she offers a hand to shake. Her grip is uncomfortably tight as she pumps my arm up and down enthusiastically. "Suzie Steel here, good to meet you, you must be the girl, right, MacIntyre? Good Scottish name, always loved the Scots —nice handshake on you, but grip a little harder, hey?" She squeezes my fingers again in demonstration, and I lose feeling in my pinky. Hopefully the wince doesn't show on my face. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Steel." It's an even bigger pleasure when she finally lets my hand drop. I try not to gasp too loudly in relief. "I'm a big fan of your work, by the way. Your newest series is the first thing that's managed to get my butt out of bed and moving early in years," I admit with a small smile. She beams back at me like this is the best news she's ever heard. "So you're familiar with the routine! Do you have Abs and Ass or just One Toned Booty?" she asks, naming her two most recent releases. Of course, Max chooses that moment to push open the office door. I pray he hasn't caught her last sentence, but given the deeply amused smirk he levels in my direction, I'm pretty sure he did. "Uh, both," I admit, color flooding my cheeks. Especially when Max nods in agreement over her shoulder, mouthing One Toned Booty. Suzie's 100 megawatt smile, if anything, grows even bigger. "Well great! Let me

know what you think, hey? I always love getting feedback from my loyal rubbers— oh, that's what I call you ladies who rub it out with me on the regular," she adds with a wink, while Max attempts not to die of laughter behind her. "And who's this hunk of luscious eye candy?" she says abruptly, turning toward the door when Max emits a soft snort of laughter. "You can't possibly be my other attorney, can you? Davis?" "The very same," he replies, instantly sobering his expression with the professional speed of a poker player. He shakes the hand she offers, and I garner a small ounce of pleasure in watching his jaw suddenly clench and his eyebrows contract at the force of her grip. At least I'm not the only one. "Well isn't this just my lucky day," Suzie drawls in her low, gravelly voice. "Not just a pretty young fan defending me, but a hottie as well." She winks at him, and I enjoy the way his ears turn red at the ends. So the office manwhore can be embarrassed after all. Who knew? And yet he plays it off, winking back at her. "Between the two of us, I'd say you're in safe hands," he says. "Though," he adds, cracking his fingers gently once she finally releases him, "I must admit, they may not be as strong as yours." "I dunno." She lifts her eyebrows at him. "Seems like you've got a pretty tight grip there yourself, mister. Maybe you should give your partner some pointers." His eyes flash to mine. "I don't think Chloe needs any help in the gripping department." Suzie smirks, appraising me too. "Fair point. I can see just how gripping she is for a guy like you." Suzie flashes him another wink, and his ears do the turning pink thing again. I shut my eyes for a moment. I can already tell this is going to be a long meeting. "Maybe we should get started," I say as I pull out a chair for Suzie. "Aw, Davis, your girl here is a shy one." Suzie actually clucks her tongue as she sits down. "Oh trust me, she's anything but shy," he responds, eyes still fixed on mine. My heart races in my ears as those dark, emerald green eyes reel me in, trap me in place. He’s dressed as formally as ever, in a sharp-cut suit and a perfectly knotted tie, his jawline fresh-shaved, which reveals just how sharply his bones are cut. I want to run my hands over his cheeks, feel those razor-sharp bones myself, then let him trap my mouth with his, wrap his strong hands around my hips. . . Shit. I rip my gaze free and drop into my seat. "That's good." Suzie crosses her arms on the table. "I like my litigators aggressive, after all." "Trust me, Ms. Steel, we're going to do everything in our power to make sure that this company stops trading on your personal reputation," I reply, my game face back on now. Of course, Suzie immediately flusters me by grinning over her shoulder at Max. "Ooh, I see what you mean. She's feisty when she's in business mode."

The rest of the whole meeting goes like that. Every time I try to rope us on-topic and talk strategy, Suzie finds some way to derail me. Normally by pointing out how feisty I am. Or how chiseled Max is. Her word, not mine. "I mean it, you should think about modeling on the side," she's telling him as we finally near the end of our preliminary discussions. "You've got the face for it. And, as far as I can tell, the body." Her gaze rakes down his chest in a long, languorous stare. Even Max squirms a little at her examination, though he keeps his easygoing smirk on his face the whole time. "Well, much as I'm enjoying the ego boost, I don't think I'd have the temperament for it. All that holding a pose in front of a camera?" "Sounds right up your alley to me," I mutter. "Showing off before legions of fangirls, being the center of attention . . ." "I don't know about that," Suzie interrupts, and for once this whole meeting, she actually sounds thoughtful. "I think your boy here is less of an attention whore than you give him credit for, Miss MacIntyre." "Thank you, Ms. Steel." Max flashes her a wink. "It's good to know someone still sees the real me." "Or is so blinded by the good looks that they can't see an inch past the facade," I counter. If anything, his smile just widens. "So you admit you find me good-looking." Suzie leans back in her chair and mimes eating popcorn as she glances back and forth between us. For my part, I just roll my eyes. "I said nothing of the sort. Now, Ms. Steel, since you didn't file for a trademark when you began using this saying, we'll need to collect evidence that you used it first. Original recordings would be best, something time-stamped ideally, that we could use to prove the date when you first started using the phrases they stole publicly." "No problem there. I've got hundreds of tapes. Heck, there's some old VHS ones from back when I was first getting started, rehearsal takes and the like, I think. Would those work?" "That sounds perfect. So we should set up a meeting—” "You two should come out to my place," she says abruptly. "I'm up by Napa, just a few hours' drive. I've got shelves on shelves of the tapes, and I've still got a VHS player to boot, so it'll be easy to watch them all there." "Oh." I blink a couple of times, and exchange a glance with Max. Now that I'm thinking about it, I don't actually have any way to play a VHS tape here. I sure as heck don't have one in my apartment, and I doubt there's any in the office supply storage here at work either. Even we moved away from tech quite that old, a long time ago. Max stares back at me and shrugs, probably thinking the same thing. "Well, sure," I start slowly. "Maybe we could drive up for a morning sometime next week and—” Suzie snaps her fingers as though she's suddenly getting a brilliant idea. "You

know what, I'm actually headed out of town on Tuesday. Why don't you both come up and meet me before I leave, I'll give you the tour, show you the lay of the land, and you can use the place while I'm away. I'll be gone until the weekend, so it won't matter how long you need. I've got a big old office too; you can use anything you need. Make a whole business trip of it, why not, huh?" "Um. . ." My mind whirs. How long are we going to need? Exactly how many tapes are we talking, here? Now it's Max's turn to catch my eye, questioning. He must see the confusion written on my face, though, because he takes it upon himself to reply for the both of us. "That sounds like a great idea, Ms.Steel." She claps her hands together, looking way more excited than someone ought to by the prospect of their lawyers borrowing their whole house for a few days to comb through every video tape they own. "Perfect! And call me Suzie, Davis . If you're going to be my guests, we should be on first name terms, no?" "Well in that case you'll have to call me Max, Suzie." "Don't mind if I do." She gives his arm a playful swat, which she subtly turns into a bicep grab, just to check the extent of those muscles she was praising earlier, I guess. I crack a small smile, unable to help myself from grinning at her antics, even though I'm still not sure how I feel about this plan. "Chloe, by the way," I tell her, feeling like we're introducing ourselves all over again. "Thank you for the offer, Suzie. We'll do our best to take full advantage of your generosity, and get your case rolling as soon as possible." Is it just me, or are her eyes twinkling with mischief when she glances back at me. "Oh, I expect you to take full advantage, kids. You're going to love the place, trust me. It's right outside a vineyard, fabulous views of the countryside, and the fresh air in that place . . . well. Only one thing, Chloe, that I want you to keep in mind," she adds, her voice suddenly stern and much more serious than it's been all meeting so far, even when we were discussing the crooks who are stealing her name and brand and tagline to try and advance their own agenda. I swallow hard, suddenly nervous. "What's that?" I ask, hoping the nerves don't show on my face. Suzie narrows her eyes. "Don't keep this trip strictly to business. Business is best, I always find, when mixed with a heavy dose of pleasure." Over her shoulder, Max cracks up in silent laughter. I have to press my lips together to keep my expression from shifting into embarrassment. My cheeks, however, burn red all on their own. Traitorous body. Suzie laughs, too, and swats my arm. "Seriously. Don't be so serious. Have some fun while you're there. It'll be good for you." But as we say our farewells and she sweeps out of the office, followed closely by Max, as though he can't even stand to linger in the room with me a minute longer than necessary, I have to wonder if she's actually as right about that as she thinks. In my mind, mixing business and pleasure has always been a recipe for disaster.

Especially in a case like this. A scenic Napa home, right on a vineyard, where I'll be forced to hole up for a few days. Me, and Max Davis. My stomach churns, and it's all I can do not to teeter in my high heels, despite how balanced I normally am in them. What have I just agreed to?

EIGHT

MAX

A text flagged with the emergency ringtone I use only for this arrives on Monday. Three minutes before I'm supposed to be heading to Chloe's office for our final planning meeting before we leave for Suzie's place tomorrow. Shit. I'd been expecting this text—dreading it, actually, hoping it would be good news. But expecting a bad answer nonetheless. Sorry about this, need to cancel today. I dash off the email to Chloe quickly, and add a few notes about what I'd been planning to mention. Logistics, mostly. I'll pick you up at 9am tomorrow. You bring snacks, I'll bring coffee, deal? Then I'm gone, rushing to the elevators as quickly as my feet will carry me. Normally I'm never this flaky, and I wouldn't cancel a meeting last-minute, not with someone counting on me. But someone else is counting on me more, and some things can't be helped. Unfortunately, Chloe catches me just as I’m about to climb into the elevator. “Are you seriously bailing right now? We have a lot of things we need to discuss before the trip tomorrow.” She’s got her hand on her hip, which is cocked to one side, her curves devastating in the slim-fitting dress she’s wearing. She’s not showing any cleavage today, and yet just the outline of her breasts makes me picture every other glimpse I’ve gotten of her full, firm tits. I can’t do this right now. Focus, Max. “Something important came up, Chloe.” She rolls her eyes skyward. I swear, the glasses just accentuate the strength of her eye rolls. “What could possibly have come up? An emergency afternoon hookup?” I frown. “It’s an actual problem, Chloe. Some people have those, you know.” “Oh, so I don’t? We all have issues to deal with, Max, but some of us know how to set aside work time to, you know, actually do work.” “And some of us know that there are more important things in the world than work,” I snap. Then I push past her onto the elevator, ignoring the rush of heat throughout my body when our shoulders brush. If there’s any time I really don’t want to think about how fucking hot she makes me, it’s right now. She just assumes she knows everything about me. Assumes she knows who I am and what I prioritize. I’m a great lawyer, and I pour my all into this company, but I

understand the line between work and life. I’m not so sure Chloe, for all her sex appeal, understands that. The elevator doors swing open and I jog onto the Bart, dragging my thoughts with me. Away from the office, away from the trip we're planning and the case details we've been obsessing over, and especially away from Chloe, who to be honest, I have needed to get out of my head for a long time. I can’t imagine the last time I fantasized about a woman this much. Possibly never. Every night in the shower, I’ve got pictures of her spread-eagled on my bed in mind, as I wrap my hand around my rock hard dick. I blame that fucking red-hot lipstick. The librarian glasses, as austere and severe as she is. The pencil skirts that hug her ass, the derisive sneer that curls her lip when she’s making some cutting comment about the girls who trail me around the office, wide-eyed and pliant. Chloe isn't like them. Chloe doesn't give a shit what I think about her. If anything, she seems to actively want me to hate her. After the relentless fawning and indulgent laughter of the other girls, the ones who bat their eyes and twirl their hair and find excuses to touch my arm every ten seconds, it's almost refreshing to find someone who doesn't like me. Even if sometimes I want to toss her out a damn window. Like right now. I force thoughts into the background now. More important thoughts— thoughts about where I'm headed, what's waiting for me on the other end of this rushed, last-minute train ride, flood my brain instead. I've spent too much time lately ignoring the important things. And part of me can't help but feel responsible for this whole situation. By the time the train pulls up to my destination half an hour later, my intestines have worked themselves into knots of concern. I check the text message again, willing myself to have misunderstood it, or maybe read too much into it. But no. There those same words are, in black and white. Can you come meet me? They let us go early . . . I didn't get the spot. This is my fault. Goddamn it. If I had had more time, dedicated a little more energy where it was truly needed this week. . . I grimace as I cross the street from the station, up the hill to the familiar, shabby facade of the high school where I started volunteering last year as a career mentor. Sitting on the stoop out front, head bent, arms crossed on his knees, still dressed in the well-tailored suit I picked out for him, and insisted on buying for him despite his protests about the cost, is the kid I've come to think of as my younger brother. My fourteen-year-old mentee, Travis. Brother from another mother, he usually calls me, in his usual buoyant, happy tone. Today, though, he looks far from his usual self. "Travis?" I keep my voice low, casual. His head jerks up, fast, like he's ashamed to have been caught with it down. His eyes are bright red where the whites should be, and there are telltale streaks down his cheeks where I know tears must have carved their tracks recently. He's

scrubbed them away now, though, and he makes a valiant effort to force a huge, fake smile, so I don't say anything about it. "Hey Max," he says, and the little hitch of a waver in his voice makes my heart break all over again. Fuck. How did I let this happen? "Thanks for coming. Um. Sorry it was late notice. . . " "Don't sweat it." I offer a hand, which he grabs, and haul him to his feet. "I needed a good excuse to get outta the office today anyway. You're the one doing me a favor." Travis sucks in a deep breath, and I pretend not to notice that he still sounds a little sniffly. "So I guess I bombed the interview, huh?” We'd been prepping for this interview for months. It was a unique chance for him to get into a much better private program at a nearby school, a program for gifted students that met once a week and gave students courses in a specialty they could choose. Chip off the old block that he is, my little bro was interested in their Introduction to Debate course. And by "interested," I mean he'd set his whole heart on that class. Now he wasn't going to be able to take it. Dammit. "I doubt you bombed it," I tell him. "I saw you practice. You had that shit down pat, bro." "Well then why wouldn't they pick me? Either I was good enough or I wasn't." I shake my head hard. "That's not how it works. You can be good—hell, you can be great, and still not get something. Be it a position in school, a job, an award." I lean down a little to try and catch his eye. "A girl you like," I add, teasing a little. "Anything." But he turns his head, refusing to meet my eye. "If I was good, I wouldn't have failed. End of story." He frowns deeply. "Travis, trust me when I tell you, everyone in the world has failed at something." "I bet you never have." He sticks his chin out, but he does at last look up at me. I shoot him a small smile. "Kid, I've failed at so many damn things I've stopped being able to count. You think I got the first job I wanted? Or even the dozenth? I've been on probably a hundred interviews in my life, for everything from internships to college scholarship boards to jobs. And I failed most of them." He lifts a skeptical eyebrow. "Really?" "My first job interview, they stopped me halfway through the interview and told me thanks for stopping by, but I could go home now." I sigh. That had been a shitty day. Travis frowns. "But . . . weren't you sad about it?" "Of course I was. I was devastated. I really, really wanted that job. It was, I thought, my dream job. Huge firm, working on the types of cases I always wanted to work on. Doing something that mattered. I practiced for days and days before I went into the office. And I didn't mess up or anything, that was the most annoying part. If I'd forgotten something, or said something dumb, I would've understood.

But I was just me. And they didn't want me." Travis crosses his arms as we stroll down the sidewalk, his eyes on the cars passing down the street now. We're heading vaguely in the direction of our usual spot, a coffee shop halfway between his high school and his house, where we go to work on homework assignments or practice his interview questions or sometimes just to hang out and shoot the shit before I need to walk him home at 5pm, when his mom finishes her shift at the car wash she runs. "So what did you do?" he asks. "When they didn't want you." "I went home, spent a night being sad and pissed and angry at myself and at them. Then the next day, I started my next application for the next job that sounded good." I offer him a shrug. "Confession: I didn't get that one either. Or the next five. But you know what?" He shakes his head, watching me now. "Eventually, I did get one. And it wasn't my dream job. It wasn't perfect. It wasn't what I thought I wanted to do. But I was surprised, too, because I liked it anyway. And then, after a year of doing that, I realized that my dream job from the year before, the one that I thought I wanted so bad? It wasn't actually what I wanted to do at all. I changed my mind. And then I applied for new types of jobs, went a whole different direction at work, into a side of law that I never thought I wanted to work in, and now I'm here." I spread my arms wide, and let my smile grow a few sizes, too. Travis lifts a skeptical eyebrow. "And you like it? Your job now?" "I love it," I tell him, and I mean every word of it. "I guess what I'm trying to say is . . . sometimes, when we fail, it's because there's something we never saw coming right around the corner. Something else that we're going to love even more, even if we don't know it exists right now." He bobs his head from side-to-side, like he's considering my words. "I guess." He puffs out a long sigh. "But failing still sucks right now." I laugh, softly, and clap him on the shoulder. "Yeah. Can't argue there, kid. It definitely still sucks now." My eyes dart from the coffee shop to, farther up the street, a row of balloons, and a little billboard. Opening Day! proclaims the sign out front of what looks like an old-fashioned ice cream parlor. "Tell you what," I say, casting him a conspiratorial sideways glance. "You know the other best remedy for getting back on your feet after a fail?" He follows my eye, and I swear, the moment when his heavy, sad expression lightens a little makes it all worth it. "Vanilla milkshakes?" he replies, a hopeful note in his voice. Normally, his mom makes me swear up and down not to let him have too much sugar or unhealthy food. When we go to the coffee shop, the only snacks I let him get are the health food bars they sell at the counter. But if there was ever a day to cheat on this rule, that day is today. "Vanilla milkshakes," I confirm, grinning.

When he finally smiles back, I let the weight on my shoulders ease up for the first time all day. We'll get through this. Together.

NINE

CHLOE

8pm. I should not still be in the office—I should be home finishing up packing. My room is strewn with clothes options for the trip, a zillion different combinations and styles and sizes, because I can't decide on any single one yet. So help me god, I am actually feeling nervous about this trip. No, worse than that. I am actively trying to pick out outfits that I think will catch Max Davis's eye. What the hell is wrong with me? I try to convince myself that I just want to look as good as possible in order to torture him as much as possible. But, deep down, the part of me I don't want to acknowledge exists knows that that isn't true. I want him to stare at me the way he stares at that secretary girl. Ugh. I hate myself. I'm so wrapped up in thinking about how much I hate myself for this, in fact, that I almost don't even notice my boss, doubled over in the middle of the hallway I'm striding down, fresh from a wake-me-up trip to the kitchen for an ill-advised pm coffee, until I almost trip on him. "Paul?" I ask, after blinking for a moment at him. He's got both hands resting on his knees and he's breathing hard, his face red. But after a moment, he straightens, waving a hand at me dismissively as if to say don't worry about me. Naturally, I ignore that. "Are you okay?" I reach for his arm. He lets me take his elbow, though he's standing fully upright now, and some of the regular color has started to return to his cheeks. His breath still takes a moment to slow and catch in his lungs, but once it does, he smiles at me, big and unconcerned as ever, even though it's obvious to both of us now that he's faking it. "I'm fine. Just takes it out of me sometimes. The steps," he adds, with a vague gesture at the staircase up from our neighboring floor, which stand behind us in the hall. "That looked like more than just being winded, Paul," I say, and I don't disguise the lawyerly tone in my voice. "Are you sure you're really fine?" "Well I've been younger, I'll tell you that much." He winks as he slips his elbow out of my grasp.

To my surprise, he's still pointed down the hallway toward his office. "You aren't still working, are you? You should head home; it's late." "Should I? Look who's talking, Chloe." His eyes twinkle. "How about you let me hold down the fort, and you get some much deserved rest, huh?" I grin at him, trying to look convincing yet stern at the same time. He's already shaking his head, though. I can see this approach won't work. "If one of us should go home right now, it's you, my dear. Don't let this office suck you dry the way I have." I can't help it. My mouth falls open at that. I've never heard Paul say anything against this place. Never even heard him complain about working hours before, unless it's to remind me that I should take it easy sometimes, when I get my head too deep in a case. But to be honest, he's always been the one I'm emulating. He's the first into the office every morning and the last to leave most nights, and, as far as I knew, he wouldn't have it any other way. "You always said you loved this place," I reply, carefully. "The way it gave you a sense of purpose." He bobs his head in agreement. "I did. I do. Don't get me wrong, Chloe, this has been a wonderful career for me, and I'm happy to still be able to be here. But . . ." His gaze drifts toward his office again, though I have the feeling he's not really seeing the beige carpet, the mahogany office doors, or the pale yellow wash of the fluorescent bulbs overhead. "Sometimes I wish I hadn't loved it quite so much," he admits. "Does that make sense? There's no better place to work, I believe that, and yet . . . there's so much more to life than just four office walls, a long commute and a hard days' hitting the books. There are so many other things I wish I'd done, too. If I could rewind, take a do-over, I'd still work here, of course, but . . . I'd make a little room in my schedule for life, as well." Suddenly, his eyes are on mine again, boring holes through mine, as he reaches out to take my hand and squeeze it in his fist. We've shaken hands before, and I've stared at his hands across the table in his meeting room a hundred times, every other week in our morning catch-ups. I never noticed before, how the veins stand out on his knuckles. How sandpapery his skin feels against mine. How weak his grip has grown. His hands look . . . well, old. He looks old. Especially now, half-winded, standing under these unflattering lights and gazing at me with regret in his pupils. "Don't make the same mistake I did," he murmurs, so low I have to lean forward to catch his voice. "Make sure you remember to live, Chloe. If not for yourself right now, then for yourself in a few years—or more than a few. Do it for yourself at my age. Hell, or if you need the motivation." He grins. "Do it for me. Promise?" It's such a surreal moment. I consider Paul and I close, but how many conversations have we had—real conversations, about more than just the weather, or where we live, or how many cats he owns, or how his semi-estranged daughter is doing at Cornell? I swallow hard, suddenly feeling the pressure of this conversation. What if he really is sick? What if something's wrong? Is that why he's telling me all this?

There's only really one thing I can do right now, given how seriously he's looking at me. "Of course," I respond, as I force a small smile in return to his. "Of course I promise." "Good." He lets my hand go with a little sigh, sounding almost relieved. "Go on then," he says, and for a second I just keep looking at him, confused, waiting for some longer explanation about why he just made me promise all that. "Get going." He waves both hands, actually shooing me down the hall, and I laugh a little, but I turn around and follow his direction toward my own office. "Don't let me catch you in here a minute longer than it takes you to enter in your hours, you hear me? And don't go straight home, either! That's an order." I salute him with a smirk. "Aye aye, captain. Whatever you command." But following that order turns out to be more difficult than I thought. Once I collect my purse and folders from the office, as well as my laptop and everything I'll need for the trip, I pile into the elevator, and watch the numbers tick down, trying to think about where to go. Don't go straight home! That's an order. I know he was joking—at least, mostly so—and I know he'll never know if I follow that order or not. But for some reason, part of me wants to listen. It's such a surreal and specific command that it feels more like a sign from the universe than a directive from my kooky boss. So, in an entirely uncharacteristic move for me on any night of the week, but a completely insane move for a Monday night, spur-of-the-moment, I pick up my cell phone as the elevator reaches the ground floor, and hit speed dial on Heather's number. "Chloe?" she answers on the first ring, a loud, thumping beat playing in the background of wherever she is. "Are you dying? What's wrong?" I wince. This is what I've reduced my best friend to. Thinking I'm dying if I call her out of the blue. "I'm fine," I reassure her quickly. "I was just . . . wondering what you're up to tonight? I finished unexpectedly early," I add, into her surprised silence. "And, I know you and I haven't hung out as much lately as we ought to. I feel really bad about that—sorry, it's so last-minute," I keep rambling, when she doesn't answer at first. "If you've got plans, don't worry about it. Let's plan something for this weekend, or—” "No, no, I'm just surprised! But of course, I'd love to hang out. I'm actually down in the Mission right now. Mission Chinese, have you ever been? They've got this cute little speakeasy upstairs, password only. It's a bit loud, maybe not your style. . ." She trails off, sounding worried. But I'm grinning. Honestly, I didn't expect to like the sound of something like that, but right now, in whatever mood I'm in, I mean it completely when I answer her, "That sounds perfect, actually. Meet you in twenty?"

The speakeasy full of specialty cocktails above one of the best, most well-known Chinese restaurants in a city known for good Asian cuisine, turns out to be just what the doctor ordered tonight. "They're normally not open tonight, but it's my coworker's birthday," Heather explains over the heavy bass filled music as I join her at a crowded table. She immediately pushes a noodle dish toward me, an old ritual— Heather has never finished a meal she’s ordered at a restaurant in her life. One of those people who actually eats six small meals a day the way doctors tell you that you should, but no sane person actually has time for. "Cheers," I tell her as I dig in, and we cheers again a moment later when a waiter arrives to bring me their signature cocktail of the night. I don't ask too many questions about what's in it. Whatever it is—rum, probably—it’s strong, sweet, and exactly the way I like it. "So what prompted you to bust out of your cocoon at last, Madame Butterfly?" she asks as we both tip our heads back to take generous swigs of our beverages. "A girl can't just miss her best friend?" I point out, and she gives me one of her famous yeah, right side-eyes. I sigh. "Okay, so I had some help. I had a weird encounter with Paul today, he was in one of those, I regret my life choices, don't go down the same path I did, sort of moods." "You mean your workaholic boss told you to stop being such a workaholic?" Heather lifts an eyebrow. "Damn, girl. You know it's gotten bad when. . ." I grimace. "Yeah. I guess that's why I actually decided to take his advice, actually. I realize if he's telling me to get out of the office, it's about damn time." I shake my head into the cocktail that I've already half-downed. Wow, these things go down easy. "Enough about me. What's going on with you?" She opens her mouth to respond when a dark shadow swoops over our table. I barely have time to register the guy leaning across the communal table where I'd joined Heather— tall, dark-haired, with a beaky nose that's handsome in an almost nerdy way—before he's pressing a kiss to her cheek and grinning at her boyishly. I lift both eyebrows, barely able to contain a grin when my friend's face bursts into a red flush. "Uh. Well, I guess there's that, for starters," she says as the guy sidesteps into the booth beside her and takes a seat. "Chloe, this is Mark." He extends a hand across the table, still smiling as we shake. That smile is infectious, for some reason. He just seems so genuinely happy. And when he lazily snakes an arm around Heather's shoulders and she sinks into his side, I can't help but like him already. "Pleasure to meet you, Chloe. I've heard so many good things already." Really? Because I haven't heard one about you, I think. But whose fault is that? Heck, even if Heather had mentioned him before, I'd probably been too zoned out to hear her. "Likewise," I lie. "Though, I gotta admit, my memory's a bit faulty lately—tell me again how you guys met?"

Heather rolls her eyes, though she still has a stupidly happy smile on her face, and she can't stop casting sideways glances at Mark. "It's okay, Chloe, you don't have to pretend—I didn't tell her about you yet because I thought you might have run away by this point," she admits to Mark. He squeezes her shoulder lightly. "My dear, I thought you had better foresight than that," he pretends to scold, yet he softens it with a wink. I'd be almost grossed out by the cuteness if it hadn't been so long since I'd seen Heather look like this. Relaxed. Infatuated. "We met through work," she says, presumably in response to me, though she's still staring at him. "The coworker whose birthday is tonight, actually, Nelson. Mark is his roommate, and he tagged along to some company happy hours a few weeks ago." "We've been disgustingly inseparable ever since," Mark finishes. Then he ducks over to kiss her cheek again. "But, if your bestie here hasn't heard the full story yet, I should give you two some privacy. Clearly you need to catch up. And I owe my birthday boy a few more drinks, as it so happens." Cute and considerate. I mentally chalk up another point in this new kid's favor. Not too shabby, Heather, I must admit. "You can still ride us all home later?" Heather says as he pushes his chair back to stand. "I'm thinking I might need another of these." She taps her cocktail glass, and I notice with a start that mine is already empty. He salutes. "Designated driver, at your service, my dear. Get as plastered as you'd like." Then he's gone, breezing across the room and chatting with other people I vaguely recognize from the couple of times I've tagged along to Heather's work events along the way. "Well he's adorable," I say at the same time that Heather bursts out with, "I'm so sorry I didn't tell you before." We both laugh a little self-consciously. "Not your fault," I reassure her. "I'm the one who's been completely M.I.A. from life." "I just really didn't think this would go anywhere. I thought it was just a fling, you know, the first couple of times we hooked up. He seemed too . . . interested in me, for it to be real. You know? Like he had to be faking it. James—my coworker— always talks about the dates Mark goes on all the time, so I just kind of assumed he was this big player, but . . ." I purse my lips around my straw to suck up the dregs of the cocktail. As if signaled by magic, our server appears at my elbow. "Another drink, miss?" he asks, and Heather nods and holds up two fingers, before I can say yea or nay. Ah well. It's been too long since I had a good long chat with my bestie, some drinks are required. "Well he seems really sweet, as far as I can tell. I mean, he might be a manwhore or a serial killer, you never know I guess, but—” Heather swats at my arm, though she's laughing as she does. "Trust you to be the optimist." "I just like to consider all possibilities!" "Uh huh." She smirks. "So what about you; have I missed any new possibilities

cropping up for you?" Insanely, stupidly, my mind flashes straight to Max. The way his eyes flash when they catch mine. The hard turn of his jaw when he's bent over a case file. Hell, even the angry line that appeared between his eyebrows when we argued this morning in front of the elevator. Part of me wanted to scream at him, but another part—an embarrassingly big part—just wanted to grab him and make him stop talking and put that mouth to better use. My cheeks flush. Nope. No real possibility of that, ever. "There's the possibility I might leave my office more frequently?" I reply, keeping an easy grin on, and hoping that Heather won't notice my split second of fantasizing hesitation. "Who knows. Maybe I'll meet someone when I start venturing back into the real world beyond the desk. What about you, how's everything else been? Work and that project you were talking about . . . what was it again?" The waiter returns with a couple more of the very strong, very tasty rum drinks, and I sip mine as Heather fills me in on her own current dramas, work war stories and successes, and who's fighting with who in our extended friend group. Before I know it, an hour has flown by. It's getting on for 10pm by now, and I need to be up early for the trip. Not to mention I haven't finished packing yet. But the waiter has been great about keeping our glasses filled, and with the rum sparkling in my veins, when Mark returns to our table and extends a hand to both of us, just as salsa music erupts in the background and most of Heather's coworkers pour onto the dance floor, I can't resist. It's been too long since I've done something so irresponsible. It's been too long since I've done something, period. So I accept his hand, link my other arm around Heather's, and the three of us swing out onto the hardwood floor of the club, fresh drinks in hand and our hips swaying to the beat. I'll deal with tomorrow tomorrow. For now, I'm all about tonight.

TEN

MAX

I sit in the sporty little convertible Ferrari I rented for this day trip, idling outside the address Chloe emailed me a week ago. Little Miss OCD Planner is running late. Very late. I check the clock on the dashboard again and dial her number for the fifth time since I pulled up almost an hour ago. If I'm honest, part of me is starting to worry. As many complaints as I have about Chloe, tardiness has never been one of them. Especially not for a job this important, on a day when we really need to be on schedule. Did something happen to her? By this point in our working relationship, I was used to waking up with at least three email forwards from her in my inbox, usually dated 6am or some ungodly hour, because the woman appeared to be a true morning person. But I haven’t heard a peep from her since our confrontation in the elevator bank yesterday. She might still be mad, but she’d at least send me a detailed schedule of how mad she’ll be throughout which steps of this case-planning process to go with her anger. I'm climbing out of the car to go and ring her bell when her front door finally opens, and Chloe steps outside. Or at least, I assume it's Chloe. It's a bit hard to tell, given the enormous sunhat she's wearing and the sunglasses that envelop her narrow, delicate face, in place of her usual glasses. But no one else would wear heels quite that deadly-looking at this hour of the morning, so I figure it's got to be my girl. My girl? No. My incessantly-fastidious-to-the-point-of-driving-me-insane coworker. That’s all. "Chloe?" I leave the convertible to cross the pavement to her door. "Need a hand?" She's lugging what looks like half of her apartment. Who needs that much stuff for one short trip? We're only going to be staying at Suzie's ranch for a few nights, two at most. Yet Chloe looks like she's prepared for a weeklong trip to the Sahara, to judge by the size of her suitcase. She squints at me, her lips bared as the sunlight strikes her face, and that's when I realize. The narrowed eyes, the deep grimace, the complete lack of makeup on her face, the way her hair, where it sticks out from under the wide-brimmed

hat, is wild and frizzy, not tamed into its usual tight curls . . . she's as infuriatingly sexy as ever, but one thing is fairly obvious. "Fun night?" I ask, lifting one eyebrow. "Rum is the devil. I think I'm dying," she says. Her voice comes out hoarse and choked. But when I extend a hand to take her suitcase, at least she lets me take it from her, and carry it across the sidewalk to the car. That, more than anything, makes me realize how much she's hurting. Normally, Chloe MacIntyre refuses to so much as allow someone to hold a door open for her, let alone carry something. Annoyed as I may be at her lately, I can’t stand the sight of her suffering right now. "I'll be right back," I tell her, my eyes already fixed on the corner, where a dingy painted sign advertises a small bodega. She nods, though I'm not sure she really heard me. She's too busy leaning against the car door, unsteady in her heels. I'm not sure if she's suffering from the world's worst hangover, or if she's still drunk, but either way, I think I know the remedy. By the time I return from the bodega, she's managed to hoist herself into the passenger seat, where she's doubled over, her head pressed between her palms, her forefingers rubbing at her temples. She’s swapped her sunglasses for her regular glasses, at least, now that she’s realized it’s the usual degree of still-foggy San Francisco morning out here. I much prefer her real glasses. Makes it easier to see her eyes. "Drink this," I tell her, as I press a cup of coffee into her hands. XL black coffee with a shot of espresso, just the way I've seen her order it in the work cafeteria a dozen times. “Why, did you poison it?” She peers out from under her hat suspiciously. But when I thrust the cup at her, she accepts it. “Don’t you trust me, Chloe?” Her eyes lock onto mine and hold there for a fraction of a second. Somehow, it feels like much more time passes, as we’re frozen there, memorizing one another. There’s tiny flecks of gold dotted through her hazel eyes. I never noticed that before. She accepts the cup and takes a tiny sip. Almost immediately, her shoulders relax a fraction, and she sits up a little straighter. "What’s in this?" she asks, her voice still broken. It's kind of sexy, that throaty tone. I can imagine her calling my name in that voice as I drive into her, fucking her so hard she can’t think anymore, can’t do anything but beg me to let her come. I shake my shoulders, dragging myself back into the present. "Espresso. One shot, just the way you like." I hop over the driver's side door into the seat, keys in hand. There's a long, pregnant pause, during which she doesn't drink any more of the coffee. I can feel her eyes boring into me, and from the corner of my eye, I notice

the strange expression she's wearing. Half confusion, half grateful relief. "How did you remember that?" she finally says, before she takes another drink, a longer one this time. Her eyes close as she savors the caffeine. I shrug one shoulder and turn the key in the ignition. "Guess it's just a memorable order. That stuff could probably strip the paint off a wall, you know." "It gets the job done." She clears her throat gently. "Especially right about now. Thank you, Max." "Don't thank me yet," I say. "We still have a four-hour drive ahead of us." Chloe groans softly. "Forgive me if I pass out. Or puke." I lean over to tap the glove compartment as we pull out of the parking spot and onto the street. "There's some bags of salad and sandwiches in there. Try to take the food out first if you need to puke in the bag, though." "You packed lunch?" She squints through the side of her glasses in my general direction. I avoid her eyes. Because, really, I'm used to packing food for Travis, for days when we meet up after school at the mentor program. His mom is pretty busy, and money's tight, so she doesn't always have the time or the cash to give him much more than ramen for dinner. I try to make sure he gets at least a few other food groups into his diet, on the nights when I can. It was just second nature to prep for this road trip the same way. For some reason, though, I don't want to talk about Travis with Chloe. She’s made up her mind about me already—I’m just the office playboy. I wouldn’t want to spoil the illusion for her. "I figured it would be faster than stopping along the way," I reply. She's quiet for another stretch of road. Actually, I would think maybe she'd fallen asleep, except that every now and then she's still sipping at the coffee gripped between her palms. As we reach the highway, though, the wind whipping around us, with the top down the way I have it to catch the fresh, sunny air today, she clears her throat. "You didn't have to do that," she says, loud enough that I can hear her over the accelerating wind. "Pack food, I mean." "No big deal." I shrug. "I wanted to. Besides, maybe if lunch doesn't suck you'll stop hating me." She snorts, then rolls her eyes. "I don't hate you." I feign a shocked expression. "News to me." "I just think you're arrogant," she continues with a toss of her head. "After all, the girls at the office fawn all over you, and you flirt right back." “Flirting is fun,” I respond. And the girls at the office don't know me at all either, I think. Aloud, though, I add, "Besides, you love my arrogance." For a second I'm not sure I actually said that loud enough for her to hear over the sudden rush of wind as we reach the main highway up toward Suzie's place. But then she shoots me another dramatic eye roll behind her glasses and sinks deeper into her seat.

"You wish," she says, barely loud enough for me to hear. A moment or two passes in silence, before she leans in a little closer. "Why are you being so nice to me anyway? I thought I drove you just as crazy as you drive me." You have no idea, Miss MacIntyre, I want to say. But I know better. That’s a step over a line that I’m desperately trying to resist crossing. I cast a sideways glance at her, at her hair where it whips around her face in the wind from the road, at her lush, full lips half-parted as she watches me. For a second, I see past the facade she throws up in the courtroom, at work, in meetings, everywhere she goes really. For a second, she looks, not like an uptight badass and snarky litigator, but like herself. Still snarky, true, but also vulnerable. And a little bit fragile this morning. "Let's just say I think I know how you're feeling," I respond. Then I crank up the radio station, and let her drift off into her thoughts as I lean on the gas. The time flies by, with the sun on my face and the engine purring loud and reassuring beneath us. It's been a while since I've had my hands on a decent vehicle—a while since I've driven anything, actually, let alone a car as easy to maneuver as this one. I make up for some of our lost time in speeding between all the stretches without police supervision, something I still remember from back in the day when I was a little more sociable and a lot more reckless. This was the route we used to take up north every summer, my college buddies and I, on god knows how many illadvised road trips. Chloe stirs in her seat, shading her eyes as she squints at the scenery around us. “You’re quiet,” she remarks. “I didn’t realize you ever stopped talking for this long.” “Would the dulcet tones of my voice help ease your headache?” I grin sideways at her, just in time to catch her lip jutting out in a pout that is equal parts adorable and oddly satisfying. “Very funny.” “Because I can talk more if it will help, no problem at all. I could tell you the story of the last time I was as hungover as you are.” “Ugh, I’m sorry I brought it up,” she groans, but she’s laughing, underneath it. “Well, if you don’t want it to be quiet, and you don’t want me to talk, I guess you’ll have to fill the silence. How did you wind up in this state, anyway?” She sighs, all playfully dramatic. “Let’s just say I tried to make up for a few too many girls’ nights out all in one evening. Also, rum is the devil.” I nod in sympathy. “I was always more of a whiskey man myself.” I turn off onto our exit, and Chloe scoots a little higher in her seat. “This it already?” “‘Already,’ says the woman who slept through ninety percent of the drive.” “We already covered that, it was because I was suffering from a lack of the dulcet tones of your voice.” “So you do like my voice.”

“I never said that!” She crosses her arms. “You just called it dulcet.” “That’s beside the point.” Chloe tosses her head, probably to emphasize said point. The movement dislodges her hat, though, and I barely have time to reach up and snatch it before the wind whistling around the convertible steals it away. She blinks for a moment, her blonde curls crazier than ever today, whipping wild across her face. Then she breaks out into a wide smile, as she reaches for the hat. Her hair, her smile, the air siphoning around us, it all makes me want to stop the car right here and grab her, pull that wild hair out of her eyes and bend her back along the seat, and rip that summery, thin top off of her. Fucking hell, don’t do this to yourself, Davis. I shove the hat into her lap. “You never told me you part-timed as a ninja,” she says, in a softer voice now that the car is slowing down, and the wind isn’t whipping quite so loudly. “I’d hardly call it part-time. Really only a hobbyist ninja, actually.” “Well you—holy shit.” Chloe breaks off as we turn up the street toward the address in the GPS, Suzie’s address. I have to agree. This is not quite what I was picturing. “Is that her house?” Chloe gapes at the place. In retrospect, I suppose we should have expected something like this from Suzie. The place is sprawling, that’s for sure—what she called a “ranch house,” I would definitely call a mansion instead. “I guess exercise videos pay well,” I say as we roll up the driveway. “And make you a little bit crazy, too?” Chloe replies. Probably because said mansion stands about ten feet off the ground, propped up on huge pillars so it almost blends into the canopy of the huge trees surrounding it. The house itself consists of a few off-white oblong concrete structures in various shapes and sizes, making the entire construction resemble nothing so much as a mushroom colony. “She did say it was the white one,” I say, consulting the instructions in my work email with a glance. Sure enough, the instructions are just like I remembered. Take the exit, turn right off the ramp and head straight up the street—it’s at the end of the block, the white one. You can’t miss it. I pass Chloe my phone, and she stifles a laugh with the back of her hand. “Well, she’s not lying. You definitely can’t miss it.” I shut the car off and we make eye contact for one last time. Her hair has settled around her cheeks now, still looking wild and windswept, but in a way that only makes me wonder what that hair would look like if I had her sprawled beneath me on a bed, my hands wrapped in it, her lithe, tight little body writhing beneath me. Chloe swallows once, and it’s all I can do not to watch the slow bob of her neck, or the way her eyes dip down to my mouth, just for a split second. It’s enough, though, to tell me she’s thinking something along the same lines. Shit. “Well.” I push out of my seat and hop out of the car, slamming my door hard, as if that crack of noise will break the tension between us. “Here goes nothing.”

ELEVEN

CHLOE

“Here’s my two favorite legal eagles!” Suzie pulls the two of us into a doublearmed bear-hug before we even make it through her door, which we have to climb a circular flight of stairs alongside one of the mushrooms to reach. “How’s it going? Hope the drive up here wasn’t too painful!” “Only for one of us,” Max replies, with a sideways grin in my direction. I wince, for about the hundredth time since I met him this morning—I cannot believe I slept through my alarm. The last time I did that was probably in freshman year of college. And even then it was probably from an actual flu, not just being hungover as all get out. Here it comes, I think, bracing for Suzie’s reaction once he rats on me. Do health instructors drink? Suzie might, but I doubt she does it often or anything. “Lucky for her, this one slept through the whole thing,” he continues, and I lift my eyebrows at him, surprised yet again. I’ve lost count of how many times that is today. Why is he being so nice to me? Especially after the way I yelled at him in the elevator bank yesterday. It was only because he’d canceled or rescheduled three of our meetings already, and this one was leading up to this big important trip where we’d both need to be completely on the same page. He seemed to think there was no big deal about canceling that. I trail him into the house, feeling better now about the fact that he has to lug my giant suitcase up the stairs. The suitcase full of at least seven different outfits for our maximum three day stay here, because I couldn’t figure out which style looked better—casual, tightfitting jeans, or professional yet also tight-cut pencil skirt. Not like it matters, since only Max will be seeing me for the three days we’ll be holed up here. Except, that’s exactly why it matters. And also part of why I was late this morning, since when I woke up forty-five minutes late for my ride, I still took fifteen minutes to change in and out of three different pairs of jeans before I settled on the skinny pair, the ones I normally would not wear to sit in a car for several

hours, except that they hug my waist so well, and the tight fabric definitely gives my ass a boost. Dammit. I’m still fixating. Snap out of it, Chloe. We cross into the mushroom’s foyer, and I swap my sunglasses for my regular glasses, my eyes grateful for the break from the glaring brightness outside. I’m feeling a lot better now, after the coffee and after picking at one of the lunches Max packed—the guy can put together a mean sandwich, I’ll give him that much. He even used homemade bread, and I think that was artisanal mustard on the sofancy-I-don’t-know-the-name cheese. When was the last time I bothered to make food like that? I honestly can’t remember. Years ago, probably. The foyer of Suzie’s mushroom house distracts me from further ruminations on the ways in which Max Davis is surprisingly more put together than I am, however. The second my eyes catch on the interior, I suddenly think maybe Suzie isn’t totally crazy after all. The foresty theme continues inside, but in here, it actually makes sense. The interior reminds me of a famous architect whose stuff I’ve seen pictures of before, Gaudi. It’s all curved archways into adjoining rooms, and spiral ceilings that make me feel like I’m inside of a seashell, complete with a chandelier that looks like a nautilus. The floor is a rich, deep mahogany, but in an adjoining room, I catch glimpses of tiles that look like fossils. Suzie walks us through the place like it’s nothing, not even bothering to acknowledge the weirdness or the fact that we’re both gaping at the house. “I’ve put you both in the north wing, since that’s where the guest rooms are, hope that’ll be fine. But really, leave your stuff anywhere, use any rooms you like, I don’t mind,” she says as she marches through a sloped archway and across a living room. A cozy little fireplace is set into the wall, the opening shaped much like the outside of the house, mushroom-like, but the fireplace itself designed to look like a flower, iron petals opening in front at the grate where you could feed it wood. A short, curved staircase leads us up to a second floor—I think we’re one or two mushrooms away from the entrance by this point—and onto a landing tiled in more fossils. I feel like I’m walking across a prehistoric forest, tiny ferns and snail shells curled beneath my feet. “Chloe, I stuck you in the blue room, though feel free to call dibs on the other one if you don’t like blue, I wasn’t sure. . .” Suzie pushes open a door that I hadn’t even noticed, its pale wood paneling blended into the wall so well. Through that door is an underwater world. She wasn’t kidding about the blue. Tiles in every shade of blue line the walls, dark toward the floor and growing lighter toward the ceiling. The ceiling which, I realize when I look up, is entirely skylight. The glass is so clear that I can see every detail of the leaves on the trees above us, and the sunlight that sneaks through and

dapples the floor of the blue room. Even the bed matches, it’s decked out in aquas, the comforter patterned like a wave. It looks like sleeping at the bottom of a river in the forest. “Blue is my favorite color,” I say with a small smile. Suzie claps my shoulder as she crosses the small bedroom. “I thought so.” Behind her back, I catch Max’s eye for a second, and we both press our lips together to suppress sudden laughter. I’m not sure if we’re laughing at the absurdity of the house, or how strangely lovely it is. Then Suzie pushes open a door in the far wall of my bedroom. “In here’s the bathroom,” she’s saying, as I shuffle after her into the tiled space—at least this room looks a bit more conventional, although the blue underwatery theme continues. “And here’s your room, Max,” she adds as she opens another door. Right on the other side of the bathroom. My stomach clenches. Ah. Conjoining rooms. Only a bathroom to separate us. That’s fine, I think. That’s not fine, the more honest part of my brain replies. Judging by his quick, piercing glance as he passes me, Max agrees more with the honest part of my brain. He presses his lips together, then crosses the bathroom and disappears into his room. I steal a peek inside— “The green room,” Suzie’s in the middle of introducing it, and I can certainly see why. If I’m sleeping at the bottom of a river, he’s sleeping in the canopy of a forest, all vibrant greens and deep brown wooden furniture. But I only look long enough to establish that there’s another doorway out of his room. At least he won’t be walking through mine at all hours of the morning. I ignore the fact that part of me is a little disappointed by this. I turn my back on the bathroom and Max’s adjoining room, trying to focus on unpacking my behemoth of a suitcase instead. Footsteps echo in the doorway, though, and my whole body tenses in anticipation. Did he come back through? Does he want something? When I turn my head, though, it’s only Suzie, leaning against the door frame of the bathroom, which is curled in a seashell shape above her head. She smiles, a little too knowingly. “You two had better take full advantage of this place while I’m gone, you hear me?” She lifts an eyebrow as she awaits my response. “I . . . uh. We’ll certainly get to work right away—” Suzie interrupts me with a snort. “That is not what I’m talking about and you know it. I’ve seen the way you two eyeball each other.” My cheeks instantly flare red hot. Can he hear her through the bathroom? Her voice is pitched low, but this house is all big, empty, echoing rooms. “We do no such—” “Oh, hush with the protests.” She waves a hand. “I don’t care what you do, as long as it’s what you really want to do. So. If you want that, girl?” She jerks a thumb over her shoulder. “Go and get it.”

I’m standing there with my mouth hanging open like an idiot as she crosses my room to leave. Just before she pulls the door closed behind her, however, she turns back to me one last time. “And if you don’t,” she adds, with a twinkle in her eye. “I sure as hell will.”

TWELVE

MAX

As we work our way through the mid-1990s up through the 2000s, Suzie’s exercise videos morph from low-definition, poor sound quality nostalgia trips into something else entirely more hilarious. “Oh my god, is she actually doing this right now?” Chloe gapes at the TV screen. We’re in the farthest mushroom of the house, in a room that looks like a cross between the inside of a whale and a spaceship. The walls curve around us tightly. Unlike the rest of the bright, sunny house with its sweeping views of the trees and hillsides that spill away from the property, this room has no windows. “The better to amplify the entertainment system,” Suzie explained before she left a few hours ago. And it is quite the entertainment system—the TV takes up an entire wall, curved slightly to fit flush against the wall where it sits. The couch across from the TV is a cross between a love seat and a row of chairs at a movie theater—each side of it reclines separately, and it’s got more cup holders than I would possibly know what to do with. Beside each seat, there’s a cooler stacked with anything we could possibly desire, from cheese platters to more chips and dip options than I care to count, and, naturally, a healthy stock of wine, beer and even a few liquors. “Yes,” I answer her a little belatedly. “I believe she is actually doing that.” On the ruthlessly high-definition screen, the better to showcase the poor quality of the DVD we’re viewing, a decade-younger Suzie Steel is shaking her ass at the screen in her crossover “dancercise” series. “What is that supposed to work out?” Chloe says as Suzie starts a side-to-side motion—ass-shake, step, stomp, ass-shake, step, stomp—all with the camera still zoomed in on her admittedly perky rear end. “Glutes?” I suggest as I tilt my head for a better view. Chloe snorts and swats my arm. “You’re enjoying this way too much.” “The woman knows how to move, come on, you’ve got to give her that,” I reply as younger Suzie transitions into a drop-it-low sort of move that reminds me of squats, but with a lot more slow hip rolls involved. “True, but I mean, can you imagine trying to do that in a club? Look.” Chloe hops to her feet, taking me by surprise, and tries to imitate the move Suzie’s doing.

“It looks ridiculous,” she calls over her shoulder as she drops her waist toward the floor and wriggle her hips in a slow circle. In the jeans she’s wearing, I can tell exactly how toned and sculpted her ass is. I stare at the curve where her long legs meet her ass, and fight the sudden urge to run my hands over those hips she’s still gyrating. “Come on, you try.” Chloe laughs, exaggerating the dance to make it even more ridiculous, but from where I’m sitting, this is having a dangerous effect on me. Before I do something really stupid, I jump to my feet with her, ignoring the painful throb in my crotch, trying to fight the mental image of everything I want to do to her right now. The list does not include dancing. But I do that anyway, hoping it will distract some of the blood flow that’s rushing south. The problem is, once I’m standing beside her, with her still bent almost double, I have a clear view down the front of the loose-fitting blouse she’s wearing. A redhot lace bra cups her breasts, pushing them up and out in a way that I cannot possibly ignore. Fucking hell. I want to grab her right here and bend her over, and rip off whatever tight little panties she’s wearing. I want to bury my face between her legs, taste every inch of her, make her scream in that sexy, throaty voice of hers. Then she tosses her head back hard, that hair flying across her face, her full lips parted for breath. Her eyes catch mine, a knowing glint in them, and my cock throbs, hard, against the seam of my jeans. Get out of here, Davis. Before you do something stupid. But she’s stopped dancing. So have I, actually. She’s still standing right beside me, close enough that our arms touch when she pulls herself upright. The shock of her hot skin brushing past mine nearly sends me over the edge. Neither of us break eye contact. Her lips press closed, then open again, and we’re standing close enough that I can feel the soft exhalation when she sighs faintly. Fuck it. I tilt my head to the side, and she mirrors me, both of us leaning toward one another, and this is inevitable now, I need to fucking taste her. “Do you have service?” she asks, abruptly, straightening her head again. It takes my brain a second to catch up. Not much blood left up that high anymore. “Uh. What?” “Email service.” She pulls her phone out of the front pocket of her jeans and flashes the screen at me. “I don’t have any.” She’s slightly out of breath, her voice higher pitched than usual. Panicked, you might even say. “I need to check some things—I think I had service in the other part of the house. You okay to keep going through these videos for a bit? I won’t be long!” She speaks so fast I don’t have time to sneak a word in edge-wise. Before I know it she’s backing out of the room, smiling, but in a way that looks a lot more like she’s about to hyperventilate, not like she’s actually happy.

I open my mouth to respond—with what, I’m still not quite sure—but she slams the door to the video room behind her, leaving me standing there like an idiot. A rock hard idiot. Fuck. I need to do something about this, badly. My brain isn’t helping, it’s stuck on replays of Chloe’s lithe body swaying in front of me, her perky tits, the perfect curve of her waist into her full hips. But I’m not just going to take care of myself in the middle of Suzie’s living room. I wait a few minutes to be sure that Chloe has left, and then I pause the video and slip out of the room. It takes me a minute to find the right staircase up to my room —I hope if this house has a name it’s called the Mushroom Maze—but eventually I manage to jog up to my door and sneak inside. There’s no sound anywhere in the hallway. Chloe must still be downstairs, maybe in the front room with the fireplace that we passed, or outside on one of the decks checking her email. I don’t waste time. I step into the bathroom and lock my bedroom door behind me, pulling my shirt off, because after this I know I’ll need a shower. Then I’m done with thinking about reality. All I can picture is her. What I want to do to her. I unzip my jeans and lean against the shower door, my hand already wrapped tight around my cock as I let the fantasy envelop me. We’re back in the video room, only this time I don’t waste time feeling guilty for my filthy fantasies. When Chloe stands in front of me, I grab her and pull her onto my lap, one hand around that slender waist, the other buried deep in her wild curls. She melts against me, lifting her face to mine as I claim her lips in a long, hard kiss. She slides her knees onto either side of me, until she’s kneeling above me on the couch, and I use the opportunity to slide my hands beneath her shirt, tearing it off in one smooth motion. Her lacy bra falls away next, revealing her supple tits, the perfect size to fit in my palms. I bend to catch her nipple in my mouth, my tongue swirling around the the tight peak in slow, languorous circles. Her breath hitches and she arches her back, pressing her chest hard against my face. I let my teeth graze the hard tip of her nipple, lightly, gently, and I savor the shudder that runs through her entire body. My hands are already dropping down the smooth, flat plane of her stomach to wrestle with the clasp of her jeans. She leans back as she undoes my jeans as well, pushing them down far enough that my rock hard erection springs free. She leans back away from me, her eyes on my cock, hungry. But I’m not ready to let her go that easily, though. I catch her waist, draw her back in, our mouths crashing together as our tongues grapple between us. Neither of us can get enough of the other, we want to swallow one another whole. I push her jeans down around her hips, her underwear along with them, and grip her firm ass. Chloe arches her neck, her lips parted as she moans, “Fuck me,” between gasping breaths. I sink into her with a groan, keeping my hands tight on her ass, pulling her down

hard, my cock bottoming out on the first stroke. God, she’s so fucking tight. I’m close to the edge, my hand tighter around my dick as I imagine plunging into her again and again, making her ride my cock, forcing her hips up and down, watching her tits bounce an inch from my face as her back arches and her desperate gasps grow louder and louder . . . I move my hand faster, gritting my teeth now, right at the brink. That’s when the bathroom door—the other one, the one I didn’t even think to lock—flies open.

THIRTEEN

CHLOE

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. I perch on the edge of my bed, silent, my eyes shut tight. Maybe I can just pretend that never happened. Maybe the next time I sit down in the video room beside my colleague, he’ll pretend I didn’t just almost fucking kiss him. After shaking my ass at him for a minute solid. What the hell was I thinking? But we’d been watching those videos for an hour, laughing and joking at Suzie’s antics. And the last one was so over-the-top that I couldn’t resist pointing it out. It had started as a joke, but then I started dancing, and I felt his eyes on me, and I could literally feel them. I never knew what people meant when they said that until now. It felt like his hands all over me, running down my waist, squeezing my ass. It felt like his hot skin on mine. It felt like a step away from fucking, and we weren’t even touching, only looking at one another. I am so screwed. And not in a good way. Even if he would probably screw me in the best possible way, if I asked him. I’m pretty sure the man knows his way around a bedroom. Or a few hundred bedrooms, most likely. What is wrong with me? This is the office manwhore we’re talking about. The guy who, according to Martha, has hooked up with at least a dozen of the women we work with. Probably more that I never heard about, because some people at least know how to keep their mouths shut. But this stupid, burning desire isn’t going away. If anything, it’s getting worse every day. Ever since my first wet dream about him, he’s been showing up in my head every night. Making me gasp and moan and come every fucking time. But the Max in my brain and the Max downstairs are two very different people. One is a fantasy, and one is a disaster waiting to hit me like a freight train. I take a deep breath and let my eyes wander to the window out over the fields behind Suzie’s house. It’s late afternoon already, the sun tinting the leaves above my skylight golden bronze. Through the window, the fields seem to stretch on forever, already a rich gold color from autumn. I wonder what grows out there, past the leafy forest that surrounds the house.

Maybe I should go out and take a walk. The fresh air might do me good. Screw my head back on straight. Except I’m still vibrating with suppressed energy from earlier. My pulse keeps thundering through my veins every time I let myself remember what happened, our bodies so close, almost touching, his head tilted as he stared down at me, bending over me, eyes intent on mine. I could smell his breath, peppermint fresh, and hot against my forehead. And those eyes, dark, deep green, the same color as the paint in his room. It reminds me of the jungle, of the wilderness. They’re wild, those eyes of his. And hungry, when they fixed on mine. Of course, mine probably looked the same. I can’t even look at him without wanting to tear his shirt from his body and run my hands over his sculpted muscles. I want to reach between his legs and grab his thick cock. I’m so desperate to feel that cock inside me that I’m already soaking through this pair of panties. Never mind the walk idea. I need a shower first. A long, cold shower. And, okay, maybe I need to rub it out a couple times while I’m in there. I toss my phone aside. I never even bothered to refresh my email. There’s no way I could concentrate on anything I’d need to say right now. I abandon it on the comforter and pad across the room to press my ear to the door that leads out to the hallway. There’s no sound outside it. Good. He’s probably still downstairs, on the other side of the house, buried in the videos I’m supposed to be helping him analyze. Sitting alone in that dark room, reclined in the couch, his eyes boring into mine even in the dim light from the screen. . . Cold shower it is. I shimmy out of my jeans and grab a towel from my suitcase, then tiptoe across the room to the bathroom door, wearing nothing but my sheer, lace bra and thong. My head is still several rooms away, lost in a fantasy, as I fling the bathroom door open. Only to freeze in shock, halfway across the threshold. My mouth falls open. Because there stands Max, leaning against the shower, naked all the way from his gleaming pecs, down his ripped, washboard abs, to—well, way past his waist. His eyes are half-shut, his lips parted to reveal gritted teeth, as his thick, strong hand works his weeping cock. The second the door hits the wall, his eyes fly open, and he releases himself. Which just gives me a complete eye full of his rock hard cock. His huge rock hard cock, dark and practically pulsing with need. My brain completely switches off. I have no comeback for this. No witty quip. I just gape at him, at his lean, muscular body and the kind of erection that makes me want to fall to my knees and wrap my lips around his hard shaft. Except, I’m not even sure he would fit in my mouth, not all the way, anyway. I’d definitely be interested in finding out. Max recovers first, if you can call it recovering. He whips his jeans up his hips and turns away from me, though I can still tell how difficult it is to stuff himself

back into those rather tight pants when he’s that close to finishing. Oh my God. “I . . . I’m so—I’m sorry,” I manage to stammer, finally recovering some small portion of my brain power. “I’ll. . .” I don’t bother to try and finish the sentence. I do the only thing left that I can think of—I flee the bathroom as fast as I can, slamming the door hard behind me. Oh shit.

FOURTEEN

MAX

Fuck. That was possibly the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me. Okay, also the most problematic. What if she files a sexual harassment lawsuit, you dumbass, some sarcastic part of my brain comments. But mostly I can’t stop picturing her eyes locked on my hard dick, or grazing over my body with appreciation. She couldn’t hide it. She didn’t even bother to try. She was just straight-up staring at me with lust written all over that gorgeous face. God, why the fuck didn’t I just take her right there? I’ve been sitting in my room for an hour regretting not making a move on her in the moment before her smart side caught up to her lust. It’s making me hard all over again picturing her perky, round tits in that leave-nothing-to-theimagination, skimpy bra, to fantasize taking her hot little mouth with mine, kissing her senseless, tearing that tiny thong off her body and pressing her shoulders against the tile wall as I plunged into her. But I lost the window of opportunity. Neither of us made a move, and she finally pulled it together enough to apologize and race out of the bathroom. She chose sense over passion, and I need to respect that. There’s only one way to settle this now. Go down that weird windy staircase, make your way through this mushroom maze of a house, find Chloe, and suggest we finish going through the VHS tapes like nothing ever happened. She’s probably wanting to pretend the same thing, anyway, judging by the expression on her face when she bolted. Then again. Maybe she doesn't want to ignore it. Maybe she wants the same thing I do. That thought gives me the energy to stand, leave my room, shut the door behind me. At her closed bedroom door, I can't resist pressing my ear to the wood for a moment, listening for any sounds of life within. But I haven't heard a peep from this quarter since she fled downstairs an hour ago. I take the steps two at a time, because they're an odd shape. Too short for one step, almost too long for two. At the bottom, I take another deep breath. It'll be fine, I tell myself. I've been in more awkward situations before.

Have you? counters that irritating little voice at the back of my skull. I put him on mute and wander through the mushrooms until I hear a noise. She's in the video room again. There's a different tape playing now, no more sexy club dancing. This one shows a row of jump-suited girls on all fours lifting one leg in the air in various directions, to the beat of some sort of club music. In the dim light of this room, all I can see of Chloe is the back of her head, as she reclines in one of the movie theater seats. I clear my throat softly. Open my mouth to say . . . well, I'm not quite sure what. I'll think of that when I come to it. "Chloe, I—” "They don't use the slogan in this video," she says abruptly. Clicks the remote on the chair arm, and the video begins to fast-forward in that choppy way that VHS tapes move. "I've scanned most of it. There's two more I'd like to get through before dinner, but this part only really takes one person." Her voice is chilly. Devoid of emotion. So that's how we're going to play this. Nothing happened. Got it. "Want to split them up?" I offer. "If there are two more?" She shakes her head. "I've got this. You can take a break. I'll see you later." "I'll scrounge something up for dinner, how about that," I offer. "Thanks," she says, and her voice sounds smaller now. Maybe guilty? Apologetic? I can't tell. I linger for another moment in the doorway, in case she wants to say something else, point out the elephant in the room, or at least outright say something dismissive. Let us never speak of this again, maybe. But Chloe remains silent, hits play again, and on the screen the girls in jumpsuits are doing jumping jacks now, smiling incongruously as their bodies bounce through the routine. I leave her to it, pulling the door shut behind me with a solid click. Right. Dinner. Suzie left us well-provisioned, I discover once I finally find the kitchen. It's as weirdly pretty as the rest of the house, with food-themed tiles on the floor, gray slate tiles that look like they'd contain fossils, except the patterns in them are veggies, chicken bones, grains. Inside the stainless steel fridge, I find a veritable treasure trove. Fresh produce, locally grown from the look of the ripe, round tomatoes and the fat zucchini. There's enough ingredients between the fridge and the cabinets to make pretty much anything I want, though what clinches it is when I find the pasta maker hidden in a side cabinet beneath the sink. Italian it is. I set to work on the dough, and like I always do when I'm cooking (which is not nearly often enough these days, between work and volunteering with Travis and work and beers with the guys and work . . .), I completely lose track of time. I don't even realize that Chloe has finished with the videos and stumbled into the kitchen until I look up from pressing the batch of fresh pasta I've made and find her standing just beyond the kitchen, in the entrance to the dining room, barefoot and

gaping at me. She's shorter than I realized. I never noticed before, because I've never seen the woman without a pair of at least 4" heels on her feet. "Just in time," I tell her. "Want to rinse the veg?" I nod at the sink, sufficiently far away from me, I think, a whole counter between us, so she won't think I'm trying anything funny. There's a stack of the aforementioned zucchini and tomatoes, along with some peppers, which I thought might go well with the sauce I have planned. She pads across the tile floor, pausing to examine the tiles the same way I did. This house is teaching us quickly to pay attention to the little details. They're not the kind of little details you'd find anywhere else. "Where did you learn to do that?" she asks with a nod at the pasta press, as she stacks the veggies in the colander and starts to rinse them in the sink, making sure to scrub each one, because I was right, they're farm-fresh, and some still have dirt caked into their sides. "Took some classes a few years ago. I love cooking, and Italian has always been my favorite, so." I shrug one shoulder. She's smiling, at least. "I always wanted to learn," she says. "Never tried it." "The place I went is great," I say. "They teach you how to cook your own dinner, then sit you down for a five-star meal treatment once you've finished it. Classroom and restaurant in one." I lock eyes with her, grin. "We should go sometime." She ducks her head, a red flush creeping onto her cheeks once more. "Maybe." Dammit. I shake my head. I will not let the entire meal be this awkward. "Come on, I'll teach you a little bit now." I reach around her to carefully peel the bowl of veggies from her hands. Our hands touch in the warm water, and I’m close enough, with one arm almost touching her body, to feel her shiver at the sensation. “I think these are clean,” I say, my voice low. She swallows so hard I can hear her. But then she side-steps out of my arms and grabs a towel to dry her hands. "Alright then." She steels her shoulders, like she, too, is determined to make tonight be less awkward than it's starting off. "What's next, chef?" I point at the stack of garlic and onions I've made next to a chopping board. "I need the onions chopped and the garlic diced." She stares at them for a moment. "What's the difference?" Right. Beginner’s course it is. I abandon my last press of pasta for the moment and come around the counter to pass her the chopping knife. "Hypothetically, how would you cut these?" She grabs the clove of garlic and goes to stab it. I have to catch her wrists, afraid she's about to damage herself, the knife, or possibly all of us. "Whoa there, Chlo. Not so fast. Look." I take her hand, and pretend not to hear her soft gasp, as my fingers wrap around her slim, smooth ones. I have to ignore my own reaction, too. The seize of sparks all up and down my

arms. I turn the blade in her hand—our hands—and press the flat side to the clove of garlic. "Take your other hand and press there," I say, pointing, but she only glances up at me, her eyebrows creased, so I take her other hand as well. Reach around her body to press the heel of her palm against the middle of the knife. When I lean my weight against her, prompt her to push down on the knife, it's all I can do not to drop the blade and press against her instead. Surely she can feel my cock, already hard again, where it brushes against her ass. And fucking hell, she smells amazing right now. The garlic cracks and pops beneath us, breaking the moment, and Chloe laughs a little shakily. I release her hands and she lifts the knife to find the little clove is crushed flat, cracked in places and oozing that delicious garlic scent already. "That's it?" she asks, her voice thick. Do not give in do not give in do not kiss her do not— "Now we do this," I speak over my own inner monologue. I grasp her hand again, show her how to hold the point of the knife against the chopping block, then scissor through the garlic with the back end of the blade. As I do, I can’t help but press my hips closer to hers. The quick little squirm of her hips against mine tells me she definitely feels the bulge in my jeans. But she keeps her head bent, her eyes firmly on the garlic. When we're finished, the garlic is minced into perfect tiny little pieces that will sauté to perfection, complement our sauce exactly. "You're good at this." She tosses her hair back over her shoulder, and we’re standing so close that it hits my chest before it spills down her back. She turns to peer up at me. Our eyes lock, and it takes every ounce of strength I possess not to bury my hand in that hair and claim her soft, plump mouth. There’s barely an inch of space between our faces, our bodies still touching, her soft hips digging into mine. “You’re a natural, Chloe,” I murmur, our breaths mingling between us. She swallows hard again, her eyes locked on mine, nothing but a few scraps of fabric and those slim glass frames between us. I lift my hand, reaching for her cheek. Of course, that’s when she blinks and seems to snap together. Next thing I know, she’s turning around to turn on the sink and rinse the knife off. Fuck. I’m losing count of all these opportunities lost. But she’s clearly made up her mind. I need to respect that. I take a step back, pretending not to notice the way her breath hitches, or the goosebumps along her arms. She clears her throat harder than strictly necessary. “So. The onions, I do them the same way?” I laugh softly, unable to help myself. "No, just slice those normally. Like any veggie." I force myself to back away from her. Return to the pasta. "Let me know when you're done." We work like that, in spurts. Apart, then teamed up again, while I show her how to keep the heat low, olive oil simmering, so she can slowly brown the garlic and onions without blackening them right away. Finally, we've got the water boiling,

the pasta rolling inside it, the sauce simmering away, the veggies ready to toss into the frying pan at the last moment, just long enough to warm them up and grill their edges a bit, draw out their flavors. Finally, when everything is ready, she slips away for a minute with plates and silverware. I pour everything into the big serving bowls that Suzie has, which naturally are shaped like halved watermelons, because why not? When I follow Chloe through to the dining room, though, she's not there. Neither are the plates. I pause in the doorway to blink at the room, before I hear her distant voice. "Out here!" I trail after the sound through the mushroom maze, to a balcony off the back of one of the mushrooms. The low-walled patio hangs a story in the air, and overlooks the fields behind the house, and the forest of trees directly around its base. Cicadas hum in those trees, and with the sun beginning to set over the fields, it's the perfect temperature out here. Not too hot, not too cold yet with night setting in. I rest dinner on the small patio table, as Chloe sets out our plates. She's also managed, sometime when we were cooking, to dig up a bottle of red, something local, a brand I don't recognize, and a couple of quirky wine glasses shaped like bunches of grapes, with vines for stems. We raise our glasses, plates full, just as the sun hits the sweet spot on the horizon, and bathes the whole sky golden orange. "To rubbing it in," Chloe declares with a faint smirk. I lift both of my eyebrows as I tap my glass to hers. "I thought we weren't talking about that." She bursts into laughter, which only sounds slightly hysterical. When she recovers, I'm sipping from the wine (dark, fruity, savory and sweet at once) while gazing across the rim of the glass at her. God, she's fucking beautiful when she laughs. "We are definitely not talking about it," she says, her cheeks still bright red. "Ever." I lift my glass once more, and she taps hers to mine this time, a second toast. "Well, then. Here's to dirty little secrets," I say, gaze still locked on hers. She doesn't look away this time, and silence stretches between us for a long, quiet moment. It's funny, but somehow being quiet with her doesn't feel awkward. Normally I feel the need to talk talk talk, if whoever I'm with isn't saying much. But with Chloe, I can relax. Not speak for a while, and it feels natural. “There was nothing little about it,” She laughs, “and I think the more unbelievable secret is the fact that you can do this," she replies, breaking the moment as she sets down her wine glass to pick up her fork. "This smells amazing." "Hopefully it tastes as good. I'd hate to be a tease." She laughs, and lets out a little snort when she does. It's adorable. "Yeah, I'm sure you do." But when she winds a bite of pasta around her fork and slips it into

her mouth, she seems to forget her sarcastic side. Her eyes close, and a shiver runs through her body. "That bad, huh?" I joke as I spear my own bite. I already know it'll be good, but when I taste it, even I'm surprised. The sauce is better than when I've made this recipe before, the veggies more flavorful, the garlic better balanced against the olive oil and the onion. I suppose it might be because the veg is so fresh, straight from the dirt up here in farm country. But I'm inclined to believe that the magic ingredient to this particular meal is something else. Someone else. "This is . . . holy shit." Chloe finally opens her eyes, and smiles into her plate. "Did you ever consider becoming a chef instead?" I grin. "Too hectic for me. I prefer the 9am to midnight work schedule over the 5am to midnight one." She lifts an eyebrow, still smiling. "Does workaholism run in the office or something?" I shrug one shoulder. “I don’t know about that. Emergency hookups aside, I don’t always set aside enough time for work.” Her cheeks flush, and she ducks her head a little, acknowledging the blow. “I’m sorry I got so heated,” she tells her plate. Then those hazel eyes flash up to mine again, and reading the sincerity in them, I can’t help but shake my head. “It’s fine, Chloe. You’re serious about your job. I respect that. I am too.” Her lips purse into a little moue. God it’s fucking sexy. “I dunno. Sometimes I think maybe I take it too seriously. What you said, about there being some things more important in life than work?” We both gaze at each other, the silence stretching between us for a second, as I wait for what she’s about to say. But eventually, she only shakes her head and takes a stab at another bite of pasta. “You might be onto something.” “Only maybe?” I take another bite myself. She grins on one side of her mouth, lopsided, sexy as fuck. “Only maybe.” She winks, and I swear I feel the effect of that single eyelash movement all the way down to my dick. But then she sighs and casts an eye over the scenery again, her mood shifting. "Y'know, I don't even know how long it's been since I went on a vacation. Came somewhere like this. I mean, I know this isn't a vacation." Her cheeks flush again. God, she blushes so easily. I fucking love it. "But it feels like a little escape. From the city, from the office." "But alas, not from your worst coworker," I add with a wry twist of my lips. Her eyes flash to mine, and in the dying sunlight, the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes seem to light up. “You’re not the worst one.” “News to me,” I reply with a lift of my eyebrows. “There’s Pervy Pete in accounting,” she says, and I snort. “So I rank one above him. Good to know.”

“I didn’t say that.” Her eyes seem to dance in the dimming light. “Where do I rank then?” “You mean Mr. Cockiness Incarnate cares what I think?” she counters, smirking a little as she scoops up another bite from her plate. “I didn’t say that,” I repeat, and she can’t help laughing again. I love making her do that. Making her laugh. Or making her blush. Both at once, preferably. But part of me wants more than that. I want to get to know her. Find out what makes her tick. Because for once, when faced with a sexy as hell woman, I can’t seem to figure her out. “Where would you go?” I ask, of course right as she takes a huge bite of pasta. “On vacation, I mean,” I add as she attempts to chew faster. “Me, I’d love to visit Italy. Sicily, actually. My dad’s from there originally.” She swallows, and washes the pasta down with another sip of wine. “Funny, I wouldn’t have pegged you for Italian.” “I take after Mom’s side. Very Polish, apparently.” “I’d have guessed Russian.” She gestures at her face. “The cheekbones. And the nose—you’ve got a kind of big nose, you know?” “Gee, thanks.” I laugh. “No, it looks good on you!” she protests, before stopping dead, her cheeks reddening. “I mean. It suits your face, is all. Very proportionate.” “You’re quite proportionate yourself, Chloe,” I reply, leaning across the table toward her. She does the blushing thing again, and I can see, now that I’m a little closer, that her breath hitches in her chest. Her lips part, faintly, and then I realize I’m staring at her lips, and I force myself to meet her eyes again, except she’s looking at my mouth instead. “Are you done?” she asks suddenly, reaching between us to grab my empty plate. “I’ll take these inside.” Before I can say anything, she springs out of her seat, plates in hand. As she sashays into the house, I stare after her, unable to tear my gaze from her ass, the way her long legs unfold, and her hips sway enticingly with every step she takes. I want to run my hands over her, trace every inch of her unbelievable body, memorize her the way I’d study a case file. Until I memorize her body, backwards and forwards. Until I can feel her on my fingertips without even touching her. I close my eyes for a minute, squeeze them tight. Pull it together, man. We went down this road once already today. She freaked the fuck out. I need to keep my baser urges under control, especially now. I pour us both a second glass of wine, and I make sure it’s a healthy, generous pour. It’s fine. Ignoring our attraction worked for most of the day. It will work for another day and a half. Then we’ll be out of this place, back to the city, back to the daily grind of work, and we can both forget this trip ever happened.

FIFTEEN

CHLOE

Shit. On top of everything else, does Max freaking Davis have to be so goddamn easy to talk to? I forgot myself back there at dinner. Let myself treat him like I would any other extremely attractive man who started to open up to me about his life, the overworked feelings, the daydreaming about vacations he’d like to take, escapes he’d like to go on. His family history. . . But Max isn’t just some hot guy who I feel more and more close to the more I talk to him. Max is the asshole I freaking hated at the office up until we were shoved together to work on this stupid project in the first place. Max is the office manwhore, and I need to not let myself fall in line to become his next one-night stand. Besides, in all my years working for this company, I have never once broken the no-fraternizing clause in our contracts. I don’t intend to start now. Not with so much on the line—this case, the publicity that will come along with it. A chance at being considered next for partner. I need to keep my head in the game, now more than ever. That means not thinking about the way Max’s green eyes lit up when they caught mine at the dinner table, or the way his cheeks dimple when he laughs, or how carefree and contagious that laughter sounds. And then, of course, there’s his body. His very muscular, very lean, very sexy body. His huge cock, my animal brain adds. And the fact that he might have been thinking about you in that bathroom, when he was jacking off earlier. Probably not. It was probably just the stupid Suzie Steel videos with all the gymbuff babes he’s into that got him all hot and bothered. Or so I keep telling myself. Part of me already knows I’m lying. But it’s not like a guy like Max would be looking for anything more than a quick fuck, so why do I care? Why the hell are you even thinking about something more? asks animal brain. Can’t we settle for just fucking him? But the truth is, I don’t really want to settle for that. Not anymore. I mean, not like I’m looking for something ultra-serious, but I also don’t want to just hook up, either. So Max is absolutely the wrong guy to be daydreaming about.

For a million reasons. And yet. As I walk back through the house, having loaded all of our cookware into the dishwasher, and having no other excuse to leave him out on the balcony alone anymore, that’s exactly what I’m doing. Fantasizing about me and him and that balcony furniture. The table looked pretty sturdy . . . or there’s our beds upstairs, both of which are plenty large enough to roll around in. . . Gah. Clearly seeing him in the bathroom earlier triggered the same need in me. Can women get blue balls? I think I’m feeling the pinch right now, if so. I step out onto the balcony and force an easy smile in his direction. Oh good. He’s refilled the wine glasses, too. With very large pours. Smart man. I scoop mine up before I even finish taking a seat. “Here’s to hoping you take that trip someday,” I say. We both drink, and somehow our eyes won’t unlock from one another’s. His bore into me, so penetrating I can almost feel his gaze, as if he were touching me. Fuck, I wish he were touching me. “You never answered my question earlier,” he says, as we set our glasses down. “Where would you go?” I smile, just a little bit, still watching him. Watching those piercing green eyes. “I don’t know. There’s a ton of places I want to see. I never know how to decide. So then I end up going to none of them.” I grimace. “Well, list a few places you want to visit, then.” His smile is easy, compelling. It makes me want to tell him the answer to anything he asks me. Your pants, I think. Out loud, I reply, “All the European highlights. You know. Paris, London, Rome, Berlin. I studied abroad in Madrid in college, but I never really traveled around. I regret that.” “Too busy with coursework?” He lifts an eyebrow, sarcastic. “Guess some people never change,” I say as I nod. “Once a workaholic, always a workaholic.” “Okay, so European highlight tour. Where else would you go?” “Thailand.” “That’s interesting. Why there?” “I saw a travel video about it one time. With my mom. She always wanted to go, used to talk about taking me with her, before. . .” I bite my lip. His hand slides across the table to catch mine. “I’m sorry,” he says. He doesn’t need to ask what happened. I’m sure that’s obvious from my facial expression right now. I shake my head. “It’s fine. It’s been years.” Seven, in fact, since my mom passed away. Wow. Time flies when you aren’t paying attention. I swallow hard, to control the little lump that rises in my throat every time I think too long about her. “Anyway. I guess I want to visit for her. To make up for

not getting there with her.” “Sounds like that should really be the top of your list,” he says, his voice lower now, concerned. He’s still holding my hand. I don’t want him to let go. “Yeah, maybe.” “Book a trip.” He tugs on one of my fingers. My pinkie. He unfolds it, and wraps his pinkie around mine, his skin warm as the sun on mine. “Come on. Pinkie swear. As soon as this case is finished, you’ll book a flight to Thailand. Agreed?” In spite of myself, I grin back at him. It’s impossible to look at Max’s smile and not grin yourself. I clench my pinkie finger around his. “Agreed. One flight to Thailand, coming right up. Soon as we finish this job.” “Good. Now that’s settled.” He winks. “But,” I add, clenching my pinkie again before he can pull away. “You need to make a promise too.” He catches my eye. Gazes into my own, straight past my eyes and into my heart. “Anything,” he says, and I swear he must be able to hear my heart pounding in my chest. My throat contracts, but I force it open again to reply. “Go to Italy. If I’m going to Thailand, you need to take your trip too.” He laughs, softly. “Deal.” “And bring your mom,” I add, lifting my other hand to wag my finger at him. He catches that hand in his too, so both of our hands are wrapped around one another’s, and he’s so casually strong that I feel safe just like this, just having his hands on mine and knowing he’s here, beside me, for whatever I need. Anything, he said. He’d do anything I asked. “I can do that,” he’s saying, but I hardly even hear the words. I can’t tear my eyes from his mouth. Suddenly, his hands are lifting mine, drawing my arms up in the air, lifting me from the chair, because we’re both standing up, and he’s stepping around the table, there’s nothing between us anymore but air, and not even a lot of that. Then he lets go of my hands, and I gasp for a second, only a second, though, because he only let go to pull me into his arms. I wrap mine around his neck, and it’s twilight now, dark enough that I can only see his eyes, his face, not the forest or the fields around us. For a breath, we hang there like the lights twinkling around us, frozen, our lips inches apart, his head bent down to mine, our chests pressed against each other, rising and falling with every breath we take. Then I can’t stand it anymore, and I push myself up on tiptoe to press my lips to his. That’s all it takes to crack him. Max tightens his strong arms around me, crushes me to his chest, lifting me half an inch from the deck as he kisses me back, hard. The day’s worth of stubble on his cheeks scratches my palm as I run my hand over his chiseled cheekbone, then bury both of my hands in his hair. I lift one leg around his waist, as he spins us both around to press my back against the side of

the house. I’m pinned between him and the wall, the hard press of his cock digging into my stomach, as huge as he looked earlier, and every inch as eager. His hands are all over me—my hips, my ass, my neck, my hair. He clenches one fist in my hair and pulls me deeper into the kiss, our lips parting as we devour each other, tongues entwined, both our hips rocking. His cock pulses against my stomach, and I twist around to press my clit against that bulge, gasping at the sensations that rush over me. He smells salty and savory and sexy as fuck all at once. He sucks my lip into his mouth, grazes his teeth along my lower lip as his other hand slides up my waist to grip my breast through my shirt. He runs his thumb over my nipple, so hard it’s visible through my bra, and I groan into his kiss, a shiver of want running through my entire body. His hands trace along my back, down my sides, settling at the small of my back to pull me harder against him. I want him to take me, right here, right now, in the open against the side of the house. My hands are already moving down his muscular back, along his sides, reaching for the hem of his jeans, when I realize what I’m doing. Who I’m thinking about doing. I drop my leg from his waist and pull away from our kiss, even as a moan of frustration escapes me. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice low and deep. The dark has settled more firmly around us—I can hardly see the table or the wine glasses now. I can’t make out the expression on his face, either, or what’s in his eyes as they fix on mine. “I . . . I’m sorry, I just. . .” He eases me to the ground, releases his grip on me, though he doesn’t step away from me, or take his hands from my sides. Not yet. “Don’t apologize,” he says, but I’m already forcing myself to turn away, pull out of his arms, even though it’s the last thing I want to do. “I can’t do this. I—.” I flee into the house before I have time to second-guess myself. Inside, I pick up my pace, until I’m practically running up the stairs. I don’t stop until I’m locked in my room, the bathroom door locked too. I fling myself face-first onto the bed, stuffing one of the pillows over my mouth as I scream into it with frustration. All I can taste is him. All I can smell is him, on my skin, on my clothes. All I can see, when I close my eyes, are his eyes above me, his stark profile as he leans in to kiss me, hard. All I can feel is the hard press of his cock at my stomach, his hips arching into mine, wanting the same thing I do. With the pillow still pressed against my mouth, I drop my hand to my jeans. Slide my fingers beneath them, pushing beneath my panties and lower until I reach my opening. I’m soaking wet, just from the thought of him. Fuck. I let myself fall into the fantasy. Pretend I hadn’t run away from him. Pretend he kept kissing me, devouring me, his mouth on my neck, my chest, my breasts, sucking and letting his teeth graze against my nipple the way he bit at my lip.

Pretend he kept me pressed against that wall, pinned against it, helpless, and I had both legs wrapped around him as he pulled my jeans and his down. Imagine that hard, long, thick cock of his toying with my clit, him pressing the tip against me hard until I gasped, and then running his length along my slit, soaking himself in my slick heat. I trace my finger across my lips the way I wish he’d run his cock, back and forth, slow, until my finger is soaked. Then I press slowly into myself, imagining it’s him instead, imagining how that thick head of his would stretch my walls, make me feel so full I’d have to gasp for breath. I imagine him thrusting hard into me, the wall digging into my back as he fucks me, our hips crashing together every time he pulls out and thrusts back in. I let a stifled moan escape into the pillow as my fingers thrust deep, and my thumb presses my clit, pressing until it throws me over the edge. I bite my lip and suppress the urge to cry out, keeping as quiet as I can as the orgasm rocks through my body, making my pussy clench and spasm. For a moment afterwards I just lie there, face still buried in the pillow, panting, Relief pouring from me, but it’s still not enough. It doesn’t even come close to comparing to the real thing. I want to fuck Max Davis. And no amount of getting myself off is going to change that fact. Shit.

SIXTEEN

MAX

That night I dream about her. Repeatedly. The first one is us on a beach in Thailand, curled up in a hammock that’s swaying in a cool evening breeze. There’s no one else around for miles. It’s sunset, and she’s lying beside me, her cool, smooth skin pressed against mine, wearing a tiny excuse for a bikini. I wrap her in my arms, the same way I did on the balcony tonight, pull her on top of me, and brace myself with one foot on the sand as I finger the crotch of her bikini, teasing until she moans and grinds against my hand, seeking more friction. I yank it aside and lift her onto my rock hard cock. God, she so fucking wet, feels so fucking tight around me. . . But all too quickly that dream fades, and now I’m standing with her in the hallway of a grocery store, both of us fully clothed, and I want to bend her over the stupid display of paper towels and fuck her right there, except I can’t, and why are we in a grocery store anyway? The dream shifts again, and we’re both in one of Suzie’s work out videos, except whenever Suzie tells us to “rub it in,” I stand behind Chloe, wrap my arms around her hips, shove my hand down the front of her snug workout shorts, and circle my finger against the hard little nub of her clit. She moans in my ear, the same way she moaned earlier when we kissed, with a sexy little gasp in her voice that drives me crazy, makes me want to make her come again and again and again just so I can hear what she sounds like when she gives herself over, gives up control and lets an orgasm rule her body. I wake up tangled in my sheets, covered in sweat . . . and sticky. Fuck. I haven’t done that since I was a teenager. To make matters worse, the door to the bathroom is shut, and I can hear the shower running inside, and all I can picture is Chloe, naked, the water cascading over her bare body, the way her nipples would stand at attention, her full breasts soapy and begging to be licked and sucked until she’s moaning my name. My name. Fucking hell. I’m hard as a rock. I cast another glance at the door separating me from her. I wrap my fist around my cock as I picture flinging it open, pushing her against that shower wall. I’d lift her up by that tight, perky ass, her long legs wrapped around my waist as I thrust into her.

It doesn’t take me long to come, with the mental image of her naked tits bouncing with every thrust of my hips, my balls slapping against her . . . “Fuck,” I groan as I paint my stomach and abs with my release. Maybe that will help relieve some of the tension this morning, since she and I have a breakfast conference call with Suzie to update her on our progress. Somehow, though, I doubt it will help. So far nothing has managed to get her off my mind. She’s wedged in there too deep, and it doesn’t help that every time I see her, she seems to have gotten more irresistible since the last time we spoke. Or maybe I’ve just started noticing. Like the way she sucks her lower lip between her teeth and worries at it when she’s trying to concentrate. Or the way she throws her head back when she’s laughing—really laughing. Every now and then I’ll get that reaction from her to some stupid joke I make, and it feels so good to watch her let go for a second. She doesn’t do that enough. I could really help her let go, if she’d let me. How did we get to this point? Just a few weeks ago, the only things I knew about Chloe MacIntyre were that she’s a talented litigator, and that she had nothing but utter disdain for me. I pull on jeans and a T-shirt—I’ve given up standing on pretense, with nobody here but Chloe to see. When I clomp downstairs for breakfast, I notice that she’s taken the same approach. The yoga pants and tank top she’s wearing are the most casual thing I’ve seen Chloe wear in . . . well, ever. Somehow she looks even sexier dressed down than she does in her suits and pressed blouses. I swallow hard as I take a seat across from her at the dining room table. “Cereal?” She offers the box she’s just poured into a bowl—Wheaties. I shake my head. “Not really a breakfast kind of guy,” I say. She clucks her tongue. “It’s the most important meal of the day, you know.” Then she grabs another bowl and starts to pour me a bowl, despite my protest. “You provided for us last night,” she says with a small smile. “My turn to make a meal.” Who can say no to that? I dig my spoon into the cereal and take a bite, mostly to placate her. I am rewarded with that broad smile of hers, though, her perfect lips parting over her pearly whites so happily that it’s worth suffering through this bowl of wheat germ. Seriously, does anyone think these taste good? “Rivals dinner, doesn’t it?” She gestures at the bowl, her tone dry and sarcastic. “I know, I’m the best cook on the planet. No need to thank me.” “It could be worse,” I reassure her. “I’m not sure I’ve had worse, but I imagine it’s out there somewhere.” She laughs, hard. That free-sounding laugh I can’t get enough of. “Gee, that’s reassuring.” “If you’re going to insist on force-feeding me breakfast, I might have to teach you some tips. Step one, don’t eat anything that comes in a box with a sports star

on it.” “Lucky Charms would be okay then?” She grins. “I don’t think the elf guy plays any sports.” “You might be hopeless,” I pronounce gravely. “But I will endeavor to save you nonetheless. Have you heard of something called bacon? Eggs? Veggies, if you’re not a bacon kind of girl.” “I like bacon and all, but it takes so long to microwave it in the morning.” I press a hand to my chest as though mortally wounded. “I’m going to pretend I did not just hear that. Microwave bacon . . . dear God.” She laughs again, but the ring of the house phone interrupts us. We both startle, then eye the landline the way I imagine city people might eye a large animal that wandered into their house. “People still have those?” she says. It looks like a late-90s model, similar to the lines we have at the office. I hadn’t really noticed it, buried as it is in what appears to be an award-winning expired coupon collection on the side wall of the dining room. I stand and cross the room to reach for it. “Wait!” Chloe blinks at me. “Should we answer it? If it’s Suzie’s private line?” “I can take a message,” I reassure her as I snatch the phone from its cradle. Wow, it’s still got a cord attached and everything. “Suzie Steel’s residence, Suzie’s pool boy speaking,” I say into the speaker, grinning as Chloe stifles a surprised giggle. “Funny, I don’t recall hiring a pool boy,” replies Suzie’s familiar smoky voice. “You’re going to have to send me some photos to prove your existence. Shirtless, please. Speedos only.” My grin widens as I hit speakerphone. “Hi Suzie. Max and Chloe here.” “Well I figured,” she says. “That or I won a lottery no one told me I entered.” “Sorry Ms. Steel, I thought our call wasn’t for another half an hour,” Chloe calls across the room, loud enough to be heard on the speaker, as I pick up the phone base and carry it to the table. “Ms. Steel again, really? Max, haven’t you loosened this one up yet? You’ve had a whole day in a scenic getaway cottage. I mean, heck, the view outside is almost as smokin’ as you. Why is your girl still formalizing me?” We trade smirks, and I can’t help noting the deep blush on Chloe’s cheeks. And enjoying it. Just a little bit. “It’s early, Suzie,” Chloe responds before I can come up with a reply that won’t incriminate me with one of these women or the other. “I’m auto-pilot formal until I’ve had my coffee. It’s saved me from a lot of near-murder experiences.” Suzie’s laugh crackles down the line. “Well that’s a relief. So the trip thus far has relaxed you after all. You’d never have admitted to murderous impulses when I first met you, my dear.” “I admit to nothing,” she replies, catching my eye. “I’m too good a lawyer to fall for that one.”

“Oh, I’m sure you are. That might be your problem, though, missy. If you never admit your attraction, you’ll never know if it’s reciprocated, you know. Don’t you agree, Max? Or have you been silently pining for your colleague too?” “I’m afraid I, too, will need to plea the fifth here, Suzie,” I respond, carefully avoiding Chloe’s eyes. “Though I must say, your own vacation seems to be making you a real cupid. Have you been reading about matchmaking while you’re away?” “Been reading Emma,” Suzie responds, surprising both of us, I think. “So, basically, yes. Honestly, any idiot could feel the tension every time the two of you are in a room together.” Now I might be a little flushed too. Shit. I clear my throat hard. “Aren’t you interested in the other things we’ve been doing while in a room together? Specifically, your case investigation?” “Less interested, but I suppose you’ll have to update me some time, so might as well shoot.” “We’ve found plenty of evidence,” Chloe interrupts. “The first recorded instance of your slogan ‘rub it in’ appeared on a 1997 exercise tape that you made in —” “Jim’s Gym in San Diego,” Suzie replies. “Oh, yes, I remember. Did you notice the man in the tape with me? Second from the right, the only guy in that set. I hooked up with him the whole month we were making that series of tapes. God, he had a seriously great ass. Not to mention his other—” “Great! Glad you remember the occasion. That will help when we submit the tape as evidence,” I break in. “We found at least two dozen other instances of it throughout the late 90s tapes, and then at least fifty throughout the early 2000s videos you made.” “God, you watched all of them? In one day?” “We’ve got another 20 or so to finish today,” Chloe answers. “But we’re nearly there, yes.” “I’m so sorry,” Suzie says. “No wonder you haven’t had a chance to take advantage of your time away. Or each other. Well, when you finish the other tapes, there’s a wine cellar off of the video room, feel free to raid that, if you haven’t stumbled across it already.” Chloe glances at me and away again, shyly. “I did, actually,” she says, and Suzie laughs. “Thatagirl. Hope you shared.” “She was a perfect gentlewoman,” I respond. “You needn’t worry there. No hogging the wine bottle all to herself.” “Bottle? Singular?” Suzie tuts even louder now. “Kids, kids. Do you know nothing these days? It takes at least two bottles to get past the oh-god-Ishouldn’t-hit-on-my-coworker wall. Hop to it!” “We’ll take your opinion under advisement,” I respond, while Chloe rolls her eyes skyward. “You’d better!” Suzie scolds. “I’ll be counting those bottles when I get home

tomorrow. If there aren’t at least three missing, I will be sorely disappointed in my legal counsel.” With that threat hanging over us, we finish out the conference call—making plans for a few of Suzie’s early collaborators, friends and fans to stop by our offices and talk about witnessing the slogans and brand that Suzie developed. We set up a meeting with four of the most ardent “rubbers,” as Suzie calls them, for right when we get back from here. It’ll make our schedule a little tight, but Chloe and I are both eager to finish the legwork on this case as fast as possible. I’ll give her that much, I’ve never coordinated a case as tightly, smoothly run as this one. We’re a good pair, the two of us. As if reading my mind, the moment we finish setting our schedules in our respective phones, Chloe leans back in her chair, the morning sun flashing across her bare shoulders, down the long slope of her chest, and grins at me. “Score one for teamwork, huh?” she says as she sets her Blackberry down. “We’re already almost ready to start writing this thing up.” “Guess cooking isn’t the only thing we’re good at,” I respond, and suddenly my eyes have snagged on hers. I can’t force myself to look away, not with the way she’s watching me, her chest hitching, the way she does when she inhales sharply, holding that breath in her chest. The way she does whenever we’re in the same room. I can feel that gaze of hers all the way down to my crotch. I clench my fists around the edges of my chair to force myself to stay in my seat, because every cell in my body is screaming at me to recreate last night. To grab her and pull her off that chair onto mine, to taste that sexy, full mouth of hers again. But last night, she said I can’t do this. I need to remember that. If she wants something to start again, she’s going to have to show me she’s ready. Even if I have to ignore my cock going hard every time she glances my direction. Fuck. Unfortunately, the only thing she does now is stand and pad out of the room, leaving me alone with the cereal bowls. If this is the way it’s going to go, it’s gonna be a long day.

SEVENTEEN

CHLOE

How I survived the last thirty-something hours with my sanity intact, I’ll never know. It took every ounce of strength I had to avoid Max for the remainder of the day and a half we were still at Suzie’s place. After we finished the videos, I went for a long run through the fields out back by myself, mostly so I could stop sweating with tension every time his stupid emerald green eyes met mine. And then, of course, as soon as I got back to the house, he was there again, handing me some kind of tuna salad sandwich he’d “just thrown together” with what he found in the kitchen. Let me tell you, I’ve eaten a lot of tuna salad sandwiches. None of them tasted that good. Or maybe it was the fact that he was there, just a few feet away from me, joking as ever, almost like he was trying to make me laugh on purpose, and he wasn’t at all the stupid, attention-seeking playboy that I thought he was. He’s looser here than at work, more relaxed. He makes not-always-appropriate jokes that damn near kill me, and he’s a killer chef, and he can’t keep his eyes off of me, and dear god, that makes me so damn hot all the fucking time. I begged off from dinner last night, even though he was cooking barbecue chicken that smelled amazing, pretending I had a headache, just because I knew that if we ate together again, the same thing would happen. Wine, followed by making out, followed by me losing any sanity and any resolve I still possess, and what would inevitably be a huge mistake would happen. “You can do this, Chloe,” I tell my reflection as I finish zipping up my suitcase. Suzie’s downstairs, already chatting with—and chatting up—Max. In another few minutes, we’ll leave here, drive back to San Fran, and return to our separate lives. Forget everything that happened between us here. If I can just make it back to my apartment, I’m sure this will all fade away like a crazy dream. We can go back to being ourselves at the office, and I can stop sweating bullets at the mere thought of his naked chest, his defined abs, his throbbing, pulsing cock, with his big, strong hand wrapped tightly around it. . . Sweet mercy. Last day. “You can do this,” I repeat, and then I grab my suitcase decisively and storm out

of the little blue bedroom. At the top of the steps, I linger for a moment, listening to Suzie’s gravelly voice below. “You disappoint me. Nothing untoward whatsoever?” My breath hitches in my throat. Will he tell her about the bathroom? Me walking in on him? Our kiss the next night? Just thinking about it still sends a shock of sparks low in my stomach. I haven’t felt like this when thinking about a kiss since . . . well, since I was a damn kid. And here I am, acting like a horny teenager again. Not to mention eavesdropping on my client and colleague. But I can’t help it. I don’t want to give my presence away yet. I want to know what he’ll tell her. “Absolutely nothing,” he answers, his voice low and serious. If I didn’t know any better, I’d actually believe him. “I apologize for the disappointment.” “You’d better!” Suzie sighs dramatically, and I can’t help it. A smile breaks across my face. This man. Winning me over one baby step at a time. That’s the fucking problem. I skip down the steps just as Suzie is saying, “Well, if she doesn’t want you, I guess I’ll just have to take one for the team and bite off a slice, huh?” There’s a loud striking sound, and judging by the half-amused, half-bereaved grimace on Max’s face when I walk into the living room, I’m pretty sure she just slapped his ass. “Hey,” I interrupt. “You ready to head out?” “Whenever you are,” he says, relief written hard across his face when he turns to face me. I stifle a grin and hoist my suitcase. “Let’s hit the road.” “Well, at least you managed to down some wine,” Suzie adds, still looking fauxgrumpy as she leans in to give me a swift hug. “Good job on that front.” I hug her back, and wink at Max over her shoulder, who’s raising an eyebrow at me like what does she mean? I wait until we’re outside in the car, pulling out of the driveway and waving goodbye to Suzie and her mushroom house before I spill. “I packed a couple of wine bottles from her store room,” I say. “So she’d think we drank them.” Max laughs at that, hard. “You know, you’re a lot more devious than I pegged you for, Miss Professional Lawyer Lady.” “What can I say? I’m resourceful when it comes to giving my clients what they want.” “Oh, I’ll bet you are,” he says, his voice low and suggestive. “You have no idea,” I respond before I think about what I’m doing. Our eyes meet as he takes the turn onto the highway hard. Then the engine’s gunning between us, and the wind off the road cuts through our conversation. He tears his gaze from mine, back to the road, and only then does my heart stop pounding double-time.

Unfortunately, the whole damn road trip goes like that. Fiery looks exchanged every time our banter strays a little too far into uncharted territory. At one point I reach for the radio just as he’s reaching for the gear shift, and our hands brush between the seats. We both jump nearly out of our seats, as though scalded, and I force my hand back into my lap. His hovers a couple inches above the gear shift for a second, as though he’d rather reach for me instead. When I glance over at him, he’s eying me from the corner of his eye, an unreadable, intense expression on his face. My chest tightens, and a curl of want unfurls deep in my core. Fuck. My hands itch with the urge to reach across the damn stick shift and touch him. Judging by the way his hand suddenly clamps around the gear shift so hard it seems like he’s hanging on for dear life, I’m pretty sure he’s having similar thoughts. By the time we pull into the city, my whole body feels like it’s on fire. I keep trying to kickstart my sanity, my brain, but it’s no good. My libido has taken over. He pulls up outside my apartment building and shuts off the engine. His eyes meet mine, full of heat. Those dark, deep green eyes are hungry—he’s staring at me as if he wants to tear my clothes off right here in this car, in full view of the whole damn street—and damn, do I want to let him. Yet his hand remains on the stick shift. Inches from mine, where I’m clutching the seat, though neither of us make a move to reach for one another. It’s like we’re frozen here in time, neither wanting to break the spell first. Neither of us want to leave, and yet neither of us want to admit what we clearly both want. Want? That’s not a strong enough word. What we need. “Chloe,” he says. “Max,” I respond, and I manage to keep my voice from quivering. Too much. “We’re here.” “Yes, we are.” Neither of us move, our eyes still fixated on one another’s. Well, truth be told, my eyes have wandered down his sculpted cheeks, over his full lips, which I can still remember sinking into mine last night, the gruff stubble on his cheek scratching my palm. I keep going, feeling brazen now. I take in the undone buttons at the top of his shirt, hinting at the top of his pecs. His abs don’t show beneath the shirt at this angle, sadly, but his chest rises and falls in rapid succession, and I can picture him in the bathroom again, half naked, his body on full, carnal display. My heart pounds so hard it’s a wonder my ribcage is still containing it. My muscles clench in anticipation. When I lift my gaze to his again, his lips quirk into a smile, before he lets himself do the same. Slowly, he confidently traces his eyes over my body, his gaze so searing I can feel it like a touch on my skin—trailing down my neck, over my chest, down to the flat plane of my stomach, my long legs beneath it. When I know

he’s looking, I lift one leg casually, sliding it against my other leg and crossing them, making sure to arch my eyebrow suggestively in the process. When I glance up at him again, his eyes have gone dark and feral. So much of me wants to give in. Just about all of me, really. And yet there’s still a tiny, irritating shred of sanity left. Right now, it’s fucking shouting at me. Chloe. Time to move. Get out of the car. But I don’t seem to be moving, no matter how much I tell myself I should. “I’ll help with your suitcase,” he says. We both know what that means. We both know if he steps into my apartment, he’s not leaving until tomorrow morning. I swallow hard. I don’t trust my voice. I nod. Shit. Guess I shouldn’t have trusted my head either. Too late. He’s already climbing out of the car, grabbing my suitcase from the backseat. I trail after him like a mute. Why am I so goddamn nervous? I punch in the door code, then stride up the steps, my body tingling the whole way up the stairs, as if I can physically feel his eyes following my ass with every step. Not gonna lie, I might swing my hips a little harder, knowing that. At the top of the steps, I fumble with my keys. Insert them into the door. Turn the lock. I take two steps into the apartment, then I turn around to tell him to set the suitcase anywhere. But he’s already inside, right behind me. Without a word, he drops it at my doorstep and kicks the door shut behind him. His expression, if possible, has grown even more intense. Like he’s fighting himself every inch of the way. I know that feeling. We watch one another for what feels like forever, but is probably only half a second. Because next thing I know, he’s crossing the room to me, in two swift steps. He catches my face in his hands, his strong fingers curled along my cheeks, pinning me in place as he bends down to kiss me. His mouth is hard, insistent, desperate. I kiss him back just as urgently, my arms twining around his neck. He keeps his hands on my face, his thumbs grazing the corners of my lips as I part them, and our tongues tangle together. I lose track of everything. Time and place. All I can feel are his hands as they trail down my neck, pausing for a second to feel my pulse, pounding hard against his palms. God, his hands are so fucking big and strong. He can do whatever he wants with me now, and he damn well knows it, and that is turning me the fuck on. He sucks my lower lip into his mouth, bites down just hard enough to make me gasp. Then he releases my mouth and trails his tongue along my neck instead, his hands sliding down my chest, tracing the outline of my breasts, not quite touching them yet, teasing, taunting. Letting me know he’ll take me when he wants me, and not a moment before. “When you walked in on me, do you know what I was thinking about?” he asks,

his mouth so close his breath feels hot on my ear. I swallow hard. “Me?” He laughs softly, a low, deep rumble that sends a flare of desire into my stomach. “Yes, you. Specifically, I was thinking about how I want to fuck you.” His hands have dropped to my waist now, pinning me against him. I arch my hips up to meet his, forcing the hard length of his cock against my stomach, and savoring the way I feel a twinge from my bellybutton straight down into my pussy. God, I’m already wet, and he’s barely touched me. “How do you want to fuck me?” I ask, as I keep rotating my hips, grinding my body against his. “I could tell you.” His hands reach my hips, and suddenly they’re gripping my hipbones, hard enough to hold me still, freezing me in place. Reminding me that he’s in control here. “Or I could show you.” My breath catches in my lungs for a second, trapped there with need. It takes me a second to free it again, to catch his eyes with mine and respond. “Show me,” I gasp. Next thing I know, he pushes me onto the couch. He lands on top of me, his hard body pressing mine down into the cushions. He pins my arms over my head, his hands wrapped around mine, then sliding down my wrists, my arms, until he’s pulling my shirt off between us. I lean up to bite his lip, quickly, before he tosses my shirt aside, and I reach down to pull at his too. But he grabs my hands again, pins them over my head once more. “Don’t make me tie you up, Chloe,” he admonishes, and I can’t help the defiant, hungry little grin that creeps onto my lips, then. “Who says I wouldn’t enjoy that?” I bat my eyes. His own grin widens, wild now. “Be careful what you wish for.” In one smooth motion, he jerks his shirt off over his head, then bends back over me to wrap it around my wrists. He knots it around my hands deftly, tightening the knot just enough so I can feel the pressure from it. Maybe if I pulled hard enough I could untangle myself . . . but if I’m honest, I don’t really want to. I love feeling trapped by him. Taken over. Giving up control, for once in my life. Plus, the view is as mouth-watering as I remember. Those cut abs, and fuck, that sharp V-line muscle that points straight to his beautiful dick like an arrow pointing home. But I don’t have time to stare for long. He’s already unclasping my bra and bending to trail kisses from my neck all the way down to my clavicle, then down, down, his tongue lapping at my skin. “I can’t wait to taste you, Chloe,” he murmurs between nipping and sucking lightly at my skin. Then he cups my breasts in both hands, firm yet gentle at the same time, his thumbs brushing over my nipples, which are already hard and aching for his mouth. I’m breathing hard by the time he pauses, his tongue right between my breasts,

and leans back again, his hands still wrapped around my breasts. He catches my eye, makes sure I’m watching before he rakes his eyes along my body, a long, slow, appreciative gaze that makes sure I know he’s loving everything he sees. “You are so fucking sexy,” he says, and his voice sounds nothing like usual. It’s deep, guttural. Feral. “I’m going to make you scream.” My tongue flashes across my lips. For once, I think I’m speechless. He stretches along me again, and I arc up against him as his lips close around my nipple, his teeth grazing my skin ever so lightly, just enough to send shivers rocketing through my body. “Fuck, Max,” I hiss through my teeth, and he has the audacity to laugh softly, the vibrations sending another wave of pleasure through my chest. I clench my hands around each other, desperate to touch him, and yet loving the fact that I can’t, that I’m helpless beneath him. His mouth glides down my stomach, pausing to flick his tongue into my navel and making me shiver again. His hands undo the clasp of my jeans in a second flat, and I lift my hips to let him wriggle them off my ass. He yanks them down to my knees, leaves them there, and slides back up to catch my thong in his teeth. Oh God. Sure enough, he manages to pull my thong halfway down my thighs with his teeth alone. I shiver as the cool air of my apartment hits my bare skin, I am dying for him . . . slowly. He starts to trail his tongue up my inner thigh, and goosebumps rise all along my arms. I let my head fall back against the couch, gasping as he turns his cheek, his stubble brushing my inner thigh and sparking a whole new crash of shockwaves throughout my body. He licks along the crease where my thigh meets hip, first one leg and then the other. I can actually feel my pussy clench, and my hips buck in desperation. He uses one hand to press my body flat against the couch again, and lifts his eyes to mine. God he’s hot like this. Powerful and dominant and I squirm against his hand, unable to stop my reaction. “Not so fast, Chloe.” He pauses to trail his tongue along my pelvic bone, not quite touching my clit, but reaching close enough to make a hundred nerve endings fire, and my body twitch in anticipation. “Naughty girls don’t get to come. Are you going to behave for me?” He lifts one eyebrow, still grinning. It takes me a second to catch my breath, before I stare down at him, as haughtily as I can given the fact that I’m tied up and splayed naked across my own couch. “That depends. What will misbehaving get me?” Without warning, he slaps the outside of my thigh with one hand, hard enough to make me yelp in surprise, though not hard enough to leave a mark. The sting that accompanies the slap is more pleasure than pain. “Misbehavior gets you spanked.” He leans in and traces his tongue over my lips, taking his time with each one. In one quick flash, his tongue delves into my pussy, then out again, my desire glistening on his chin as he smirks up at me again. “Behaving gets you a tonguelashing instead.”

I swallow again, my mouth suddenly dry, my pulse ramping up higher than ever. “That,” I reply, my voice a little breathless in a telltale way, “Is an impossible decision.” “I’ll make it easier.” His tongue trails over my clit this time, and the sudden sensation on my sensitive skin causes sparks down my spine. My head falls back against the couch as I moan loudly. Uncontrollably. He must take that for an answer. Next thing I know, he’s flattening his palms across my stomach, pressing me against the couch as he licks harder, faster, his tongue thrusting into me, then lashing over and over, circling my clit, then sucking me deep into his mouth. His hands join in, his fingers tracing my opening, until they’re drenched, and then he slides one finger into my tight pussy. His tongue runs along my clit now, gentler, slower, drawing out the nerve endings until it seems like I’ll catch fire from the sensation. I’ve lost all control of my vocal cords, gasping and moaning alternately, especially when he thrusts a second finger into me. “God, you’re so fucking tight, Chloe.” His eyes are heavy with need, when they meet mine. Their green in them suddenly seems darker, wilder. “I can’t wait to slide inside you.” His fingers fuck me slowly, building momentum, as he watches me writhe against the couch. “Fuck me, Max,” I groan, so damn close to losing it, and yet wanting him inside me right this second. He only grins in response. “Not yet. I promised to make you scream first.” Then he drops to lick my clit again, his tongue strong and white hot against me. My whole body arches as the pressure builds at the base of my spine, growing into a tight knot below my bellybutton. His fingers are relentless, pushing in and out of me faster, his fingers curling up to press my frontal wall as his tongue lashes my clit. I dig my nails into the shirt he’s tight around my hands, my hips moving of their own accord, bucking upward, even as he uses his free hand to push me back down again. All the while, his mouth doesn’t stop, his lips closing around my clit to suck on me lightly before his tongue resumes its hard licks. When the orgasm hits, I can't control the cry that escapes my lungs, or the spasms that shoot through my body. He keeps going, picking up the pace, licking hard and strong against me and my pussy clenches tight as a fist around his fingers as I come a second time, still calling out, my voice insensible. My vision swims as he leans back to grin up at me. He kisses me, right where I’m still throbbing, and I jump a little at the sensitive spikes of pleasure jolting through me. He keeps kissing me, back up my stomach, across my breasts, up my throat, his stubble scratching gently at my skin the whole way, until we're again face to face, and he claims my mouth once more. I taste myself on his lips, and it makes me shiver, the fire coiling in my belly

once more. His hands roam across my arms, my shoulders, my sides, my breasts. He grins down at me, his strong, powerful body still pressed against mine. Then he reaches up and undoes the knot in the T-shirt binding my hands. In response, I run both hands down his back, until my fingertips graze his ass. I clench, hard, around his firm cheeks, and pull his hips against mine. “Max please," I breathe into his ear, as he exhales hotly against my cheek. His tongue toys with my earring, coils around it, flicks along the lobe of my ear. "Patience, Chloe." His voice is a purr, a growl I can feel through my entire chest. He draws back a few inches to peer down at me, his one hand trailing up my chest to caress my neck, a move that sends a shiver of anticipation thrilling down my spine. "I plan to fuck you hard.” His teeth flash in a sharp, sensual grin. His finger pauses just beneath my ear, then trails along my jawline, before dropping to my neck, to trace my pulse again. “But I want to savor this first. I’ve dreamt of taking you for so long.” His fingertip traces up to my chin, and on impulse, I tilt my head to suck it into my mouth, running my tongue along the length of his digit, coiling my tongue around the base of his finger before I pull back to let him ease out of my mouth, slowly. Just before I let him go, I bite down, hard, my eyes on his, a grin on my lips. He grins back. "You’re impatient tonight, baby.” Without another word, he slides off of me. A faint cry of protest escapes my lungs, my body suddenly bereft of the heavy, comforting, hot sensation of his body holding me down. “What can I say?” I grin up at him. “Guess I’m misbehaving.” He lifts an eyebrow at that. Then in one smooth motion, he grabs my waist and flips me upright to bend me over the back of the couch, my ass sticking up in the air, both of us kneeling on the couch cushions. His firm hands on my back pin me in place, one hand dipping to part my legs and slap my ass once, hard. I yelp, jumping, though more from surprise. I turn to watch him over my shoulder, and when we make eye contact, he grins. His palm brushes the sensitive area he just slapped, both his skin and mine extra hot. I shiver. “You’ve been very naughty indeed, Miss MacIntyre.” Without warning, he slaps me again, and I gasp, but manage to control my body’s startled reflex this time. God, he’s driving me insane. “Luckily I know how to handle naughty girls like you.” He leans in so I can feel the heat of his breath along my cheek. “I know what you want.” He slaps my other cheek, and I arch my hips back toward him. “What do I want, then?” I smile at him, sly, as his hand caresses my ass lightly once more. “My cock in your hot little pussy.” He trails a finger up my slit, and I quiver. I’m positively soaked again, already. “Mm . . .” I peer up at him from beneath my lashes. “I plead the fifth.” “Wise choice.” He spanks my ass once more, harder, and I groan softly. “You would definitely incriminate yourself if you answered that.” While I’m still

watching him, he pushes his pants down past his hips, that huge, throbbing cock of his springing free, poised right behind me. He’s planned ahead, rolling a condom down his length. As I watch, I find myself needing to remember to breathe once again. “I dunno about definitely,” I tease him. “I only might incriminate myself.” He poises his cock at my entrance, slowly trailing the tip up and down the length of my slit, coating himself in my wetness. “Tell me again what you want, Chloe,” he demands, his eyes locked on mine, dark and sensuous in the low light of the apartment. Without hesitation, I open my mouth. “I want you to fuck me senseless.” He slams into me so suddenly I don't have time to brace myself. I slide forward into the couch, moaning as his huge, thick length dives into my wet heat. God, he's so fucking big. I feel so full, the tip of his cock pushing up against the end of my cervix, only barely fitting inside me. His hands grip my hips as he draws back again, slow and tantalizing, making me feel every inch of him, making me writhe against the couch with desire. “Take it,” he practically growls. Then he's thrusting back into me again, harder this time. I arch my back to thrust my hips in time with his, and grin at the guttural, growling sound that he makes when I do. "Fuck, Chloe." He pulls back, thrusts again, his cock stretching my pussy, filling me with every thrust, the tip of his cock pressing against my walls. We both moan softly. “You’re so sexy, you drive me fucking crazy.” He grabs my hips with both hands to steady himself, and starts to build up a rhythm, thrusting into me steadily, his hips working faster and faster, his cock slamming into me. “Oh God, just like that,” I groan as my body bounces against the couch, my hips struggling to keep time with his while I’m bent over in my prone position. I clench hard, squeezing him like a fist and revel in the shiver I feel run through his body. It’s contagious, I think, as a shudder of pleasure trickles along my spine as well. “Please, Max. Fuck me,” I manage to gasp, and he does. He reaches up with one hand to grab a fistful of my hair, pulling my head back, arching my neck, as he slides out of me and slams home again, my walls swelling as I stretch to take every inch of his thick cock. The rough fingers of his other hand dig into my hip as he keeps driving into me in a steadily building rhythm. My breath comes harder and faster as the tight coil in my stomach edges lower, and my muscles tighten further of their own accord. Every inch of my body screams for release. I ache for it, yet I want him to keep going; I don’t want this pleasure to end. I cling to the couch for balance as he continues to slam into me, over and over, every thrust driving me that much closer to the peak. I lose track of time, of anything but the sensation of the couch fabric beneath my fingers, my pounding heart, the thick, sweet and salty scent of his sweat and mine mingling, the sound of his desperate, guttural, feral growls as he fucks me. In that moment, my body is his

and his is mine. He angles his hips so that with his next thrust, his cock glides along my front wall, and I barely have time to gasp for breath before a shattering orgasm takes control. I spasm around him, and I’m so lost in the wash of white-hot pleasure that I barely hear myself scream. In a few more strong, steady thrusts, he comes, one hand clenching my hip so hard I know I’ll find marks in the morning, the other yanking hard on my hair. His groan is loud and desperate and so fucking hot that I feel another aftershock of orgasm run through me. My pussy clenches hard around him again, and I feel him twitch inside me as I milk every drop. Coming down from his orgasm, he leans forward against me, until we’re both dangling over the couch, his hot, sweaty, solid body pressed tight along my back, his cock still inside me. He runs his hands through my damp hair, his breath hot against the center of my back. He kisses me softly, up the vertebrae of my spine, all the way to the nape of my neck, to the spot where my hair begins. Then he kisses along the side of my neck until I turn my head and meet his lips with mine. He cups his hand along my cheek, stares into my eyes for a long, quiet moment, before he kisses me again, softer this time. “That was . . .” I start to say, before I realize I can’t find words for it. I can’t remember the last time I felt so desperate for release, or found someone who knew exactly what I needed at every moment in bed—or, well. On couch. “Fucking hot,” he replies. We both laugh, softly, and he catches my bottom lip between his, sucking gently. I pull back with a grin. “We should probably try and get cleaned up.” He sighs, like it’s the worst thing he’s ever heard, and sits up a little to pull out of me. The moment he does, I feel empty. My body throbs with the memory of his cock, and I know I’m going to be sore tomorrow, but in the best way. In the way that will remind me of him, with every ache I feel. “I suppose so,” he says as he pushes away from the couch, glancing down at me with another long, savory glance over my body. “But I’ve got to be honest—I’m not sure I can stay clean around you.” He flashes me a wink, and my cheeks flush as I grin up at him. I am so screwed, I think vaguely, somewhere in the depths of the still-sane part of my brain. And I don’t even care. In fact, I fucking love it.

EIGHTEEN

MAX

I cannot get enough of this woman. That’s the thought on my mind as I watch her beside me, her perfectly-shaped bare chest rising and falling with the easy motion of sleep. It’s past 2am, and we both need to be up and in the office early tomorrow. We have a meeting at 10 with some of the hardcore “rubbers,” and I want to get there at least half an hour beforehand to finish sorting through my notes from this weekend. I’d planned to do that when I got home tonight, but, well. . . I preferred the distracting turn my night took a whole lot more, let’s just say that. Chloe sighs in her sleep and stirs, curling up on her side. My arm is still draped around her waist—half the reason I’m awake is that my arm has fallen asleep, and the pins and needles are nagging at me. I don’t want to move my arm though. I want to keep touching her, the way I have been all night, half in disbelief still that this is happening, that we’re finally doing this. She’s been on my mind and at the fore of my imagination for weeks now, and yet, I never imagined anything quite this satisfying. As if something had been missing from my life all along, a hole I’d never noticed was there, until she came along and filled it. I feel more than into her. I feel in danger of getting addicted. But addictions aren’t all highs. Addictions come with some pretty awful lows, when you hit that inevitable comedown. So what happens when that hits us? What happens when this, inevitably, falls apart? Because a fire this intense . . . can it really burn that hot forever? Goddamn it, Chloe is as dirty between the sheets as she is proper in the courtroom. I’ll never admit it, but I can already tell that the woman knows exactly how to push every single one of my buttons. Over and over and over. From our first desperate, fast-paced hookup on the couch, we made it as far as her bathroom, presumably for a cold shower to cool down and get to sleep early, “since we have to work in the morning,” she kept reminding me between long, sensuous kisses, her naked body pressed against mine. Yeah, the shower didn’t help. Although I did enjoy soaping up her back, tracing

my hands over every inch of her skin, memorizing her, and then letting my hands trail down, lower, lower, encircling her hips, pulling her against me, and swirling my index finger around her clit again and again, until she was moaning and writhing against me, her perky ass rubbing against my hard cock the whole time. From the shower, we made it as far as her bedroom before she pushed me against the bedroom door and dropped to her knees on the soft carpet. I’ve had my fair share of sex in my life, and some damn good blow jobs too, but never one quite like Chloe’s. Who’d have thought her pert little mouth could swallow my whole cock? She does not have any kind of a gag reflex to speak of. And where that girl learned to use her hands, I will never know. She stirs beside me, again, and rolls over in my arms, until we’re face-to-face, her breath hot on my cheek. Her eyes are open. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “Did I wake you?” She sighs again and shakes her head. “I’ve been awake for a while. Even breathing didn’t do the trick like it normally does.” I frown down at her. There’s a worry line pinched between her delicate eyebrows, creasing the bridge of her small, pointed nose. I lean in to kiss those spots, one after another, to try and soothe them away. But when I draw back in bed, she’s still frowning, still pinched with worry. “What’s wrong?” I murmur, pulling her closer to me. My arm fires with pins and needles again, but she allows me to pull her in against my chest, her skin fiery warm against mine, huddled under her thick, downy comforter. I trace my fingers along her back in slow, gentle circles. “I can’t stop thinking about tomorrow. About going back to our regular lives.” Yeah, me too, I think. But I don’t open my mouth to reply, not yet. Because as much as I might be worrying the same thing right now, I’m even more worried at the thought of losing her already. I’m not ready to let Chloe MacIntyre go. She turns her head away from me, breaking eye contact, as though she can’t stand looking at me while she admits any of this. She stares over my shoulder, across the empty room, but I feel the vibration of her voice in my chest, where her breasts press against my pecs. “This,” she says, tilting her head toward me. “It’s going to complicate everything.” “It might,” I admit. I smooth her hair back from her forehead with one hand, gently. “Or it might not. We can’t know that yet.” “How could it not? I mean. . .” I can feel the bob of her throat against my skin when she swallows. “Look, I know this was probably just another one night stand for you—” “Stop right there, Chlo.” I tighten my arm around her, just enough to draw her back from my chest, until she looks up at me. When she does, I lift my hand to trace her cheek, her jawline, keeping my eyes locked on hers. “You are not the kind of woman I would let get away after only one night.” I tweak her chin gently. “I expect

plenty more sex where that last session came from, hear me?” I expect that to at least relax her a little bit, or at least to win me a laugh, but her shoulders are still tensed up around her ears, and there’s still a faraway, nervous look in her eye. “You say that now. . .” she whispers. “I’ll say that anytime you ask me,” I interrupt. “Contrary to popular belief, you know, I’m not the office manwhore you seem to think I am.” Her lips quirk into an almost smile, though she doesn’t respond. She doesn’t need to. I already know what she thinks of me, that’s the problem. “Chloe, I haven’t done this with anyone else from our office before.” She lifts an eyebrow now, straight-up skeptical. “What, not even Hannah?” I have to laugh. Hannah is a secretary for an entirely different wing of the floor. I’m pretty sure the only reason Chloe even knows the girl’s name is because Hannah does, I’ll admit, make it a pretty obvious point to follow me around the floor on a regular basis. And, yes, I flirt with her. I mean, who wouldn’t? But that’s just a distraction. That’s not really what I’m looking for—someone who’s only drawn to my looks and bank account. “Not even Hannah,” I tell her, straight-faced. “I know what the gossip-mongers like to say, but honestly, she’s not my type.” She looks even more doubtful, if possible. “And I am?” My hand still lingers on her cheek, but now I let it graze down her neck to trace her collarbone. My eyes trail after it, making sure she sees me take in her body, every beautiful, glorious inch of her. “Oh, you are exactly my type.” I glance back up at her, half-grinning now. “I don’t just mean physically, either. You’re smart, you’re funny—” She rolls her eyes and rolls off of my chest with a groan. “I wasn’t asking for a pity pep talk, okay.” “I’m serious! Chlo, I’m not sure you realize how unique you are.” She shrugs one shoulder limply. “Sure I do. I just don’t think anyone else really . . . notices.” “Well I did. I do notice. Every day.” She finally looks at me, really looks at me, again, and while there’s still a little frown of worry lurking between her eyes, the worst of it seems to have smoothed away. “Look, whatever’s going to happen in the future, I already know I won’t regret you. I won’t regret tonight. Will you?” She shakes her head, slow and smooth, but in an immediate, instinctive response. “Good.” I run my fingers through her hair again, tangling them a little in her long blonde curls. “So let’s just savor the moment tonight, and whatever comes our way tomorrow, whatever the fallout for us both is at work or wherever . . . we’ll face it together. Okay?” I offer her my hand to shake, like we’re making a deal. And maybe we are. After all, neither of us can predict the future. We can’t tell if this whole thing will go down in flames in a few days or weeks or in a month’s time when this case finishes.

But we can agree to be mature about it, and more importantly, to enjoy the moment right now. Constant worrying about the future will only make the future hit you all the harder and faster. She curls her fingers around mine, but instead of shaking my hand, she pulls it to her mouth and kisses her way along my fingertips. A coil of heat unfurls in my stomach at the sensation, and my cock twitches at the memory of those soft, smooth lips wrapped around my shaft instead. “Okay,” she agrees, her breath a whisper on my fingers. “We figure it out together. Just like this case.” I slide my hand from hers in order to cup her head, tilt her face up to mine. Our eyes lock for a long, quiet moment. “Just like this case,” I reply. Then I kiss her, slow and soft, and she melts against me, that soft body folding into mine once more, even as my cock hardens in response. Fuck, she feels good. More than good, she feels right. Like this is where I’ve wanted to be all along, only I never knew it existed. Before I realize what I’m doing, I have both hands around her waist, and I’m pulling her on top of me, straddling me, our lips still working at each other’s, our mouths desperate and our kisses gaining urgency with every flick of our tongues. She reaches down between us to caress my cock, slides her fingers along my length. I grope for the condom in my jeans pocket, which I left on the nightstand— shit, I’ll need to buy more tomorrow, I’m down to my last one. To be honest I’ve never needed this many in a single night before. Chloe squeezes her thighs around my hips in anticipation. Yeah. We’ll figure this out. But in the meantime, we’re going to fucking savor the moment.

When I wake up the next morning, Chloe’s already showered and dressed. Actually, it’s the sound of her heels clacking in the kitchen that wake me. For a moment I stare in confusion at the unfamiliar ceiling, a smooth ceiling with recessed lighting and a skylight, not a cracked, bumpy ceiling with an ugly and admittedly kind of dusty ceiling fan like mine. I roll over to pat the sheets beside me. Cold. Then I push myself upright with a groan and squint at the clock. 7:52am. We don’t need to be in the office until 9 at the earliest, and it’s less than a fifteen-minute drive away. I fling the covers back and lever myself out of the bed. The carpet tingles against my bare feet. I pad across it, then shiver as I reach the hallway toward the dining room and kitchen area, which is a hardwood floor, cold on my soles. The whole apartment is pretty chilly, in fact, given that I sleep in the buff. I step into the kitchen, still naked, and Chloe, bent over the fridge, startles upright when I clear my throat. She also turns bright red when she glances over at

me, and her eyes lock onto my cock as if she’s never seen it before. “Hey,” I greet her, frowning a little. “Everything okay?” “Why wouldn’t it be?” She recovers from her apparent surprise, straightening and slamming the fridge door shut. In her hands, she grips a cup of yogurt and a single apple. I expect her to sit down at the dining room table to eat, but instead she shoves them both into her purse, already waiting on the kitchen counter. “Did something crop up? New meeting?” I reach up to the cabinet to grab a glass for water, and her eyes do the trailing over me again thing, her cheeks not going fully red-hot this time, but still pretty pink as she checks me out yet again. Not gonna lie, I could get used to the constant appreciative stares from her. It’s fair play, I figure, since I spent all night last night gazing at her in pretty much the same way. Hell, even in that tight little work pencil skirt and her fitted blazer, she’s still smoking hot. You can just make out the curve of her ass in the skirt, though to be honest, her ass looks much better naked, especially sticking up in front of me while she’s bent over a couch. . . “No, I just. . .” She licks her lips, tears her gaze from my cock, looking me in the eye. I can’t help the little smirk that rises on my face at that point. Of course she can’t keep her eyes off of me, even now that she’s playing coy. But then she frowns. “I thought it might be a good idea to stagger our arrival times, y’know? If we both suddenly show up at the same time, riding the same Bart train, that would arouse suspicion, don’t you think?” Worrying already. But of course, that’s just like her. “Chloe, we’re fine. We take public transit. It’s perfectly normal to get there at the same time.” “Well still. I’d just feel safer if . . . you understand, right?” She crosses the kitchen toward me, unable to resist any longer, which is good, because neither can I. I wrap my arms around her waist, while she flings hers around my neck. In her sky high heels, she’s tall enough that our lips are just inches apart—no need to bend down. I take advantage and kiss her, long and slow. I savor the sensation of her relaxing in my arms, leaning against me, one of her legs sliding between mine. I drop one hand to grip her ass through that tight little skirt, and she moans softly into the kiss, her body tense with desire. “Stay a while,” I murmur, before I trail my lips down her neck, nipping and sucking lightly my way down, not hard enough to leave a mark. Just enough to make her shiver against me. “Max,” she breathes, hungry. I spin around to press her against the kitchen counter and inch my hand up her skirt. But then she groans, louder this time, and twists away from me. “I can’t. Not right now.” She leans up to kiss me once more, hard and fast on the lips like an apology. “Tonight?” she asks, her eyes boring into mine. “You free after work?” “For you?” I grin and slap her ass playfully, unable to resist. She squeals and jumps a little, which is somehow adorable and sexy at the same

time. Then she swats my chest. “No, for some boring client dinner. Yes for me.” She sticks her tongue out. I lean in to lick her tongue. “Hell yes I’m free.” She grins, then, too. “Good.” “But we’re going to my place this time,” I tell her, kissing her one more time before she turns toward the door. “I’m running out of work clothes.” She smirks. “What, don’t want to show up in your birthday suit?” Her eyes roam down my body again, and I grin back at her. “Somehow I don’t think my boss would approve. Though, Hannah might,” I tilt my head, fake-thoughtful. She winces. Shit. “Sorry about . . . just ignore whatever I said last night,” she mumbles quickly. “Sometimes I get insecure or whatever. It’s stupid. See you in there,” she adds before I can respond, and the next thing I know, she’s already out the door. Dammit, Chloe. Also dammit Davis. Way to mention the girl who’s been stalking you around the office right after Chloe mentioned she was insecure about it. Brilliant. I shrug and yank open the fridge. Guess if we’re staggering our arrival times, I might as well enjoy breakfast first.

NINETEEN

CHLOE

I don’t see Max again until the hallway on my way to the restroom a few minutes before our meeting with the rubbers. I want to pull him aside, apologize for being so weird this morning, but at the same time, I worry that might be even weirder to do. Besides, my fears are totally justified. We have a non-fraternization clause in our contracts at work. Sure, some people seem to ignore it and are fine, but I don’t like to play with fire. Especially not when I’m on a partner track— and Max seems equally serious about his job too. I’m not sure I believe him when he says he didn’t hook up with anyone at our office ever—I mean, he didn’t seem like he was lying about Hannah, but really, no one ever in all the time he’s been here? Is he not the office playboy I believed him to be? And if I am his first office fling, why did he seem so cavalier about it this morning? He knows that rumors about him run rampant through this office. He knows that if we start showing up here together, everyone will be gossiping about us in less time than it takes Martha to brew her first cup of coffee in the morning. So why doesn’t he care more about hiding things? Unless he really doesn’t care about this. Unless he’s lying about me being his first dip into the company ink. Maybe he doesn’t care what people say about him. Maybe he enjoys the rumors after all. But it’s one thing for guys to be called sluts, and quite another for girls in the workforce, like it or not. I groan and shuffle through my paperwork, using it as a distraction to avoid meeting his gaze. For his part, Max slows down as he passes me in the hall, one of the guys I see him talking to from time-to-time on his other side, gabbing away about some girl he picked up at a bar the night before. Max doesn’t say anything, yet I can feel his eyes burning through me as we pass each other. Ships passing in the night, I think, and then immediately hope that’s not a mental prediction of things to come. Last night wasn’t just a one-time thing, was it? He said it wasn’t. I don’t want it to be. But what if all the pressure of the work situation turns out to be too much? What if it kills whatever has started to kindle between us before it has a chance to

become anything at all? Calm down, Chloe, I snap at myself. Christ. I haven’t been this nervous and insecure since my first case in court. I’m even starting to drive myself a little crazy. I step into the room I’ve reserved for our meeting with Suzie’s “rubbers” and take my seat at the front of the room. I saved Max a chair beside me, so we can both lead the meeting together. But since I’m here first, I prop open my laptop and pull up a fresh word doc to start taking down some preliminary notes. I have an agenda outlined, but I add some comments, more questions I thought of, things to bring up. Max sidles into the office a couple minutes later, and the moment the door swings shut behind him, we both open our mouths at once. “Chloe—” “I brought—” We both pause, laugh a little, and then he nods at me. “You go ahead,” he says, grinning. I could stare at his grin all day long. Dimples that sexy should be fucking illegal, dammit. They are hazards to society. “I brought the notes we compiled,” I say. “And I asked Martha to show Suzie’s, er, witnesses up to this room when they get here.” “Chlo, I just wanted to say before we start the meeting, about this morning—” The office door opens behind him, and a trio of women in velour tracksuits with various company logos scrawled across the chests and down the legs stride into the room, followed by Martha, who waves at me before she closes the door behind the women. “Thank you for joining us,” I say, rising, but they’ve already locked eyes on Max. “Well hello, handsome,” the lead woman, whose tracksuit is neon pink and decked out in fruit labels, purrs. She takes the hand he offers and shakes it for at least five seconds longer than strictly necessary, grinning up at him the whole time. “I’m Lena.” “Mary,” says the woman behind her in a bright yellow tracksuit. She practically elbows Lena out of the way to grab Max’s hand next, and she shakes with both hands wrapped around his, one inching farther up his wrist. “My what a firm grip you have,” she adds with a wink. Max manages to extricate his hand with a polite smile, only to have the third woman grab it. “Jess,” she says. “I’m absolutely charmed.” She, at least, lets him go with relative ease, and he makes his way around the table to my side with a brief, visible flash of relief in his eyes when they meet mine. “Thank you all for coming,” he says. “Please, have a seat,” I add, waving at the chairs, though the women have already started to help themselves. Lena kicks one pink track-suited leg up over the side of her chair and reclines in it sideways, while Jess remains standing at the end of the table, as to better display her purple tracksuit, or the toned, though much older, body beneath it.

“I prefer to stand,” she says, as if in response to a question. Then she pops a sudden squat, leaning against the table. “Helps me keep my muscles active the whole day.” “You know, sitting and practicing your Kegels would help just as well,” Mary points out, which launches a brief debate over what exercise is the most important for one’s pelvic floor. “As enlightening as this is, we should probably discuss Suzie’s slogans,” I say, but my voice is lost in the din of bickering. I cast an exasperated sideways glance at Max. “Ladies,” he says, leaning forward in his chair in what I can only assume is a calculated move, because with the way he crosses his arms and leans his weight onto the front of his chair, bracing himself against the table, his biceps suddenly bulge, visible even beneath his white button down work shirt. Unsurprisingly, the room falls quiet as all three women turn to gaze at him. “We brought you in today to talk about your work with Suzie Steel,” he begins. “As you probably know already, there’s a company using her slogans and likeness in their advertising campaigns at the moment—” “Oh, that commercial made me sick, absolutely sick,” Lena interrupts. “I couldn’t eat for a week when I saw it,” Jess agrees. “Suzie has been telling me to rub it in since 1993! How dare these people steal her brand like that?” “Well that’s just what we’d like to put a stop to,” I say. The three of them blink at me as if they’ve only just noticed I’m in the room. Which, to be honest, is totally possible. “We’ll need you to tell us exactly when you remember Suzie first using those phrases.” “That’s easy,” Mary says, still staring at Max, as if he were the one who asked the question. “She first advised me to start rubbing it in in the summer of 1996. I remember, because I landed the audition to be on tape with her the same day that I came home and found out my bastard husband was sleeping with our neighbor.” “I’m so sorry to hear that,” Max replies, after an awkward pause. Mary winks. “That’s okay. Freed me up for plenty more enjoyable pursuits.” Ugh. She’s old enough to be his mother for Christ’s sake. “That’s great detail, thank you,” I tell her. “I wasn’t finished,” she snaps with a sideways glare at me. “By the way, can I get a coffee or something? I mean, we came a long way to be here,” she adds as the other women bob their heads in agreement. I freeze in my seat, dumbfounded. I mean, I’m used to getting this kind of treatment from time-to-time, but normally only from Paul’s external colleagues, the old ones who grumble about how times were better when women understood how to dress sexy and pour a decent cuppa. Luckily, Max steps in before I wind up giving Mary a little too many pieces of my mind. “Actually,” he says, “If you three would like some coffee or tea, I can grab you some. Chloe is actually the real lead on this case.” His eyes flash to mine. “She’s the one doing the majority of the grunt-work, too,” he adds, in a lower

voice, almost like he’s talking to me specifically. My cheeks flush. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I reply before I can stop myself. “I’ll buzz for an intern.” Before either of the women can say another word, I lift my phone and dial Rich’s extension. “Hey,” I say into the phone, my back half-turned on the room. “Can you have one of Paul’s interns bring three black coffees to room 512?” Behind me, the table drifts back into flirtatious chatter, and I hear Lena emit a high-pitched giggle. But when I replace the phone in its cradle and turn around, everyone folds their hands on the tabletop, all business once more. “1993 was the first time I heard Suzie use the slogan, too,” Lena says. “Actually, Jess and I were friends with Suzie before she started making her videos. She used to say that when we were just working out at the gym or wherever, as a joke. But it was weirdly motivating, all her little Suzie-isms, as we used to call them.” Lena laughs. “When she first got the idea to make a workout video of it, we thought it was nuts. I mean fun nuts, but who would want to watch the three of us work out? But we agreed to help her start it, and pretty soon she had to hire some more professional backup workout people.” Lena grins. “No hard feelings, though. It really worked out great for her. And we’re still her biggest fans.” My fingers fly across the keyboard as I take down notes frantically. Max glances between me and the laptop, then back to the women. “That’s really great detail, like Chloe said,” he replies. “If you can give us specific time frames and locations as well, that’ll be even better.” “And anyone else we might be able to talk to as well,” I add. “Any other, ah . . . fans.” “Rubbers,” Lena replies with a wink. I force myself not to laugh. “Right. Any other rubbers who you think would be willing to testify to Suzie’s slogans and the other aspects of her branding—her voice, her style, all of that. It would be really helpful.” “Whatever we can do to help,” Mary replies, still looking a little bit sheepish ever since Max snapped at her. I can’t help but feel slightly pleased by that. “We just want what’s best for Suzie.” “And to get these people to stop playing off the brand she’s worked so hard to build.” Jess leans forward, her gaze intense. “It’s not right, when people can just take something that took you so much time and effort to put together, and then profit from it themselves. That is wrong.” “Very wrong.” I press my palms flat against the table. “But don’t worry.” I cast Max a sideways smile, feeling more confident than ever. Not just about the case, but about us, this whole messy thing. Because so far today, it hasn’t been messy at all. It’s been surprisingly simple. “We’re going to solve it,” I say, and for a moment, I’m not sure whether I’m talking about our case or me and him. “Whatever it takes. We’ll make it work.”

Four hours later, I’m no longer feeling as confident as I was in our meeting this morning. I’ve spent the better part of the afternoon engulfed in notes and legwork, putting everything we gathered this week from Suzie’s place in order, along with the notes from our meeting this morning and any additional ideas that have cropped up as potential leads we should follow-up on since then. But every time I try to focus, nagging doubts keep clawing at me. I picture Max’s face as he stared at me in the meeting room, his expression last night as he poised above me in the dark, his mouth open, face twisted in ecstasy. I can’t stop picturing that every time I see him, every time we walk past each other in the hallway, on the way to the bathroom or the water cooler, or even worse, toward the end of our meeting this morning, when I kept zoning out and imagining a lot more enjoyable uses we could put that meeting room to beyond talking to Suzie’s fan club. Is he thinking about me this often? Is he feeling the same things I am, like this could potentially be more than just sex? He’s so fucking hard to read, and it doesn’t help that we can barely speak with candor in the office. Not to mention, he’s already told me once before that he thinks I focus too much on career. He might have a point, but are we compatible in that regard? I know he takes his work seriously, and yet, he disappears at such random hours during the day sometimes, like when he canceled that meeting last minute. Ugh. If I thought I had a hard time focusing while working with him before, then between the constant sexy fantasies and the nagging sensation that something about this whole situation is going to crash and burn, it just got about 100 times harder. I push away from my desk and stand. I need a walk, to clear my head. I grab my coffee mug, even though having a cup this late in the day will almost certainly keep me awake well past my bedtime. Then I remember where I’ll be spending tonight, and I realize that caffeine will be the least of my problems when it comes to getting no sleep. My heart beats faster at the thought. There’s almost a freaking skip in my step, as I hurry down the hallway toward the kitchenette where we keep our crappy offbrand coffee machine. It’s fucking terrifying, how quickly he’s gotten under my skin. How little time it took for him to go from a constant annoyance in my mind to the only person I want to spend time with. Why am I so anxious to see him again? Why am I already craving a repeat of last night so desperately, when normally a single night of sex could sate me for a week or two? Of course, I’ve never been fucked like that before. At the doorway into the kitchenette, I pause. Speak of—or think of—the devil. Max is already inside, a fresh cup of coffee steaming in his hand. And with him, her hand on his arm, beaming up at him, is his constant hip-attachment. Fucking Hannah, again. I resist the urge to scream as she bats her eyelashes at him. “Pretty good,” he’s in the middle of saying, his eyes on hers, his tone light and friendly. “How about yours?”

“Oh, you know. Dull as ever. Though I can think of a few ways I’d like to liven things up in the evenings.” Her grin widens. Is it my imagination, or is Max flushed? He’s definitely not pulling his arm away from her. Or discouraging that comment. I can’t take it anymore. Much as I want to see how he’ll react to her on his own, I also want to lay claim to him. A sudden possessive streak takes over my common sense. “Hey, you two,” I say loudly, striding into the kitchen. I walk right up to Max and settle beside him, half an inch away, awkwardly close to Hannah, too. “Chloe.” Max nods at me, a tiny grin on his mouth, and just the sight of that small, private smile, made for me, fresh air seems to swell in my lungs. How is it that whenever he’s away, I can only think about the dangers and the downsides to this . . . whatever it is we’re doing. And yet the moment I step into the room with him, all that anxiety melts away in the heat of the sensations that sweep through my body. “Hannah,” I add, and smile directly at her. Her eyes widen like she’s surprised I know her name. She doesn’t remove her hand from Max’s arm. “Uh, hi.” She shrugs one of her shoulders, just slightly, as if in greeting, and then turns back to her prey. I watch her hand contract, the fabric of his suit coat wrinkling as she squeezes his arm. “Anyway. So you were saying, your weekend plans?” There’s a hopeful note in her voice that makes my stomach curdle and churn. His eyes dart to mine, though whether he’s trying to reassure me that he’d never agree to go out with her, or whether he’s just upset that I’m here to witness this, I’m not sure. Either way, it’s torture to listen to her, to watch her right now, trying to muscle in on him, and know that if I interrupt and fight for him, the whole office will catch on to what we’re doing. “I’ve got plans this weekend, actually,” he’s saying. I take that as my opportunity to sidestep around them and fill my mug as fast as possible. Unfortunately, I’m not fast enough to miss her peppering him with more questions. “What about the weekend after this one?” “Oh, uh. . .” “Or just let me know when you are free, how about that?” I steal a glance back at them, and Hannah’s still beaming up at him, oblivious. Meanwhile, Max has gone blank-faced and unreadable. “I’ll have to check my schedule,” he says, as he gently disengages his arm. “But speaking of schedules, I’ve got a meeting at the moment.” A polite, gentle let-down? Or was that him letting her know he might be open to her invitation farther down the line? Down, girl, I order myself. Time to exit strategically, stage right. “See you guys,” I say as I step out of the kitchenette. “Wait up,” Max says, but Hannah’s saying something else, pulling him back into the conversation.

God fucking dammit. I knew this would be a problem, the both of us together at work. I just didn’t expect it to hit me so hard, so fast. I walk back to my office as fast as my heels and the scalding hot, nearly full cup of coffee I’m balancing will allow. Once inside, I shut the door and collapse at my desk. Even though the coffee is way too hot, I take a deep swallow anyway. The scalding burn on my tongue and in the back of my throat almost calms me down. Almost. Is this what every day is going to be like? Constant freak-outs and jealousy and distraction? But despite what he keeps telling me, he’s not exactly putting Hannah off. If anything, he’s playing his part to a T. He’s fine with letting the office believe he’s the manwhore everyone claims, and even if it’s all a lie, doesn’t he understand that it’s torturing me to see it? Unless he enjoys this. Enjoys making me jealous. Enjoys making me want him this desperately. I can’t play that game. I’m dancing too close to the fire already, and I will not let it burn me. There’s a soft knock at my door, and I swallow hard, force my face neutral and my shoulders back, assuming business mode. “Come in,” I call, and my voice is almost even-keeled. How much longer can I keep this up?

TWENTY

MAX

I step into Chloe’s office, and despite the reason I’m here, I can’t help but smile at the sight of her. She looks every inch as sexy as she did this morning. If anything, the way her blouse has rumpled slightly around the edges, her hair escaping the tight bun she pulled it into, makes her look even more attractive. Like she’s starting to relax as the day goes on. I want to pull the remaining hair out of that prissy little bun, lift that prim skirt up high over her pert ass and bend her over that desk. I want to watch her really let go, to surrender control as I thrust into her, claiming every inch of her body as my own. Not why you’re here, Davis. “Are you okay?” I ask her, my voice pitched low, while I’m closing the door. “What are you talking about?” She cocks her head at me, dismissive, then shrugs her shoulders and spins her chair away from me. “I’m fine.” “You just ran away from me in the kitchen,” I point out. “You seemed busy,” she said, and I can’t miss the note of annoyance in her voice. I tamp down a tiny bud of frustration. “I told you, Chloe, no one else in this office means anything to me. They’re my coworkers, that’s all.” How can she not see that? How can she think that Hannah, that anyone else here, could be any kind of competition for her in my eyes? To my surprise, though, when Chloe turns back to face me, she’s frowning down at herself, not meeting my eye. “I know . . . that’s not the problem.” She runs both hands through her hair, which disrupts her bun even more, sending frizzies of curls in all directions. She doesn’t even seem to notice. “I’m not jealous, not really, I know that was nothing. It’s . . . it’s not you.” “That sounds like a trite breakup line,” I joke with a half-laugh. She doesn’t answer, and I cross the room to perch against her desk, reaching for her hands. “Hey. Chlo. Come on, look at me.” When she does, her eyes are faraway, glassy. She’s not crying, but she looks more confused and upset than I’ve ever seen her. She’s always the poised one, the together one. I’m not quite sure how to handle the insecure side of her. It makes my heart ache just to look at her face.

“I just don’t know if I can do this,” she murmurs. “I can’t act normal around you here. I can’t pretend nothing is going on, but we have to, because— because it’s unprofessional, everyone would talk about us, I’d become another rumor on your rumor mill, and I know you said they’re not true, but people would talk anyway, and we have to think about our careers, and there’s the non-fraternization clause in the HR contract we signed and—” “Hey, hey, hey, slow down.” I kneel beside her chair, keeping both her hands in mine. “Breathe. It’ll be okay, Chloe. We’ll both get used to this; it’ll just take a little bit of time, that’s all. Besides, people break that non-fraternization thing all the time. We all know it’s kind of a joke anyway.” “But will our bosses think that?” She finally meets my eye, and her hands clench around mine. “I’ve put everything into this job, into this firm. I’ve worked my ass off for years to get to where I am, and I know you have too.” I clench my hands around hers, because I don’t really have a response to that. It’s true. I know we’ve both worked hard to get here. On the upward mobility track, under consideration for partner. We haven’t talked about it, but I’m sure Paul has been grooming her the same way that Anthony has been prepping me to take over his role when he eventually retires. “Don’t you think we need to think about that?” she whispers. But her eyes are pleading with me. Begging me to disagree with her, to wipe away that fear. I can’t argue, not exactly. It’s a consideration, and a big one. But something about this, about me and her, feels too right to ignore. Too right to dismiss without at least giving it a proper try. I cup her chin in one hand and tilt her head until we’re staring at one another, on level ground, me kneeling beside her chair. “I think we need to think about living, too, Chloe. Life can’t be all about work all the time. We need more from it.” Her lips quiver. “But what if—” I cut her off with a slow, deep kiss. Like it’s the answer she’s been waiting for, she slides off her chair to kneel in front of me, and I fold both arms around her waist, crushing her body to mine. When we pause for breath, I run one hand up her back to tangle in her hair. “No more what ifs,” I murmur. “But—” she starts. I kiss her again, longer this time. When we break apart, she’s smiling a little, if faintly. “What did I say?” I whisper, grinning myself now. “You’re incorrigible,” she replies, her voice a low murmur as well. “It’s the best way to be.” To emphasize my point, I catch her earring between my teeth and run my tongue along her earlobe, enjoying the way she shivers at my touch. “Fine,” she sighs, dramatically, as if conceding to a great burden. Though she’s grinning even wider now. “We’ll try it your way. I will attempt to be less insecure and more normal about this. Could you maybe try not to be so damn hot, though?” “No promises there. But I will attempt to be clearer about dissuading the ladies. That will be difficult, considering, as you mentioned, how damn hot I am. . .”

She rolls her eyes and punches my arm. “Keep up the cockiness. That’s helping deflate my attraction, definitely.” “Hey, you saw the proof with your own eyes! I can’t help it if the ladies love to look.” I wink and flex a bicep. She pinches my bicep with an appreciative smile. “I guess I can’t blame them either, to be honest. I’d stare too.” “See, I knew you’d come around.” “You are good at making me come.” She smirks at me, and I trace a finger down her neck, along her collarbone. I’m rewarded with another shiver. “Tonight,” I say, “We’ll go out. A real date. Regular date. Something normal. You’ll see. We can be just like any other couple.” My finger keeps trailing along her body, tracing the outline of her bra now, then dipping lower. “I doubt any other couple gets quite this hot and heavy during the workday,” she murmurs, though she leans closer to me, and tightens her arms around my neck. Given that encouragement, I lean forward slightly, tilting her back until we’re lying on the carpet behind her desk. My finger has reached her hip, her thigh, her knee. I slip my hand beneath that tight, prim pencil skirt and trace my fingers along her inner thigh, higher, higher. She gasps and arches her body up against me, and I drink in the sight of her lying prone on her office floor. Prim and proper Chloe MacIntyre is the hottest goddamn creature on the planet when she lets go. I reach her panties—or should I say thong—and a tiny little one at that. When I inch my finger along the length of it, I can feel that they’re already damp. “Someone’s been a naughty girl today,” I murmur. “Someone makes me wet just thinking about him,” she replies, those hazel eyes locking onto mine. “He sounds like a lucky man.” I ease my finger under the edge of her thong, trace it along her pussy, first one side and then the other, circling my destination, drawing out her torture. God, I love watching her squirm. “He definitely will be tonight,” she says, grinning. That’s when someone knocks at the door. We spring apart, Chloe scrambling to her feet, straightening her skirt as she goes. I dive for the chair on the opposite side of her desk, the one for visitors, and grab the nearest case file from a stack on her desk to flip open. I bend over it, pretending to be absorbed in the paperwork, as she strides across the office to open the door. “Paul!” she says, and I hope like hell he can’t hear the slight note of panic in her voice. “Great to see you, hope you’re feeling a bit better.” “Fine, fine as ever,” he says, in a doleful tone that sound about as convincing as when Chloe told me she was fine. “You two hard at work on the Suzie case still, I see?” he comments, and I turn toward the door to wave at him. “Good to see you, Paul,” I say.

“Max.” He nods at me. “Chloe, I need to ask you a favor, I’m afraid.” I turn back to the paperwork that I’m pretending to be absorbed in. Only at that moment do I realize that the case file I’m holding is upside-down. Real convincing, Davis. “It’s about the case you passed along to Rich, the Daniels’ case? He has a few questions we’ve been trying to sort out, that I thought you might be able to help with. I’m afraid it’s a bit urgent, if it’s all right to pull you away from your partner here for a moment?” We both glance at each other, and her cheeks have gone bright red again. Shit. It takes me a couple seconds to realize that he means case partner, not partner partner, and I chuckle quietly to myself. “Of course, no problem,” I say, speaking a little too quickly to try and cover up our awkward pause. “Steal her away. I’ve got enough here to keep busy.” I hoist the case file, and pray he doesn’t notice that the numbers printed on the cover are facing toward the ceiling. “Wonderful. Shall we?” Paul gestures down the hall, and with one last desperate, wide-eyed backward glance at me, Chloe trails after him, the door to her office slamming shut on their way. I breathe a sigh of relief as I drop the case file back on her desk. That was a close call. Too close for comfort. For the first time since yesterday afternoon when I finally swept Chloe into my arms, I start to wonder if maybe she’s right. If maybe there are too many complications here. But no. I haven’t felt this much promise at the very start of something in . . . well, ever. And I meant what I told her. Our careers are important, to both of us, I know that. But they’re not everything. We need a life outside of work too. Tonight, I’m going to prove to her exactly how great that can be.

TWENTY-ONE

CHLOE

I have butterflies. Yes, I know that’s so fucking cliché. I haven’t had them since I was sixteen and going to my first prom. But I’ve got a bad case now, and no amount of checking and re-checking myself in the mirror is helping. I went with a simple outfit—slip dress, clingy but not too tight—revealing, but not too, paired with drop earrings and a simple pendant necklace. And, of course, my usual heels, though a slightly more glittery pair for tonight than I’d wear to the office. Now, five minutes before Max is due to pick me up outside, I’m worrying I went too simple. He didn’t exactly tell me what the plan is tonight, after all. What if he picked somewhere fancy? What if I should be wearing a longer dress, or something more flowy? Or what if it’s not fancy at all, what if I should’ve just gone with dressy jeans and a cute top? Oh god. I reach for my bedroom door, debating a change, when the door buzzer sounds. Too late. “You’re fine,” I tell my reflection. She frowns back at me. “Hell no. You’re more than fine. You’re damn fine.” I don’t actually believe myself, but it’s nice to hear me say it sometimes. I grab the clutch that goes with my dress, and take the stairs down to the front door slowly, sedately. It gives me a little bit more time to breathe deeply and try to clear the butterflies dancing around my stomach. But the moment I pull the door wide open, they’re back in full force, fluttering around my insides, their wings tickling my belly so bad it almost feels like nervous indigestion. Because wow, Max looks amazing. He pulled out all the stops in a sport coat and tie, though I notice the pattern on his tie is dozens of tiny moustaches. He grins at me. “Can’t exactly wear this one in the office,” he says with a shrug. I reach out to tug on it gently, before I smile up at him. “I love it. You look great.” His hands run up my bare arms to rest on my shoulders, leaving a trail of goosebumps on my skin in his wake. “Not as great as you.” He drops both hands to

my waist to pull me against him. “I could eat you up,” he murmurs, and thrill rockets up my spine. “You know, we don’t have to go out.” I run my hands around his waist, gripping his ass, and squeeze. “We could always just stay here. Enjoy the quiet.” I grin. “Eat in.” His hands drop lower, cupping my ass in turn to draw my body closer to his and immediately, his cock swells against me. “As tempting as that is . . .” He leans down to press his lips to the spot just below my ear, sucking gently, and my knees threaten to buckle beneath me. “I have plans for us,” he whispers, breath hot on my skin. Then, without warning, he slaps my ass and walks away from me, out the door. I laugh as I catch my breath and trail after him. Looks like he held onto his rental car from the weekend, the same little sporty convertible is parked out front. “Are you planning on buying this?” I tease him as I slide into the front seat. “Just making sure we get our money’s worth.” He winks as he positions himself in the driver’s seat. As we drive, he refuses to answer any of my questions. "You won't even give me a hint about where we're going?" I try on my best pout. Max remains unmoved. "That would spoil it." I squint out the window instead. "Hmm. Looks like it's downtown, maybe?" "You'll see," he replies with a smirk. "You're enjoying torturing me, aren't you?" I roll my eyes. "I definitely enjoyed torturing you last night." His grin widens. "You didn't seem to be complaining either." "I . . . maybe," I admit, then stick my tongue out at him when he glances my direction. "But I'll never admit it in court." "Hmm, we'll just have to see about that when you’re back in the hot seat later tonight." His dimples deepen with a devilish smile. Not gonna lie, just the mention of later tonight has me squirming in my seat. Or it might be the fact that he looks completely delicious in that suit. I want to eat him up right here and now. I slide my hand across the seats, brush my fingertips over his wrist on the gear shift, and then let my hand trail along his thigh, higher and higher until I reach the beginning of an impressive erection. "Why wait, when we could have dessert first?" His eyes flash to mine, hungry. But he pauses at a stop light to tap the back of my hand gently. "It wouldn't be torture if I gave you everything you wanted right away, now would it?" "What about everything you want?" I ask, moving my hand to cup the bulge straining behind the zipper of his dress pants. “Everything I want is right here beside me.” His eyes find mine, hold them for a long, breathless second. My stupid heart has started to pound again, and I can’t seem to look away from him, or to stop the dangerously sharp feeling rising in my chest.

Does he really mean that? Do I? And why does it feel so good to hear him say it? “Cheesy,” I finally murmur, when I remember to breathe. He turns back to the road with a shrug. “That’s me. Better get used to it. I’m a closet romantic at heart.” The banter does a good job of distracting me. Not to mention, it’s gratifying to watch him subtly shift in his seat, adjusting to compensate for the erection I caused. I’m enjoying the sight of my handiwork so much that I hardly realize where we are until he turns into a short turnaround and shuts off the car. Before either of us can move, valets swoop in to open the doors for each of us, one of the valets extending his hand to accept Max's keys. I recognize the hotel we're parked outside of, one of the most expensive in the city. Paul's higher-caliber clients stay here when they fly in for meetings, though none of my cases so far have warranted quite this high an expense report. "What are we doing here?" I ask, but Max is already slipping my hand into his and gently leading me across the sidewalk, up the steps, down a long, grandly carpeted hallway inside. I rack my brain trying to remember what I know about this hotel, but it's not much. "If your grand date idea is to rent a hotel room in which you plan to seduce me," I warn him, speaking slowly and seriously enough that he glances over his shoulder to catch my eye. Only then do I let myself grin. "I've got to say, I'm fine with that." He smirks, and tugs my hand to draw me alongside him, where he then loops his arm around my waist and squeezes my hip. "Much as I'd enjoy demolishing a strange hotel room with you, Chlo, that will have to wait for another night." "Then why on earth—” I start to say, but I break off as we round a corner in the corridor, and face what lies at the end of it. Now I can't help but laugh. "A tiki bar? That's your idea of a romantic good time?” I raise an eyebrow at him. He unwraps his arm from around my waist as we reach the entrance, and holds the door for me. "First of all, don't knock it until you try it. Second of all, trust me, you're gonna love this place.” The moment we step into the room, I blink in surprise. This place really took the theme to the next level: a vast ship floats in the middle of the room atop a dimly lit blue pool, bobbing slightly on its moorings. A few tables are dotted across the deck of the ship, while others surround the pool on a wooden dock-style floor. Every table has a thatched roof over it, making each one look like a little hut on some sort of beach oasis. The room is dimly lit in blues and greens, but there's enough light for me to see a band setting up on a small stage above the ship's deck, and the illuminated fountain splashing away happily in the pool beside the ship. "I figured this place would make a great follow-up to our first date, the mad mushroom house," he murmurs in my ear, and I have to stifle a completely unladylike snort as the hostess arrives. "Mr. Davis.” She flashes him a smile. "Right this way."

She leads us up a gangplank onto the ship itself, to one of the tables that line the edge of the small deck. From here, we have a clear view of the band, the pool, and the other tiki tables down on the main deck. "Next storm starts in a minute," she says, "So you might want to keep your purse on the inside of the deck," she adds to me. She leaves us with the menus and heads back down the plank before I can respond, so I lift both eyebrows in Max's direction instead. "I'm sorry, the next what?" "Ah, yes, well, that's the best part." He grins as he flips open the menu. "What will you be having, Chlo?” "Hang on, what storm did she mean?" I interrupt. "Is that the band?" He doesn't answer. He doesn't need to, as it turns out. The moment I ask, a flash of lightning bolts across the ceiling, followed by a low rumble of thunder, not loud enough to be frightening, but enough to let you know what's about to happen. "Are you serious?" I half laugh, half roll my eyes, as it begins to rain. Inside. Water pours from sprinklers in the ceiling, raining down in great gusts into the pool below. A faint mist brushes my shoulder closest to the pool, and I lean further under the thatched roof instinctively. But Max is laughing and reaching out to catch the rain, so after a moment, I extend my arm as well, grinning as cool droplets splash on my palm. "This is so cheesy," I call to him over the sound of the thunderstorm above. "I did warn you that I'm cheesy," he responds with a knowing grin, which sets off those damn dimples to perfection. "Admit it, you like the cheddar." Laughing, I twist my hand through the rain, collect a handful of water to flick in his direction. "It's not bad." I grin. "I do love thunderstorms." "I miss them." He sighs, softly, and I tilt my head, watching him. "We don't get them here like we did back home." "Where was home?" "Oh, tiny town in Virginia. We moved when I was twelve, and thank god, because I might've gone crazy growing up in that place. But I'll always miss the storms rolling in at night." He's watching the ceiling with an almost wistful look, and I follow his gaze as another flash of lightning bursts over the room. We're so lost in the rain that we both startle when our waitress appears for our drink orders. Max asks for another minute as we both force our attentions back to the menu. "Want to split one?" I ask him as I scan the multi-person cocktails available. "There's some kind of punch that comes inside a coconut, made with four different types of rum." His leg catches mine under the table, his foot brushing along my calf. "You know you don't have to get me drunk to sleep with you, right, Chlo? I’m a sure thing where you’re concerned.” I tangle my leg around his. "No, but it's a nice bonus." "Alas, you’re on your own, Little Miss Tipsy, since I'm driving,” he teases. Our

waitress reappears at his elbow, and Max taps on the menu. "Do you have a singleperson version of this coconut death trap? Great, the lady will be having that, and I'll have a ginger beer." We order food too, and I let him do the choosing. Normally I'm picky about what I like, but he orders us half the menu, so I won't be starved for options. "You really think we can eat all that?" I ask when he's finished listing most of the appetizers. "Well not with an attitude like that we won't!" For a kitschy tiki bar, this place actually has fabulous food. We sample our way through half their seafood offerings, along with a few Hawaiian specialties that I’ve never tried before, like taro root dumplings and coconut tuna poke. By the time the waitress comes back to collect our appetizer plates, he’s right, and we’ve managed to clear most of them. Also, the coconut death trap drink has begun to kick in, lending the whole room a pleasant buzz. The buzz intensifies when Max leans forward, the tips of his fingers brushing my knee. I freeze, fixing my eyes on him and lifting one eyebrow slightly in response. He grins, his fingers trailing farther up my leg, along my bare skin. I reach out with one foot to run my heel up the back of his calf, and he uses the lift of my leg to his advantage, sliding his hand under my thigh, past the hem of my dress now. My eyes go wide, and I glance around the restaurant. The table is fairly secluded, but there’s only the thin railing of the ship to separate us from the rest of the room. If someone looked up from the dockside tables below, they could definitely see his hand up my dress. Max doesn’t seem to care. He scoots his chair around the table until he’s beside me, his hand trailing higher still. His fingertips brush the tops of my calves now, and I shiver, leaning toward him, unable to help the rush of desire that overcomes my senses. He bends his lips close to my ear, almost but not quite touching me, barely a breath away. “I’ve spent all day thinking of the filthy things I plan to do to you,” he murmurs, and my lips part as I catch my breath. My eyes snag on his. In the dim light of the restaurant, they’re the same color green as the jungle painted on the walls. Maybe that’s where his wildness comes from. “Thinking dirty thoughts at work?” I pretend to tsk, shaking my head a little, though keeping my gaze on his through the frames of my glasses. “You’re a bad man.” He traces the crook of my leg with one fingertip, the tip of his finger dangerously close to the edge of my panties. Which, naturally, are already growing wet from his ministrations. “Very bad.” He grins. “And you belong to me tonight.” With that, he spreads his hand flat against my me, over my panties. His thumb brushes the hard little nub of my clit, and his fingers spread across my lips. I tilt my hips up so he can touch all of me, take every inch of me he wants. Fuck whoever’s

watching us—I want him right here, right now. He circles his thumb over my clit, pressing just hard enough to send little sparks of sensation running up my body at every pass. Then, without warning, he pulls his hand from my dress, smooths it back down, and swings his chair back around the table. Meanwhile, I’m still breathless, my heart going a mile a minute, glaring at him over the tabletop now. Before I can say something, the waitress reappears to collect my now-empty drink. God, my cheeks must be bright red right now. She glances back and forth between us with a smile, eyebrows raised in a knowing expression. “You two celebrating something?” “What makes you say that?” I ask, embarrassed, as I fold my legs under my chair and attempt to look like the professional lawyer I am and not the kind of person who just got felt up under this table. She shrugs one shoulder. “You just have that look about you. I mean, obviously not a first date, but you’re both kind of glowing, so . . . anniversary?” she guesses, with a sideways glance at Max. “Right on the money,” he answers before I can respond. “It’s the one year anniversary since Chloe realized she had a secret crush on me. It’s been a long time stewing, though,” he adds with a smirk in my direction. Okay screw being a professional adult right now. “Actually, this is more of a trial date,” I reply, still glaring at him, though a traitorous smile is threatening to creep onto my lips while I do. “I still haven’t decided if I should keep him yet.” I trail my leg up the side of his calf as I talk, keeping my eyes locked on his. “The eternal question,” the waitress says, our stack of plates balanced in her arms. “But if you ask me, honey, it looks like you’ve already decided.” She’s gone before I can figure out how I feel about that, and Max’s smirk has grown exponentially, clearly emboldened by this endorsement. “Don’t let it go to your head,” I warn him. “Too late,” he replies. “You’re already well and truly lodged in my brain.” He taps at his temple, then reaches across the table to catch my hand. “Do you see what I mean, Chloe? We could be normal. We could be just like any other couple here. Living life, moving forward, not worrying about what others think about it.” He sweeps his arm to gesture at the rest of the restaurant. Moving forward. Together. We both follow his gaze around the room, to the couples huddled under their own little thatched roofs, listening to the low key music the band in the corner is playing, something melodic, but not too droll, and just loud enough to serve as a pleasant background. There are younger couples holding hands across their tables, gazing at each other ardently. There are older couples reclining in their chairs, or sharing one of the two-person coconut monster drinks. “On second thought,” he adds, “I take it back. We make a much hotter couple. But besides that, we’re like any of them.”

I roll my eyes and resist the urge to kick him again. “You’re definitely letting the ego swell your brain.” “It’s not my ego,” he protests. “The hotness in this couple is all you.” He says it jokingly, winking at me, but my protest dies on my lips when his dark green eyes catch mine. In the same way that always happens when I’m out with him, relaxed, we fall into our own private little bubble. The rest of the world fades to a background hum around us, and we could be the only two people in this restaurant. His hand tightens around mine, and our fingers interlace, as I savor the rough glide of his skin against mine, the solid, reassuring strength in his grip. Something about being with him just makes me feel instantly safe and protected, like I can relax here in a way I can’t anywhere else in the world. Except that “here” isn’t a place. It’s just wherever he is. “Let’s get the check, shall we?” he suggests, and I can’t agree fast enough. The sooner we get out of here, the sooner I can have him all to myself again.

TWENTY-TWO

MAX

“Excuse the mess, it’s, uh. . .” I pause on the threshold of my apartment, one arm barring Chloe’s entry. Then I let it drop and wave her inside. “Okay, it always looks like this. But I can change, I swear.” She snorts. “Fat chance.” But as her razor-sharp hazel gaze roams across my one-bedroom, she doesn’t seem judgmental, she’s merely taking it in. She hardly bats an eye at the handful of dishes in the sink, or the broken coat rack I’ve never quite gotten around to fixing, beneath which is a stack of the coats I planned to hang on it whenever I finally managed to repair it. I’d been expecting sarcastic comments on at least one thing wrong with my place, but instead, Chloe just slips her hand into mine and laces our fingers together. I’m startled, if only by how natural it feels to stand here with her, holding her hand. Like we’ve done this a thousand times before. It’s both addictive and terrifying. “I like it.” I laugh. “Flattery will get you everywhere, doll.” She elbows me. “I’m serious! It’s very you.” “Disorganized?” “Homey,” she counters, her eyes on the living room, with my large but fairly outdated flatscreen, a striped couch I found in a second hand store five years ago that reminded me of something you’d see on a yacht, and stacks of books and movies on various bookshelves that I also scavenged from yard sales or vintage shops. “It looks real. Lived-in. My place just looks like a floor model of an apartment, not a real home.” She leans in to study a photograph hung in the main entrance, a black-and-white photo of San Francisco from the bay circa the 1920s. “No, your place is sophisticated and stylish. Just like you.” She turns to look up at me then, and I can’t resist her any longer. I cup her chin in one hand and lean down to kiss her softly, slowly, her lips so soft and smooth against mine. It’s still surreal, being here with her, having her in my arms, being able to kiss the lips I’ve watched from afar for years. Just a few weeks ago, we were colleagues, and not even cordial ones at that. Now, I can’t imagine going back. I can’t imagine not being able to take her hand, wrap my arms around her waist, kiss

these full, sensuous lips. . . I part her lips with my tongue, gently, and savor the sigh she makes as she leans against me, her body going soft and pliable in my arms. I tighten my grip around her waist, run my hands up and down her back, memorizing every inch of her. Tonight, I want to take my time. We cross my apartment slowly, her body pressed to mine, her feet balanced on top of my own as I walk both of us through the place, along the little corridor to the bedroom. At the entrance, I pause to draw her dress over her head in one smooth motion, leaving her in only her lacy bra and panties. I let the dress fall beside us and trace my hands down her curves, as I tilt my head to kiss down the length of her long neck. At the spot where her neck meets her shoulder, I bite down lightly, and grin when she moans into my ear. “Max,” she whispers, and I pull away just far enough to meet her eyes as I unclasp her sheer, lace bra and let it fall away between us. “Chloe.” Our eyes lock for a long, slow moment, but we don’t need words. We both know what we’re feeling. I can feel her pulse where my one hand cups her neck, and my other wraps around her body. Surely she can feel mine, too, as her hands slip under my shirt and run up my stomach to press against my chest. Her skin is soft and hot against mine, setting me aflame. I’ve never felt so in tune with anyone before—so sure of what she’s thinking, so positive that she knows exactly how I feel in this moment. I want her. Every inch of her body, mind and spirit. I want to grab hold of her and never let go. Tonight I am staking my claim. She. Is. Mine. She reaches up to tangle her fingers in my hair, and I lean in to press my lips to hers again, deeper this time, as she lifts one leg to wrap around my waist. We fall onto the bed as she peels my shirt off, and I lie along her, her hard nipples against my bare skin, driving me wild. But still, we take our time. Run our hands over each other in slow, smooth strokes, memorizing each other’s skin, one touch at a time. We have all night. We have all the time in the world, if we choose to take it. Her lips find my neck, her teeth grazing that sensitive spot just behind my ear, and I groan into her neck before I bite down in response, hard enough to make her gasp and writhe. That is quickly becoming one of my favorite sounds in the world, the sound of Chloe surrendering to me. Our hands simultaneously reach to undo my belt buckle, then my zipper, both of us tugging at fabric until we’re lying diagonally across the bed naked, her body splayed beneath me. I cannot get enough of her. I cup her breasts in both hands, trace my tongue between them, savoring her taste, salty sweet, and quintessentially Chloe. She runs her hands down to grab my ass, and I raise my thigh to slide it between her legs, all the way up to her scorching wet heat, grinning when my leg grazes her slit. She’s already wet, already waiting for me, and my cock throbs against her

stomach, rock hard in anticipation. She reaches down to grab me, and I groan again at the sensation of her soft hand wrapping around my dick. As her palm glides back and forth along my length, sending flames rocketing through my nerves, I trace my hand over the flat plane of her stomach, and further to circle her pussy. I trace her lips, her mound, my fingers circling right above her clit but never quite touching where she wants me most, not yet. I can feel her body tense in frustration, her hips rising against mine to thrust against my fingers. I smile and press my palm flat against her stomach, forcing her to lie back against the sheets. In response, she tightens her grip on my cock and starts to move her hand faster, grazing the sensitive tip as she jacks me up and down again. My abs tense in response as I draw back to smile at her. Fuck she’s beautiful. “Tease,” she says, her eyes dilated, lips half-parted in want. “I could say the same to you,” I answer, though my voice gives me away a little, breaking slightly with a groan when she squeezes her hand around me again. “It’s not teasing if I plan to give in,” she counters, as she brushes her thumb across the tip of my cock, which pulses in her hand, throbbing hard. “Then I’m not teasing either.” I let my forefinger slip to her opening, not quite entering her, not yet, but coating myself in her wetness, tracing the edges of her slit. She shivers beneath me, her lips parted in a silent o. “Because I plan to fuck you,” I murmur as I push my forefinger into her slowly. Chloe’s head falls back as her body arches toward me, her hands stilling in distraction. I love watching her like this, enthralled, and knowing that I’m the cause, the reason her breath is coming faster and faster, her body twisting beneath me. I slide a second finger inside her and curl them upward, until my fingertips are pressing against her front walls. I run my fingers up and down that wall, slowly, feeling every inch of her. She lifts her legs to wrap them around my waist, and tightens her grip on my cock again and I can’t wait any longer. Chloe sighs as I draw my fingers out of her and lean back to grab the condom from my nightstand. “You are too fucking good at that you know,” she says as she lifts her foot to nudge her heel against my shoulder. “I just love watching you squirm.” I catch her eye, and grin when her face flushes at that. As I roll the condom down my length, I curl my hand around her ankle and turn to lick the arch of her foot. A surprised laugh escapes her, and she tries to squirm away across the bed, yanking her leg free. In one smooth motion, I lean over her on all fours and pin her beneath me, both of us laughing as I lay along her, our chests moving in sync, hearts pounding where our skin touches. “You’re right,” she whispers, her eyes snagging on mine once more. “I usually am,” I reply, dipping in to kiss her softly, and nipping her lip when I draw back again. “About what this time?” “We are normal. This feels normal. Or, not normal, I guess.” Her hands brush

through my hair, her fingers lingering against my scalp and send a rush of shivers along my spine. “Better than normal. It feels natural, being here. With you. Like we’ve done this a thousand times.” I kiss her again, slower this time, gently. Then I brush her hair back from her forehead and gaze down into those gorgeous hazel eyes, the ones I can never get out of my head anymore. “We have.” A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “In my fantasies, anyway.” She rolls her eyes and punches my shoulder, but she’s still smiling, still gazing up at me like she can’t believe this is really happening. I know the feeling. “Cheesy,” she says again, but it’s a whisper this time, hardly an accusation. “Yep,” I whisper, as I catch her ear between my teeth and suck lightly on her lobe. She moans and tilts her hips up toward me as I slide my thigh between her legs again, spreading her supple thighs to either side of me. I trace my cock up her inner thigh, waiting to feel her shiver before I lean back and trail up the other side of her leg, until her hips buck again, desperate. “Fuck, you make me want to lose control, Chloe.” When I sink into her this time, I go slow. Her pussy is hot and wet around me, tightening hard, her muscles tensing as I glide into her, deeper, deeper. When I’m seated fully, she lets out another sigh, something like relief. I know that feeling too. I don’t feel the same without her anymore. For a second we pause, her legs folding around my waist, her heels digging into my ass, my cock buried in her pussy, both of us savoring the moment, the feel of one another. Then I brace myself against the bed and pull back, slowly, slowly, making her wriggle and writhe as her tight walls clench around me. I move like that, slowly at first, but building faster when I can’t help myself anymore, when she feels too fucking good, looks too fucking hot spread before me on the sheets, her breasts bouncing with every thrust, her nipples rock hard, a faint sheen of sweat glistening on her throat. I bend down to suck on her nipple, tonguing its peak relentlessly as I speed up my thrusts. She arches her hips to thrust back in time with me. “Oh God, Max. Right there,” she moans. I cup both hands under her ass, lifting her higher in the air to thrust into her deeper, and her head falls back against the bed as she moans, hair tangled beneath her. She angles her hips toward mine with my next thrust, searching for more friction, and I groan. “Fuck, you feel incredible,” I hiss. I drive into her harder, my balls slapping against her ass. I drop one hand to circle her clit, but she’s so close to coming that I hardly touch her before she’s crying out, her neck thrown back, her pussy spasming around me with the strength of her orgasm. I don’t stop. my finger pressing against the throbbing nub, thrusting so deep into her I can feel my cock press against her walls. She clenches around my shaft, and I’m close to losing it, fucking her hard and fast now, uncontrollable, only aware

of the feeling of her body beneath me, the shockwaves of pleasure she sends through me. I’m so lost in this woman, time seems to stop. “Give me one more, Chlo, come all over my cock.” My voice is hoarse with the desperation I feel to make her lose control again. “You’re so tight and hot, so wet around me when you get close,” I pant. “There’s nothing sexier than watching you come.” She squeezes me tighter and I hear her breath hitch, then her cry out as she falls over the edge. Two more hard shoves, and I can’t contain it anymore. I come with a groan through gritted teeth, gripping her hips hard as I pump into her spasming pussy. “God, Max,” she moans as she milks every drop, her tight walls straining around me. When I finally collapse against her, we’re both soaked with sweat and panting. I lean in to kiss her chest, her neck, all the way down her jawline, and she turns to catch my mouth with hers, sucking my bottom lip between hers and biting hard enough to send a rush through my veins. I lean up on my elbows to gaze at her again, both of us smiling. “If I’d known it would be this good, I’d have jumped your bones years ago,” she quips, and I laugh. “Guess we’ll just have to make up for lost time,” I murmur into her throat as I slide out of her, my hand already trailing back down her stomach, not yet ready to let tonight end. I want to hear her scream my name at least once before we fall asleep tonight. . .

I wake several hours later in my darkened room, a painful tingling in my left arm. I’m fine with the pins and needles because Chloe is still cradled in my arms, her back against me, her breath soft and even with sleep. I shift a little closer to her, savoring the sensation of her bare ass against my cock, which twitches to life again, hardening as she sighs in her sleep, her ass snuggling back against me even tighter. A buzz interrupts my thoughts. Shit. My phone’s ringing. I ignore it. Voicemail can take care of whatever client has an emergency at this hour—probably someone international who didn’t bother to check the time on the West coast before they called. Memories of the night play in my head—licking Chloe’s pussy wet once more before pulling her on top of me for round two, and bending her over the little sink in the bathroom when we couldn’t quite make it all the way to the shower. I trace the line of her arm with a fingertip, debating waking her up now. Her ass is pressed against me and feels so fucking good, and fuck, I’m rock hard again. The goddamn phone lights up and starts to buzz once more. Shit shit shit. Whoever this is isn’t taking no answer for an answer. With a regretful sigh, I gently draw my arm out from under Chloe and disentangle myself from the sheets. I roll over and squint at the name on the

screen. Only then does panic mode kick in. Travis. He would never call me at this hour. Not if it was anything less than a life-ordeath emergency. Moving as quietly as I can so as not to wake Chloe, I tiptoe out of the bedroom and shut the door as I answer the phone. “Travis?” “I’m sorry. I didn’t know who else to call.” He sounds breathless, panicky, like he’s holding back tears. “That’s okay. Hey, hey, you can call me anytime, okay? You know that. What’s going on, what’s wrong?” I try to keep my voice as low as possible, but it’s hard when panic is building in my throat. “It’s Mom. Something’s wrong with her, I don’t know. I heard a crash in the kitchen, and now she’s on the floor; she’s breathing, and I called an ambulance, but I don’t know what to—” “I’ll be right there,” I say, already cracking the bedroom door open wide enough to grab the nearest pair of pants and shirt. “Don’t worry. I’ll always be here for you, okay?” A long hard sniffle from the other end of the line. “It’s okay, if you’re busy . . .” I draw the bedroom door shut again as I hop on one leg to pull on my jeans. “I’m never too busy for you. I’m glad you called me.” Back in the day, there was a time when Travis would never have trusted me this much, would never have admitted that something was wrong, even something like this. He has a problem trusting people, but guys especially. He’s never said anything, but I suspect his most recent stepdad, the one his mother fled here to escape from, was probably abusive to his mother. Christ, I hope she’s okay. “I’m glad you trust me,” I say, my voice soft again to keep from waking Chloe, as I yank on my shirt as well. “I’ll never hurt you.” I hang up to the sound of him sniffling again, much as it tears at my heart to do so. Luckily I still have the rental car downstairs, so at this hour of the night, I can get across town to him in less than ten minutes. I race down the steps and hop into the car. Only when I’m inside do I realize I should have left a note for Chloe. But I’ll text her in the morning, from the hospital, once we’ve figured out what’s going on. I don’t want to wake her up now just to trouble her with my personal life. I turn the key in the ignition and speed across town as fast as I can.

TWENTY-THREE

CHLOE

Max’s arm sliding out from under me wakes me up in the wee hours of the morning. I’m not sure what time it is, but judging by the fact that we were up half the night distracting each other, and the fact that dawn hasn’t touched his curtains yet, it has to be about 3 or 4 in the morning. That’s when I hear the faint vibration of his phone. Ugh. Work? I bury my head deeper in the pillow and shift around to get comfortable. Well, he’ll be back soon, I’m sure. I’ve taken international calls at this hour before. It’s a pain in the ass, but you do what you have to do for work. Then I hear his voice from the hallway, soft and reassuring. “You can call me anytime, okay? You know that.” Don’t listen, Chloe. It’s his business. But I can’t help it. He’s talking too loud for me not to hear, especially when the bedroom door opens a moment later and I hear him shuffle around, pulling clothing from a pile. “I’ll be right there. Don’t worry. I’ll always be here for you, okay?” His voice trails back out toward the hall. “I’m never too busy for you. I’m glad you called me.” Must be a family member, I tell myself. Or a close friend. Something must be wrong. But there’s a little knot of doubt in the pit of my stomach. A close friend who calls at this hour of the morning? And asks him to come over right away? I lean up in bed, unable to stop myself. I know it’s wrong, but I just want to find out what’s going on, if he’s okay right now. Then I hear the last words he says. “I’m glad you trust me. I’ll never hurt you.” They hit like a blow to my diaphragm. I grimace as I listen to his keys jangle, then the front door open and slam shut. I force myself to lie back against the pillows and breathe. It’s nothing, Chloe. I’m sure it’s just a family problem. Something going on that he’ll explain in the morning. I’ve been jealous before, and it’s turned out to be nothing. Maybe that was your instinct trying to tell you something, says one part of my brain. The part I want to drown out, to force to shut up.

I close my eyes and keep breathing. It’ll be fine. He’ll explain it all in the morning, I’m sure. But I can’t sleep anymore. I lie wide awake all night, staring at his ceiling, alone in his unfamiliar house, in a bed that still smells of sex, of him, of us together. I stare at the ceiling until dawn paints it in rosy streaks, and then I climb out of bed and take another shower. A long, slow shower, to give him plenty of time to text me. By the time I’m finished, I tell myself, there will be a message waiting. An answer to what the heck is going on. I climb out of the shower and wander into the kitchen, pretending to be sedate about it, though really my heart is in my throat. I want this to be a misunderstanding. I want it to be nothing. But part of me can’t shake the feeling that of course Max was too perfect to be real. Of course he’d have some other woman calling him in the middle of the night. Probably a significant other, some girlfriend he doesn’t talk about at work so that he can keep pulling shit like this, sleeping around at the office. God I am such an idiot. Sure enough, no new messages on my phone. Not even a phone call. I glance halfheartedly around the kitchen, but there’s no note. No explanation anywhere. I stay long enough to toast a bagel from his cupboard, eat it alone at the small counter with only one stool—such a stereotypical bachelor pad, this place—and then I leave my plate in the sink beside his other unwashed dishes, pull on yesterday’s clothes, and see myself out. Max doesn’t text me until 3pm. By which point I’m already halfway through the stack of work I took home for the weekend—reviews for the case, preparation for our trial date, which has been bumped up to just two weeks from now. Sorry about last night, his text says. Personal problem cropped up. Hope you slept okay. xo I stare at my phone for a solid minute, then leave it on my desk and go back to working. Sometime around 6pm, when my stomach finally growls at me to make some real food for dinner, not just the bag of potato chips I’ve been living on since lunch, I finally squint at the screen again. Nope. That’s still the only explanation he’s offered. Personal problem. That’s when it really starts to hit me. I can’t do this. It doesn’t matter if that was a girl calling him or not. The problem is, I don’t trust him. I don’t know how to make myself trust him. And if I can’t do that, then this was never going to work anyway. Just look at this case—we’re supposed to stand in front of a courtroom in a little less than two weeks and argue this thing together. How am I going to be able to do that if I’m distracted the whole time, freaking out about his possible ulterior motives, or worrying if he’s everything he claims to be? It’s hard enough to work with people you don’t trust. It’s nigh on impossible to work with them and carry on a relationship too.

I think it through over dinner, but the answer remains the same. There’s only really one thing I can do right now. Only one sane thing to do. The thing I should have done all along. The thing I’ve been too cowardly or too selfish to see is the right move from day one. I’m sorry, Max, I text him as I unbury a whole container of Ben and Jerry’s Karamel Sutra from the freezer for dessert. God knows I’ll need it. I hope that you figure everything from last night out. But I can’t do this anymore. My finger hovers over the send button for what feels like an eternity. When I finally tap it, it feels like reaching into my own chest and wrenching my heart out. My phone lights up with a call from him less than a minute later. I send it straight to voicemail, ignoring the churn in my gut, the ache in my chest. What’s going on, Chloe? Don’t shut me out. Is this about me leaving last night? Text after text flashes across my screen, until I can’t take it anymore. I turn my phone off and pick up my landline instead. I dial the only number I can think of in a moment like this. Heather picks up on the first ring. “Sup girl? This had better be good, because season four of my all-time fave just released on Netflix, so—” “I broke up with Max,” I stammer, before realizing that a) we were never exactly dating in the first place and b) I never told Heather we were hooking up to begin with. “Hold on.” I hear the telltale creak of Heather’s favorite leather chair snapping shut, presumably as she pulls herself out of a TV-binge-preparation phase. “You were dating that guy? The office manwhore one you kept talking about?” “No. Well. Not when I talked to you about him. Well. Not ever, really. We only went out once, but like—” “OH MY GOD, stop right there, I’m coming over.” I half-laugh, half-cry as my best friend slams her phone down. Then I collapse on my couch and take a stab at my ice cream. It doesn’t take her long to buzz my door. Half an hour later, I’ve shoveled half of the B&J’s into a separate bowl for her, and we’re perched in front of my TV, which is muted on some terrible reality show that neither of us really care to watch, but which has become tradition to have playing in the background of our rant fests. “So you slept with him how many times?” She raises an eyebrow. “Uh. Only two nights, I guess.” I purse my lips around my spoon. Why does this feel like such a bigger deal than that? Two nights is hardly anything more than a hookup. Heather’s eyebrows know all. She levers them at me now. “How many times in two nights, then?” I do a quick mental calculation, and feel my face flush. “I dunno, seven or eight.” “Shit, girl. Okay, so you had some hot sex. But. . .” Her eyes narrow at me. “You developed feels, he didn’t?” “He says he did. I don’t know.” I throw my spoon at the table hard. Even ice

cream isn’t helping with this one. I tell her everything then, start to finish. From the flirting at Suzie’s house, to our first hookup, to our very last, and his weird conversation in the morning, followed by fleeing the house like he couldn’t run away from me fast enough. And never once offering an explanation. By the time I finish venting, she’s shaking her head. “I mean . . . it sounds sketchy as hell, yes. Especially not texting you a better explanation. But . . . you don’t know him that well, yet? You don’t know what he might have going on.” Then she purses her lips. “On the other hand, you do already know he’s the office Slutty McSlutface” —she raises a hand to stem off my protest— “or at least, that’s what rumor claims, so . . . he could just be good at the lying and sneaking around thing. I mean, would you put it past him to have two girls going at once?” He’d never do that, says my heart. He sure as hell could, counters my brain. “I don’t know,” says my mouth, which still cannot decide where its loyalties ought to lie. “Well, you seemed pretty sure he was that kind of guy before, so either in getting to know him, you learned that he isn’t, or in getting to know him, his hotness has bedazzled you into wishing he wasn’t that kind of guy.” Heather pauses to gulp down a huge mouthful of ice cream, which she then speaks through. “So which do you think it is?” I frown. “How am I supposed to know? I’m not inside his brain. And isn’t that the problem—that I don’t know which he is?” “But you don’t want to give him a chance.” “What if I’m wrong and I become the next juicy piece of office gossip, right as I’m on the brink of this huge case that could propel my whole career forward—I mean, Paul was talking partner-track, Heather.” “True. But notice that you said what if you’re wrong. Which means you already think that he isn’t that guy.” She smirks at me around her spoon, and I groan. “Semantics.” “I’m just saying!” She shrugs. “And anyway. What if you’re right? What if he isn’t a skeezeball at all? What if he’s as good as you seem to hope he is, what then?” “Then . . .” I shake my head. “We still might not work out. We might not be compatible in the long-term, we might just have a physical attraction that never amounts to more and can’t stand up to the test of time—” “How long have you known this guy?” she interrupts. “It’s not like this is some one-night-stand you picked up. Besides, you could say that about any guy in the world. All relationships are an inherent risk. But if you don’t take a gamble, you can never win. Those are sorta the rules, girl.” Heather slaps my knee. “I know.” I grimace. “I just . . . maybe gambling at work isn’t a great idea. Especially when the odds are already stacked against me.” We sit in silence for a moment, both of us watching the reality show play across the screen. One of the characters is throwing a glass of wine at another, and they’re both screaming. It would probably be funny unmuted, but with mute on, they both

just look completely insane. Sort of like how I feel, for ever believing this was a good idea in the first place. “Well,” Heather says after a long pause. “If worse comes to worst, Mark has some pretty hot friends.” She tests out a sideways grin on me, and I roll my eyes. “Let’s stick to one boy drama at a time, huh?” I mumble. She punches my arm. “If you’re sticking to this drama, you need to give the boy a chance to explain, then. That’s my two cents, anyway. And also a threat, just so you know. If you don’t give him a chance to explain, I’m taking that as permission to set you up with the first guy Mark comes up with.” I roll my eyes. “So supportive.” “I try, girl. God knows you don’t make it easy sometimes.” I glance sideways at her, meaning to deadpan, but that one does eke a tiny smile out of me. Then I unmute the TV. Since she’s here, we might as well make this a full-fledged girls’ night instead of a pity party for one.

TWENTY-FOUR

MAX

By the time I make it to Travis’s house, there’s already an ambulance parked out front. I race up the steps two at a time and meet Travis by the door, just as they’re carrying his mother out on a stretcher. Her eyes are open, thank goodness, and she looks simultaneously embarrassed and relieved to see me jogging toward them. “Max, thank you so much for coming. I’m sorry about this, Travis panicked—” “I’m glad he called. I’ll come with you both,” I say, in a voice that leaves no room for her to politely protest her way out of it. Travis can’t handle the hospital trip alone, with her sick, and I think she knows it. Her eyes find mine, and they’re distant, a little hazy, as the stretcher bumps down her front steps. I jog alongside her to keep up. “Thank you,” she murmurs. “She’s diabetic,” one of the EMTs explains as the other one loads her into the truck. “Her blood sugar crashed and she fainted. She should be fine, but we want to stabilize her blood sugar, make sure she didn’t get a concussion or anything when she fell, all that.” Travis jogs up beside me, shivering a little in the evening air. “Grab a coat, buddy,” I tell him. We take a minute to collect ourselves, and then I trail the ambulance to the hospital, with Travis riding shotgun beside me. “Sorry I called you,” he mumbles again. I shake my head hard. “I’m glad you did. You needed help, and you reached out. That’s what friends are here for.” Travis chews on his lower lip in silence, eyes locked on the back of the ambulance. Finally, he swallows hard. “Last time I didn’t call anyone,” he mumbles. “Last time?” I ask, one eyebrow raised. He nods at the ambulance again. “When . . . my stepdad . . . they were fighting, and. . .” He frowns at his lap and shakes his head. I reach over to squeeze his shoulder. “I’m glad you called me,” I repeat, softer this time. “You always can, bud. Anytime, day or night.” He nods at his lap, then turns to look out his window, and I pretend not to notice the tears that are swimming in his eyes. At the hospital, we hang in the waiting room for what feels like eternity. They

must be backed up, because we get there at 4:30 in the morning, but nobody calls us in to see her until 11am. By that point my eyes are bleary, and I’ve dozed off at least a dozen times in the uncomfortable waiting room lounge seats. Beside me, Travis’s head droops all the way onto the back of his seat, and he’s snoring softly. I hate to do it, but when the nurse summons us back to see her, I nudge him awake, knowing he won’t want to miss the chance to see that she’s okay with his own eyes. We trudge into her room and she’s already propped up on pillows, beaming at us as we walk in. She extends her arms, and Travis crosses the room to hug her tightly, sniffling a little. “Thank you so much for waiting with him,” she says over his head, smiling at me. Her eyes are teary too, but she doesn’t seem to mind if I see that. “They’re still running some tests, but they think I’ll be out of here by later this afternoon.” She says this to both Travis and I, patting Travis’s back reassuringly while she speaks, but then her eyes seek out mine again. “You don’t have to wait—I hate to put you through any more trouble than we already have.” I shake my head. “It’s no trouble at all. It’s just what friends do. I’ll stick around, give him a ride home,” I add, and then I slip out of the hospital room before she has a chance to order me not to, which I’m sure she’d try. Back in the waiting room, I fall asleep with my head on the back of the chair, my legs splayed. At first I keep startling awake at every sound in the room, people shuffling in and out, doctors calling patients or family into the back. But eventually I lose all track of the world around me, and drift off into real sleep. I startle awake to the feeling of Travis shaking my elbow. “Do you want lunch?” he’s asking me. “I’m going to get something from the caf.” I squint into the harsh hospital lights and blink hard, rubbing sleep from my eyes. What time is it? I peer at my phone and swallow a groan. 3pm already. Wow. I type out a quick text to Chloe, then shove my phone back into my pocket. “Lunch sounds great.” Or breakfast, I guess, technically. We split yogurt cups and fruit salads, which were the only even vaguely edible looking things available in the hospital’s dimly lit cafeteria. Then we eat them out on the lawn, in a little courtyard in the center of the hospital. Travis is relaxing now that he knows his mom is going to be okay. We’re back to chatting about school and summer programs he wants to apply to, all the normal stuff. By the time they announce they’re ready to discharge her, closer to 5pm, he’s his usual chatty, vibrant self again, telling me animatedly about some movie he watched last weekend, which he wants to reenact with his friends if they can find a camera to rent so they can film it. I’m nodding along when a buzz in my pocket distracts me. A spark of excitement kindles in my stomach as I reach for the phone. I haven’t talked to Chloe all day, and already I miss the sound of her voice, the feeling of her hand wrapped in mine, the sight of those huge hazel eyes of hers, fixed on me. But when I tap my phone open and scan the screen, that spark of excitement curdles into a piercing ache.

I’m sorry, Max. I hope that you figure everything from last night out. But I can’t do this anymore. “Are you okay?” Travis is asking, but I hold up a finger to him and tap Chloe’s name, already stepping out into the hospital aisle to call her. The call goes straight to voicemail. Even though her text came through a second ago. Which means she’s either shut off the phone, or screening her calls. The ache in my stomach worsens, reminding me of the time I ate bad oysters and got food poisoning for two days straight. I feel sick. What could possibly have gone wrong between last night and this morning? I can’t help myself. I know I shouldn’t press her right now, I should give her a bit to cool off before I ask what’s wrong, but I’m already typing out the questions firing through my skull. What’s going on, Chloe? Don’t shut me out. When she doesn’t reply for a strained five-minute period during which I wash my face at least three times in the bathroom, I text again. Is this about me leaving last night? I scroll back up through our conversation. I didn’t give her many details about last night, but I didn’t think she’d want me to dump anything stressful on her this soon. We’ve only had sex twice at this point. Well, exactly, Davis, my brain interrupts. You’ve only fucked twice. You weren’t in a relationship with her. Never mind that it felt like one, or at least the start of one, to me. Never mind that I thought it was really going somewhere, somewhere beyond just an office hookup and some quickies. Never mind that I thought Chloe felt the same way, too. Fuck was I wrong. Clearly this had just been a fling for her all along, and I probably sound like an idiot right now, trying to frantically text her and ask why she’s breaking it off, when really, there was nothing to break off in the first place. She had her fun and now she’s over it. I swallow hard and stuff my phone back into my pocket. No more texting her. No more freaking out. I’ve embarrassed myself enough already. Way to man up, Davis. My stomach cramps again, throwing memories of last night in my face. The restaurant, our conversation. The sight of her beneath me, the way she gasped my name when she came, and fell asleep curled in my arms. It didn’t mean anything, I tell myself, but the protest sounds weak even to me. I force a straight face as I leave the bathroom, for Travis’s sake. It must not be very convincing, though, because the second I enter the waiting room, he’s staring at me and frowning. “What’s up, man?” he asks as he offers me a Coke from the vending machine. I shake my head. “Nothing. Just some work stuff.” “Upsetting work stuff?” He raises an eyebrow. I blink at him. “What do you mean?” “Well you look, like . . . the way I felt last night when I found Mom on the kitchen floor, to be honest.”

I groan and rub my forehead. “I’m fine, really.” “You helped me out. All day long. Mom too. So let me help you. What’s up?” I half-sigh, half-laugh in response to that. Can’t fault the kid for using my own logic against me, really. “It’s about a girl at work, actually.” “Ooooooo,” he whoops, then sobers immediately when an older woman across the waiting room glares at him. Travis clears his throat. “Sorry. But. You like her?” “Yes. A lot.” “So are you gonna ask her out?” He bounces in his seat, before he takes another look at my expression and deflates a little. “Did you already ask her out? Did she say no?” “She said yes. And I thought it was going well. But. . .” I shrug my shoulders and slump in my seat. “She just said she doesn’t want to see me anymore. So I guess it wasn’t going as well as I thought it was.” “Bummer.” Travis’s frown deepens. “Did she say why?” I shake my head. “Nothing. Just said she can’t do this anymore.” “So, she said she can’t, not that she doesn’t want to?” I cast a sideways glance at him. “Since when did you get so detail-oriented?” I ask with a raised eyebrow. He elbows me. “Since I started hanging out with this old lawyer guy all the time.” I laugh a little louder at that. “Well, yes. She said she can’t do it anymore. But that implies that she doesn’t want to.” Travis wobbles his head from side-to-side like he’s deliberating. “Welllll, I dunno. Or it could mean there’s some reason she can’t. Like, besides just if she wants to or not.” This kid will make a great litigator someday. I lean back in my seat even further, until it’s balanced on two legs. “She is worried about us working together and dating,” I say. “She keeps talking about that, saying that it isn’t a good idea.” “Why?” “Well, technically we aren’t supposed to date our coworkers. But it’s kind of like not drinking in college before you turn twenty-one—er. . .” I glance around the waiting room, then at the doors to the main hospital. “Don’t tell your mom I said that.” He laughs. “I know what you mean, though. Everyone does it, and it’s not that huge a deal unless you get crazy?” I nod. “Exactly.” “So why is she so worried about it, then?” “Well. . .” I grimace at the ceiling, my head bent back. How do I explain this to a fourteen-year-old? “There are a lot of rumors about me at work, I guess. Bad rumors. About me being a . . . well, a not really nice guy. Rumors that I play with girls’ hearts.” “That doesn’t sound like you.” Travis tilts in his chair to imitate me. “It’s not. But it’s what people think about me. And she’s been hearing that

about me for years, so she probably believes the rumors at this point. I wouldn’t blame her. I think most people do.” “Sounds like the answer is pretty simple then,” Travis tells me, and I stifle a laugh as I drop my chair back onto all four legs to face him. “Oh, yeah? Okay, buddy, I’m all ears then. Shoot.” Travis clunks his chair back onto the floor as well and stares at me. “You just need to convince her you’re not the bad guy.” Like I said. This kid will be a great lawyer someday.

TWENTY-FIVE

CHLOE

Monday morning could not have come at a worse time. Bags sag under my eyes, and I’ve got a breakout that even my best cover-up can’t completely conceal. I’m pretty sure I’m running on about four hours of sleep total, and at least ten hours of lying restless in my bed all night Sunday trying to force my brain to shut down and my eyes to stop staring blankly at my ceiling in dread of the office today. I arrive fifteen minutes later than usual in the hopes of being able to run straight to my office and bypass any possibility of running into Max out on the floor. Of course, I know I’ll need to see him eventually, we still have this case to work together, after all. But I’m just hoping I can avoid him for a little bit longer, until I pull myself together and get past the stupid emotions that won’t stop eating away at my insides. Get it together, Chloe. You’re a grown woman, not a teenager. Sometimes, though, I wonder if all adults aren’t just teenagers in disguise, who have learned how to pay bills and maybe also picked up a marketable skill or two. At any rate, the past couple of weeks with Max have definitely brought out my teenage side. And the stress of being with him has apparently awoken my teenage breakouts, too. Ugh. But it turns out I have bigger problems to worry about. I reach my office, and I’ve barely had a chance to start booting up my laptop, when Martha appears in my doorway. “Did you hear?” she asks, and my stomach clenches hard. Here it comes. The gossip about us has already started. It doesn’t matter that I did the right thing and broke it off; the damage has already been done. I won’t be seen as Chloe MacIntyre, brilliant litigator and potential partner, anymore. I’ll just be Chloe MacIntyre, that lawyer who slept with Max Davis right after the secretary he banged in the supply closet. The secretary he probably didn’t even ‘bang’ to begin with. “Hear what?” I ask, though it’s hard to force words out over the sensation of my insides rioting. “Paul is in the hospital.” I freeze halfway across my office. “What?” Wind seems to rush in my ears. Or

something, anyway. A buzzing sound. “They’re saying it’s serious. From the sound of it, his whole family are flying in from out of town, just in case. They’re not sure exactly what’s wrong, or at least, I haven’t heard if they did find out yet, but. . .” As Martha rambles on, I sit down on top of my desk, too dazed to bother walking around it to find my chair. I know Paul hasn’t been doing great in the past few months, but I never imagined it was something serious. He just looked like he needed a good night’s sleep and maybe a really big breakfast or something. What could it be? Cancer? Heart attack? Brain tumor? I force myself to take deep breaths. Martha pauses in her ramble to peer at me, concern written across her face. “Do you need something?” “Do you know which hospital he’s in? Can we visit?” She lists the name of a hospital I don’t recognize, but a quick search shows it’s not too far away. Less than half an hour drive, if I leave and catch a cab now before rush hour. I grab my purse from my chair. “Let us know what you can find out,” Martha is saying as I hurry out of the office. I give her a backwards wave slash thumbs-up, though to be honest, I’m not sure what I’ll tell her when I get back. Depends what I find out, and whether or not Paul says he wants the whole office to know or not. My throat tightens as another thought hits me. That’s if Paul is even able to say what he wants. What if he’s already dying? What if I’m too late? Martha said his family was flying in. They wouldn’t do that unless it was really serious. The whole cab ride to the hospital, I’m practically bouncing in my seat. The moment we pull up front, I throw cash at the driver and race inside. The front desk tells me it’s visiting hours now, and give me his room number, though they warn me that he’s already got a few visitors here. That has to be a good sign, right? If they’re allowing visitors in, maybe it’s not so bad. At his floor, I hurry down the hall. But I pause just outside the room number they gave me, frozen in place by the sight of a younger, leaner Paul, one hand wrapped around a woman’s shoulders. That has to be John, Paul’s son. “Hi, um . . .” I falter, and they both look up at me, their eyebrows drawn, expressions worried. “Are you John Greaves?” I hazard a guess. “That’s me,” he replies. “I work with him. You probably don’t know my name, but, Chloe MacIntyre.” I offer my hand, but to my surprise, John’s wife breaks away to pull me into a hug instead. I blink, confused, but hug her back lightly. “Chloe, Paul talks about you all the time. It’s a pleasure, really.” I kick myself for not being able to remember her name. “I’ve heard loads about you both,” I say instead, because I really have. “Your wedding sounded amazing. Up

in the Catskills?” She blushes and waves a hand. “Oh, it was just a little DIY thing. We’re crafty people, wanted to put on our own kind of party. But Paul was gaga for it.” We both sober up at once, remembering where we are now. “What’s happening?” I ask, with a glance toward his room window. They’ve drawn the shades, so I can’t see inside, but from the way John and his wife are lingering out here, I doubt I’d want to see Paul right now. “The doctors are with him at the moment,” John says. “He’s been in and out of consciousness all day. Coronary event, they’re calling it. I think that means heart attack in hospital speak, but god knows I can’t get a straight answer from anyone here. They’re . . . it’s not looking good, Chloe .” I swallow hard again, past the huge lump developing in my throat. I can’t believe this. I knew Paul was older, I knew he didn’t take great care of himself, but he’s always been here for me, like a father to me at work. He is a father, to John and his wife, and he always talked about wanting to be a grandfather someday, and how excited he was about their wedding because now he has a chance for grandkids soon. My stomach hurts. My heart hurts. My everything hurts. “Do you know . . .” I clear my throat softly, and try to blink back tears. It feels selfish to cry in front of his actual family, when I’m just a colleague. But John smiles reassuringly at me, and his wife reaches out to pat my shoulder. “Stay,” she says, her husband nodding beside her. “They’re letting visitors in on and off throughout the day. You should be here. Say hi to him next time he’s awake.” I suck in a deep breath through my nose, and nod. “Thank you.” As it turns out, I don’t have to wait long. The doctors finish examining him, and announce that Paul is feeling a bit stronger now. “Not out of the woods just yet,” they warn us, “but he could use a little distraction at the moment.” I follow John and his wife inside, and my aching heart nearly snaps in two at the sight of Paul on the hospital bed. He looks so thin. Like he’s lost fifty pounds since I last saw him, which of course is impossible, since I only saw him a few days ago. On Friday. Before everything with Max imploded. My aching heart gives yet another painful twist. “Dad, your friend Chloe came to see you,” John is saying, and Paul’s eyes light up when they meet mine, but he just looks so feeble lying here, all twisted and bent, his skin washed sallow in the fluorescent lighting. He looks a hundred years old, and not his real age, which can’t be more than 62. “Chloe, trust you to make a fuss,” he says. Or tries to say. He coughs hard in the middle of the sentence, finishes it out in such a feeble voice that we all lean closer to the bed to hear him finish. I force myself to smile down at him, even though I want to cry instead. I have to be strong for him right now. “I heard you were the one making the fuss,” I tell him,

my own voice cracking slightly. “Wanted to come tell you to quit being a big baby, you hear?” John and his wife laugh, thankfully. Paul does too, though it sounds more like a wheeze. We chat for a little while, until eventually John’s wife suggests that he might want a coffee, and she was a bit puckish, should they go to the cafeteria? He looks like he’s about to protest, until she catches his eye and shoots a meaningful glance at me and Paul. She wants to give us some alone time. I smile at her, grateful. It should be John having alone time with his father, I know. But hopefully they’ll have plenty more time for that still. Hopefully we’ll all have plenty more time with him. “You really need to pull through this,” I tell him, sternly, like I’m scolding him. It comes out sounding more like a desperate plea instead. Paul sighs and closes his eyes, wincing slightly before he forces a smile onto his face again. “I’m trying, believe me. But Chloe . . . listen, you—are you listening?” He glares up at me, and I nod, blinking back another round of tears. “Good. I want to tell you something.” “I swear to God, if you start making a deathbed speech, I am going to storm out of here,” I warn him with my best courtroom glare. He cracks his teeth in a wide grin. “If I’m dying, then you need to be quiet and respect your elder for once.” I roll my eyes playfully, and he reaches for my arm, wrapping his thin hand around my wrist. “Don’t be like me, Chloe.” My eyes glisten with real tears now. I can’t stop one of them spilling over and inching down my cheek. “Why not?” I pat his hand gently. “You’re a great man, Paul. A great father, a great mentor. I’ve always wanted to be like you.” He sighs. “Not great. Decent, maybe. I don’t know. I tried. But I could’ve been a much better father to John. A much better person all around. I could have lived, Chloe. But I wanted to be safe. I wanted to pick the secure option, every time. I love John, and I loved his mother, but she left me after I abandoned her for the office, and I see now that I never needed to do that. I never needed to pick work over her. It never had to be one or the other. The office doesn’t need every ounce of our lives, Chloe. It doesn’t need to be the only thing we have.” His grip tightens, along with my throat. I can’t reply—if I try to say anything now, I know I’ll start crying hysterically, and that won’t help anyone. So I nod at him through the hazy swim of salt water in my vision. I keep nodding until the door opens again, John and his wife back with their coffees, and then I sniffle once, hard, and wipe my hand across my eyes. “I should get going,” I say as I rise, patting Paul’s wrist one last time. “You guys should chat, and you need to heal,” I add, pointing sternly at Paul. “Aye, aye, captain,” he replies with a weak grin.

I hug John and his wife both goodbye, then duck out of the room. Only when I’m safely outside of the hospital do I really let go. I let myself cry for him, the man who taught me everything I know about the place that I work and the job that I do. The man who has raised me up through the ranks, made me a better lawyer, and a better person just for knowing him. The man who just told me his greatest regrets, and who sounds terrifyingly similar to me in more ways than I ever imagined right now. My phone buzzes, and I wipe away my tears for long enough to squint at the screen. Just heard about Paul. I’m so sorry. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. Max. Of course he would know. Of course, of anyone in my world, he would understand exactly how I feel about my boss, and why he’s so much more than just a boss to me. And why this is so terrifying to watch. A fresh wave of tears trickle down my cheeks, though whether it’s in response to Paul’s situation or the sudden realization that maybe I judged Max too harshly, I’m not sure. Probably both. I mean, asking how he can help right now is not the response of the asshole I’ve been building him up to be in my head. I tap out a response. Can we meet? I’m sorry about earlier. There’s something I’d like to tell you. His response takes a few minutes to come, but when it does, some of the weight that’s been pressing down on my chest for the past two days straight begins to ease. Of course. Not at my place, though. I’ll text you the address. An address follows right after that message, and without bothering to google the place, I hail a cab and read the location to the driver. Paul is right. Work doesn’t need to be the only thing we have. And if I need to take a gamble to make sure it isn’t? Well, for a man like Max, it’s a gamble worth taking.

TWENTY-SIX

MAX

From the moment Chloe climbs out of the taxi, her makeup still smudged from where she’d obviously been crying at the hospital, her normally pristine blouse wrinkled and her hair mussed from her hurried journey, I know Travis was right. This is a woman worth fighting for. Even now, grief-stricken and harried and freaking out, she is gorgeous. I meet her on the curb, wrapping my arms around her without a word, and she buries her face in my chest, her shoulders tensed. I rub her back in slow circles, and bend down to rest my forehead on the crown of her head. I lose track of how long we stand there—the taxi is long gone by the time she draws in a deep breath and leans back to smile weakly up at me. “I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” she says, but before she even finishes, I stop her right there with a kiss. “You are no more of a mess than I am,” I promise. “How is Paul doing?” Her teeth edge around her lower lip, and a crease of worry appears on her forehead. I want nothing more than to smooth that away, to lift this pain and worry from her shoulders. But I know I can’t, not about this. “He’s up and down. I got to speak to him a little, he was conscious . . . the doctors aren’t sure yet, though. It’s going to be touch-and-go for a while, I think.” Her lower lip trembles, and I run my fingers through her hair, still holding her tight against me. “I’m sorry, Chloe. I know how close you two are. But Paul is a fighter. I can’t see him going down easy.” She smiles again, just a little bit, but it’s nice to see. Better than her near-tears expression, which could just about break my heart. “You’re right. He’s definitely going to fight it.” She sighs, then, the smile dropping from her lips as she steps back from me. Her expression looks almost sheepish now, if anything. “I’m sorry, too. About Friday night. I shouldn’t have. . .” She shakes her head, eyes on the ground. “I heard you talking on the phone in the middle of the night, and then I woke up and you were gone, and I just, all these insecurities I have flooded in, and I panicked and decided this wasn’t worth the risk.” I catch her hand in mine, lock our fingers together. It never ceases to surprise

me, how smoothly our hands fit together, how natural it feels, like finding a limb I hadn’t known I was missing. “I understand why you’re nervous, Chloe. I should have explained in more detail what happened that night—” She interrupts me with a shake of her head. “You don’t need to if you don’t want to, it’s fine. I trust you.” “But I do want to explain.” I glance around us at the street corner we're still standing on, lost in our own little bubble. More passersby are starting to pour out of neighboring shops, though, as the hour ticks by. Pretty soon the restaurants nearby will start to flood as well. "But not here. Inside." I tug on her hand gently, and she lets me lead her down the sidewalk into the small side door with no name on it, just a drawing of some fresh veggies beside fish and pasta. "What's this one, a vegetable themed bar?" she asks with a quirk to her lips, and the fact that she's joking eases the tightness in my chest just a little. "Not quite." I squeeze her fingers. "Though no promises on the cheesiness or lack thereof," I add, and she groans. But when we push through the inner doors to our destination, she falls silent. We're in what appears to be an underground wine cellar: brick ceiling, stacks of wine bottles on beehive-shaped crates in the corners and all. Except that the middle of the wine cellar has been cleared of wine, and built up like a modern kitchen—granite countertops circle the room, each one paired with two highbacked stools and its own set of electric burners, plus a small sink. There are a couple of other people dotting the room, but for the most part, it looks like we picked a quiet night. "Is this what I think it is?" Chloe murmurs. "You said we ought to come here for cooking lessons sometime," I reply, just as the head chef bustles into the room and takes her place behind the only counter without a pair of chairs before it. "I thought it might be good for tonight." I don't say it out loud, but I think this might be a good distraction. A way to get her mind off of Paul, while she's doing nothing but treading water, waiting to hear how he's doing. When she glances up at me with a small, grateful smile, and squeezes my hand back, I know she understands what I meant anyway, and she agrees. We sidle onto the nearest stools and listen to the chef explain tonight's menu: we'll be learning to cook Flounder Mediterranean. We spend the first half of the lesson busy, dicing tomatoes and mincing garlic and learning which order to put in the ingredients for the sauce, how long to blacken the fish for, all the little things that you can't really pick up from a cookbook. Chloe gets into it, setting little contests for us: who can mince their pile of garlic the fastest, who can cut their fish to look the most like the chef's demonstration. But by the time our sauce is simmering and our fish grilling, we've settled into an easy partnership, neither of us needing to speak as we share the duties together, each of us monitoring half the cooking. When we settle into a lull period, I clear my throat softly, fighting back nerves.

I've never tried to explain about Travis to anyone at work. It always sounded pretentious, talking about mentoring someone else when I hardly have my life together outside of the office. "So," I start, my eyes fixed on the simmering sauce. "I said I was going to explain." She watches me, silent, her gaze sympathetic. So I do. I tell her the whole story, not just of what happened on Friday night when I sped out of the house, but starting from the beginning. How I fell into mentoring as a resume booster, something I'm not proud of to start with. But how I got hooked, and how, once I met Travis, I knew I could actually help someone, work to change this kid's life for the better. He's a brilliant kid, he just needs a little extra attention sometimes, something his school isn't always equipped to give him. By the time I finish, Chloe has slid off her stool to wrap her arms around my shoulders, her temple resting against mine. "His mother is okay, though?" Chloe murmurs. "After her fall?" I reach up to run my hand through her hair, before I turn to draw her into a quick kiss. "She's doing just fine. Already back at work." I catch her eye and half-smile. "So, you never know. Sometimes these things work out all right in the end." Chloe smiles back, then leans in to press her lips to mine again, slower and softer this time. I close my eyes, let the kitchen and the sound and scents of the food melt away, until it's just her and I, alone in our bubble. "You lovebirds are going to burn this fish," a loud voice interrupts us, and we separate, grinning sheepishly, as the chef stops in front of our table, one eyebrow raised while she studies our dinner in progress. Flushing, Chloe takes up the spatula again, and we wait, nervous, as the chef samples our fish and sauce side. “Not bad,” she says, her eyes lighting up with a smile. “You two make a good team. But take it off the burner now, or it’ll overcook.” We snap into action, and finish plating the dish, though not without casting sideways glances at one another the whole time, both of us finding excuses to lean around each other so that our hands brush, our shoulders bump, our elbows touch as we work. In what feels like no time at all, we have a full dinner prepared, and as the chef makes another round of the room to check that everyone’s ready, we finally perch on our stools, ready to eat. A wine sommelier joins the class to discuss the wines they selected to pair with the meal we cooked, but honestly, half of whatever he’s saying just goes in one ear and out the other for me. I can’t stop stealing glances at Chloe, distracted by the serious, studious expression on her face as she listens to the sommelier speak, drawn in by the way her eyebrows knit together when she’s concentrating, and the adorable little moue her mouth makes when she’s swirling the wine glass the way he shows us, to draw out the flavors we’re supposed to be tasting. Normally I love this class, but tonight, Chloe draws all my attention. The way her perfect, hazel-gold eyes flutter closed as she sips her wine, the expression of

surprised delight on her face when she tastes a buttery slice of the fish we made; it’s more intoxicating to me than any flavor ever could be. As we’re settling in to enjoy our food, the class portion over, Chloe leans her shoulder against mine, perched on the edge of her stool. “Paul told me not to be like him,” she says as she cuts through her fish. “What’s so bad about being like him?” I raise my eyebrows. “He’s successful, well-respected in his field, looked up to by tons of people. He’s kind of your idol, isn’t he?” She quirks a tiny smile. “That’s what I said. But he told me he regrets spending too much of his time on work. He wishes he lived outside of the office, too.” She glances up at me with a sigh. “That’s a lesson we could both stand to listen to, I think,” I murmur softly. Then I cut a piece from my own fish, spear it on my fork, and extend it to her to try. “But this is a good start, right?” She locks eyes with me as she leans in to wrap her lips around my fork, drawing the fish off of the tines in a slow, sinuous motion that makes my blood pump faster. Her tongue lashes out to lick around her lips, purposeful, her gaze still on mine, and my cock stiffens against my jeans. “A pretty good start, I’d say,” she says, still smirking. Damn. She knows exactly how to get to me. Good thing I know her weaknesses too. I rest one hand on her knee, and trail the very tips of my fingers up her thigh, hardly touching her at all, just lightly enough that she’ll feel the pressure. When my hand reaches her upper thigh, I pull away and turn back to my food. “It’s a start, anyway.” When I glance back at her again, Chloe has her eyes narrowed, her legs crossed, and she looks slightly uncomfortable. Revenge is a great feeling. But she’s grinning, too, even as she glares at me. “To be continued,” she says, her voice low and dark with promise. Oh, it’s on now.

TWENTY-SEVEN

CHLOE

By the time we reach my doorstep, I’m ready to tear Max’s clothes off right here and now. He’s been teasing me all night, touching me and then drawing his hand away at the last moment. Especially in the cab, his palm slipping under my shirt so I could feel his bare skin against the small of my back, hot as a forest fire, and yet the moment I shifted toward him, he’d draw back again. To be fair, I’d done my fair share of torture/teasing right back. Every time I took a bite of anything, especially the ice cream the restaurant served us for dessert, I made sure to lock eyes with him and take my time licking the fork or spoon clean, my mouth parted just enough so that he could see my tongue working. Now we’re finally back at my place, and I’ve had more than enough of this tension to last a lifetime. Before I even finish turning my keys in the lock, I whip around to throw my arms around his neck, and he lifts me in his arms, my legs wrapped around his hips, his mouth ravaging mine as we crash through my apartment door. We don’t make it to the bedroom, or even to the couch. We stagger into the kitchen, right inside my entrance, and he balances my ass on the granite countertop as he pushes my skintight skirt up around my waist. I squeal a little as my bare ass, exposed in my tiny, bright red thong, hits cool granite. But things don’t take long to heat up, as he slides one hand under my ass to grip me roughly, his other hand tugging at my blouse. He pulls too hard, and buttons pop, go flying across the kitchen. Neither of us care. “I need you right fucking now,” he growls. He rips the shirt the rest of the way off and tosses it aside, his mouth already hot on my skin, sucking at my neck, my collarbone, working his way toward my aching breasts. “Take me,” I gasp, leaning back against the counter and bury one hand in his thick hair, gripping hard for balance, as I slide my other hand over his chest. He’s wearing a button-down too, so I return the favor and yank until it parts, his buttons joining mine on the kitchen floor. His shirt hangs open, and I trace my hand over his now-familiar chest, his solid abs and that irresistible little V by his hips, leading down, pointing like an arrow toward that gorgeous cock. I trace both sides of that V with my palm flat against his skin, and enjoy the way his muscles tighten

beneath my fingers. I have every bit as strong an effect on him as he does on me, and I fucking love seeing him react to me. Suddenly, he steps forward, pinning me against the counter with his weight, and reaches up to push my glasses up my forehead into my hair. “Miss MacIntyre." He levels his gaze at me, and a shiver runs through me at the command in his tone. That reaction makes him grin. "You've been accused of being too sexy for your own good." He dips one finger down the center of my chest and traces his way under my breast, pressing just hard enough that I feel the pressure of his finger, the subtle brush of his nail bed on my sensitive skin. When his finger crosses around the top of my breast and circles my tight nipple, barely touching so lightly, I have to fight the urge to squirm. "How do you plead?" he murmurs. I wriggle a little against the counter, and his fingers close around my nipple in a hard pinch. I gasp, my neck arcing to the side, startled. Then I fix my eyes on his, and curl my lips into a smile. "I'm afraid I'm guilty, Your Honor." "I see." He runs his finger down my side, following the curve of my waist, around to brush over my ass, still lightly, hardly touching me, and leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake. "What on earth are we going to do with you, then, Miss MacIntyre." His voice is so low and commanding that it makes me want to drop to my knees right here, do whatever he orders from me. I want him to order me, now. So I toss my long blonde curls to one side, my head tilted coyly. "I don't suppose you'll go easy on me for pleading guilty?" "I could. . ." he muses, drawing his finger around to brush the inside of my thighs. Oh god. "On the other hand, we could make an example of you. You need to be punished." My heart pounds with desire. Yes. I reach out to grab him then, to return the favor of his torturous hand on my thigh. But he slaps my ass hard with his other hand, suddenly, and I stifle a yelp, mostly from surprise. He catches my wrists and pins my hands to the counter, now, and I grin up at him. "I guess you'll just have to do your worst, Your Honor," I purr, my smile widening. "I'll give you your choice of punishment." He squeezes my ass hard, right where he just spanked, and I gasp again in spite of myself, my eyes fluttering half-closed. "We could give you a good hard spanking." "Tempting," I reply, and he half-drags me off the counter to slap my ass cheek again for good measure. "I wasn't finished." I bat my eyelashes. "Yes, Your Honor?" He pulls me the rest of the way off the counter, bends over me, his lips tantalizingly close, just inches from mine, as we stand bare chest-to-chest, his pecs digging into my tits. "Or, we can put that sinful mouth of yours to work."

My heart rate practically triples at that. But I try to play it coy, pursing my mouth as though I'm thinking hard, debating. "That's a hard choice, Your Honor," I say slowly. As I do, I slide one leg around his, slowly lifting my calf against his, trailing my leg up his. "Both options have their . . . attractions." He smiles down at me, slow and predatory. That expression alone makes me want to surrender right here to whatever this man wants to do to me. "I have been working on my oratory skills." I lift one eyebrow and flutter my lashes again. "On your knees, Miss MacIntyre. I want to feel those bee-stung lips around my cock.” Oh my God. I drop to my knees in front of him, already reaching for the zipper of his jeans. I can already see the outline of his hard cock through the fabric, and I want to taste him, make him come hard down my throat, make him lose control just like he does to me. "Ah ah." He catches my hands in his. "Hands behind your back, Miss MacIntyre." I fold them behind me, another thrill of anticipation tingling down my spine. I peer up at him from beneath my lashes, my expression sly. "Don't go easy on me, Your Honor." He unzips himself, draws his thick, solid cock from his boxers with one hand and runs his other hand through my hair before grabbing a fistful of my curls roughly and pulling my face toward his cock. "Oh, I don't intend to." I part my mouth to reply, and he pushes the tip of his cock into my mouth. Automatically, I open wider, flicking my tongue against his tip as he presses farther into my mouth. He goes slow at first, inching deeper and deeper as I force my mouth wider, my lips curled around his shaft, my tongue working against his solid girth. He tastes exactly the way he smells, entirely himself, a heady, intoxicating flavor that makes me wet with desire. “Suck me, you dirty little girl.” He tightens his fists in my hair, both hands now, and holds my face in place as he eases farther in. He touches the back of my throat, and I fight the reflex to gag, force my throat open wider to take him in, swallowing once, twice when I feel him twitch and buck his hips further into my face. “Fuck, Chloe, right there.” I want all of him, every inch. He draws away, his hips rocking away from me, then slides back in, faster this time, deeper. I wrap my tongue around him, press into him as he slides in and out, flicking across his tip whenever he pulls back, and I'm rewarded by faint groans from him as I do. I hit one spot in particular and he shouts, both fists clenching so hard it makes me wince, my eyes watering. And yet, the pain adds to the pleasure, knowing that I'm his, knowing he can use me for his pleasure however he desires, that he'll take me any way he likes. "You've been a bad girl, Miss MacIntyre."

I moan, my mouth still full of his cock, and the vibration makes him twitch between my lips. I tighten my lips in response and suck harder, as he starts to pump his hips against me, faster, thrusting deeper. “You dirty, dirty girl," he hisses as he fucks me faster still. “Fuck, Chlo, that mouth of yours is going to kill me.” I open my mouth fully now, taking every inch of him, as deep as I can. His balls slap against my chin as he thrusts into my mouth, and I can feel my throat muscles clenching and releasing around the tip of his cock. And the whole time I keep tonguing him as hard as I can, reveling in his groans and moans whenever I do. He fucks my throat, losing control. “Oh, fuck. I can’t . . . don’t stop, dirty girl,” he groans through his clenched teeth, and I clench my thighs together, desperately trying to stem my release. Is it possible to orgasm just from words alone? I lift my hands now, knowing he's too lost to stop me. I grab his ass and pull him against my face, even as he uses his grip on my hair to thrust into me over and over. When he comes, it's with a loud, desperate moan, spurting deep inside my throat. He continues to come as I lick and suck at him, taking every last drop, my tongue lapping at his still-hard shaft, sucking him dry. When I finally sit back on my heels, his legs seem to go weak. He drops to his knees in front of me, pulls me against him for a deep kiss, his tongue exploring the space his cock just claimed. When we break apart, both of us panting, he squeezes my ass hard, a promise of the rest of the night yet to come, his mouth inching down my neck and leaving sharp little bites the whole way down. "I cannot get enough of you, Chloe MacIntyre." I grin and pull his face up to mine, kissing his lips, his cheek, his jawline, down his throat. "Nor I you, Max Davis," I whisper against his ear. And for the first time since I can't remember, everything feels right in the world.

TWENTY-EIGHT

MAX

The next two weeks pass in a blur. There’s case work all day every day, and sometimes extra work to take home. But home has become half the time at my place and half the time at Chloe’s. Taking work back from the office becomes a lot more enjoyable when you can take breaks between work to distract your partner in increasingly more creative ways. My personal favorite lately is when Chloe whipped out a blindfold and led me into her bedroom, only to shove me against the door while she knelt in front of me and undid my dress pants, leaving my shirt on, and my hands free to grip her hair as she pulled my cock free, licking every inch of me. But then again, that might just be my favorite because it was last night. So far every night has been better than the last, even the one night when we were both so spent that we just collapsed in each other’s arms on my comfy but definitely not stylish couch, and woke up at dawn all tangled up in each other. I can’t get enough of this woman. The rumors have started to percolate at work, but so far we’ve managed to stave them off. We don’t arrive together, or if we do, I dart off to fetch us both coffee before meeting back in her office, so not too many people see us come in hand-inhand. Eventually, we know, the cat will get out of the bag. But we’ll face that bridge when we come to it. For now, we’re just enjoying the journey. But now, this morning, we have our first huge hurdle to face together. Suzie Steel’s trial. “You ready?” Chloe asks me as we pause outside the courtroom, notes stacked in our briefcases, both of us dressed to the nines. “Always. You?” I cast her a sideways smile, the private one I only reserve for her. I reach up to brush a stray hair from her forehead in a simple, smooth motion. The last time I’ll be able to touch her for the next five hours, after we enter the court. That alone is more torturous than this whole case put together. But her wide, relaxed smile puts me at ease. Much as it will pain me to keep my hands off of her for now, I know we’ll always have later tonight to look forward to. “As long as I’ve got you with me, we can’t lose,” she murmurs. Then the doors open and we stride into the courtroom side-by-side, an

unstoppable team. Suzie’s already waiting for us, and her eyes flash between us in appreciation. We haven’t told her anything either, but I’m pretty sure she’s picked up on our vibes by now, given how often we’ve met this last week, doing our final prep. Besides, Suzie always had an inkling something was possible between us. Probably before Chloe or I even noticed it ourselves. “You two look awfully fine together,” Suzie murmurs under her breath as she shakes our hands. “A matched set.” “I wouldn’t say that,” I say as we fold ourselves into our chairs on either side of Suzie. “Chloe’s much too good-looking to match me.” Chloe shoots me a playful glare, even as Suzie swats my arm. “So you did finally notice, huh?” Suzie pumps my bicep once, painfully hard. “Finally?” I lift an eyebrow. “I always knew, I just didn’t want to expand Miss MacIntyre’s ego too painfully.” “Oh, sure, it’s my ego we need to worry about,” she hisses back across Suzie. “We?” Suzie interrupts. We both snap our mouths shut, but that does nothing to stave off our client’s knowing chuckle. Luckily, Chloe and I fare much better in court than we do in dodging Suzie’s laser-sharp sexual-tension-radar. We walk through the case with record ease. Or maybe it’s just that I’ve never walked through a case with Chloe before—watching her speak years earlier was impressive enough, but being on her team, knowing all the work and forethought she puts into her courtroom performance, that just makes it even more impressive to witness as she struts her stuff in front of the judge. We trade off, but I can’t help feeling her speeches are stronger than mine. Or maybe I’m just biased, because I can’t tear my eyes from her whenever she’s up there, on fire at the front of the room, denouncing the way this company has stolen our client’s brand, repurposed it for themselves, taken Suzie’s hard work and tried to profit off of it when they haven’t done an ounce of legwork to build a fitness empire like Suzie did. By the end of the long, long day, when everyone has started to droop in their seats, Chloe is still going strong, her eyes still alight with righteous indignation as she delivers our closing remarks on behalf of us both. I have to resist the overpowering urge to grab her hand when she finally returns to her seat. I want to tell her how amazing she is right here. But that will have to wait until the judge issues his decision. The judge calls for a break, and we both turn toward Suzie, expecting that we’ll need to reassure her right now. Suzie, however, looks more relaxed than either one of us, leaning back in her seat, her hands folded behind her head. “I can’t lose,” she tells us when we ask how she’s holding up. “Not with both of you on my side. And working together as well as you do.” She flashes me a wink. I expect Chloe to retort, but she jumps a little in her seat, and then fishes in her

briefcase to withdraw her phone. The screen lights up with a number, buzzing repeatedly. One glance at the screen makes her face pale, her normally confident expression slide right off her mouth. “What’s wrong?” I lean across Suzie to catch her eye. Chloe glances at me, swallows hard, her lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s the hospital,” she says. “Paul’s room.” “Answer it,” I tell her, firmly. “But . . . what if it’s not. . .” She sucks her lower lip between her teeth to worry at it. “Answer it, Chloe. You won’t be able to relax until you do.” We’ve heard updates on and off over the last couple of weeks from Paul’s son John and his wife Abbey, but nothing conclusive. Always just more of the same— they’re running tests, they don’t know yet when they can release him, they aren’t sure yet if he might relapse. Chloe closes her eyes as she taps on the screen and lifts the phone to her ear. Screw propriety. Screw the courtroom. I slide out of my seat and walk around the table to stand beside her, my hand resting lightly on her shoulder. Chloe lifts her hand to wrap her fingers around mine and squeeze so tight it almost hurts, as she tilts her head to listen to the person on the other line. I don’t know how long we stand like that. Luckily the judge’s recess is lasting quite a while, because she’s perched on the edge of her seat, her whole body held like a breath. I feel the same way, unable to relax or let go of the tension flooding me until I’m sure that Paul—and by extension, Chloe—will be okay. Finally, she lowers the phone with a soft, murmured, “Thanks for letting me know.” Her head bows as she taps on the screen to disconnect the call, and her fingers quiver in mine. My stomach clenches. Oh shit. “Chloe. . . ?” She finally lifts her head to meet my eye, and there are tears sparkling in hers. But a huge smile spreading across her face. “They’re releasing him today. He’s going to be okay.” Without thinking, I lift her out of her seat, wrap both arms around her as she half-laughs, half-almost cries in relief. The whole courtroom, or at least those who remained to sit through the recess, stare at us in confusion, but I don’t care. “I told you he was tough,” I whisper into the cloud of her crazy, flyaway blonde hair, and Chloe laughs against my chest, face buried in my shoulder. When she sucks in a deep breath again, I let her go, just in time for the judge to step back into the room. Thank you, she mouths at me as we slide back into our respective seats. “What the heck was that?” Suzie elbows me when I perch next to her again. “Long-awaited good news,” I reply. “Let’s hope it’s only the first set of good tidings today, though.” Luckily, the judge doesn’t make us all wait long after returning. “In the matter

concerning Suzie Steel versus Brothers’ Court Fitness Company, creators of the Rotator, the court finds the defendant, Brothers’ Court Fitness Company. . .” I hold my breath. One glance across the bench at Chloe tells me she’s doing the same. Beneath the table, where she probably thinks that no one can see—and probably nobody can except me and maybe Suzie—she has both of her fingers crossed, and her hands clutched together like she’s praying. “Is liable of trademark infringement in the use of the slogan ‘Rub it in’ in their most recent television and radio commercial campaign.” All three of us let go the breaths we’d been holding as one. Suzie straight up high-fives Chloe, then slaps my ass above the court bench, not even bothering to wait to hear the judge finish reading his decision before her celebrations begin. I elbow her into silence as he finishes his stating the facts and conclusions of law, talking about the necessity of protecting unregistered trademarks for businesses like Suzie Steel’s fitness empire, where the brand may not necessarily be something you can register (like Suzie herself, who is, I have to agree, pretty unquantifiable), but when you don’t want to misrepresent to the customer what a brand creator does or doesn’t agree with (for example, the questionable safety of the Rotator as a fitness device). We stick around to finish the court proceedings, but as Chloe and I are clearing up to head out for the day—and looking forward to celebrating both of today’s wins later tonight, in her apartment, with the scented massage oil that I bought as a surprise for her—Suzie pauses beside the bench, both hands on her hips, in full-on sassy Suzie mode now. “So. Now that our case is done, can you two admit that you’re hooking up yet?” Chloe’s flush probably says it all, but I feel duty-bound to defend her honor. “That’s hardly something we can discuss with a client, Ms. Steel,” I respond, in my best courtly-serious voice. “I suppose that’s the closest thing to confirmation I’ll ever get from a pair of lawyers, huh?” She smirks at us. “Would it be going too far to take credit for this one? Admit it, it was all the rubbing it in, wasn’t it.” Not gonna lie, I’m enjoying the neon shade of red that Chloe’s turning. I sling an arm around her shoulder and tug her against my side, in what I hope looks to most of the courtroom like a congratulatory embrace. Though, if I’m honest, I don’t really care what they all think. They’ll find out eventually anyway, if my gut feeling about this is right. And I have a pretty good instinct for being able to tell when something will work out. “We will forever be indebted to your workout videos,” I tell Suzie, straightfaced. You’d be surprised how flexible they’ve made us.” Suzie’s grin widens. “Well. Congratulations on waking up and smelling the pheromones, kids.” Chloe elbows me accidentally-on-purpose as she reaches out to shake Suzie’s hand. “Congratulations to you, too, Ms. Steel. What do you plan on doing now?” “Me? Oh, I’ve always got something up my sleeve, don’t you worry. Heck, maybe

I’ll branch out of the fitness bizz and into the self-help sector.” She winks. “I’m getting pretty good at matchmaking.” Only when Suzie strides away from us, across the room to thank her loyal rubbers who turned out to speak on her behalf, do I realize that I still have my arm slung around Chloe’s shoulders. It feels so natural to touch her, I hardly notice. Reluctantly, I pull my arm away, back to my side. As I do, Chloe’s eyes flash toward mine. She’s smiling, too, brighter than I’ve ever seen her smile. “What about us?” I ask her in a low tone. “What do you think is over the horizon for us, MacIntyre?” She casts an eye around the courtroom before she answers, taking her time. “Well. I’d say if the way this case went is any indication, you and I make quite the team, Max Davis.” Her smile turns mischievous. “Assuming, of course, that you’re up to the task of courting me.” I take a slow step toward her, the air between us alive with tension. We can’t touch, not here, but our eyes on one another are enough of a promise of what’s to come that I can stand the separation. For now. “Hmm, well, it may be a difficult case,” I answer slowly, then grin when she swats my arm and huffs. “But you know what they say. Every new case is an opportunity in disguise.” I lean in, just inches away from her, and breathe my next words so low that no one else in the room can hear. “But you, my beautiful girl, will always be worth fighting for.”

EPILOGUE CHLOE

Six Months Later…

“Is that the last one?” I call up the steps as the movers brush past me with another armful of boxes. Max sticks his head into the stairwell, hair mussed, forehead damp with sweat. “Not yet.” He jogs down the steps toward me. His T-shirt is sticking to his chest and his abs, which affords me quite the view from where I’m waiting at the bottom of the steps, hands on my hips. I let my eyes graze over him as he heads my way, and not for the first time in the last 6 months of my life do I marvel at the fact that I get to call this sex god mine. The sex god, however, sure does come with his share of baggage. “I think there’s another six boxes in the truck, and then the stuff I stuck in the car last night.” I can’t help rolling my eyes, though I’m grinning at the same time. “Seriously, dude, how do you even own this many things?” “It’s 90% books,” he protests. “I have a lot of reading to keep up with.” “When was the last time you actually read any of those books?” I laugh. He wraps his arms around my waist in response, and tugs me against him, sweat and all. God, he smells great when he’s been working out. He calls me weird for saying so, but I can’t resist him in moments like this, or when he’s fresh home from a long run around the neighborhood of our new home, half an hour outside the city, a cozy little two-bedroom that even has its own backyard. I’d forgotten what that was like. I’d forgotten what having anything besides a day job felt like. Max dips his head to kiss me, long and slow. I taste salt on his lips, mingled with that pure essence of him that drives me so wild. I slide my arms around his neck, my hands tracing their way up to get lost in his mussed black hair, which he’s let grow a little bit now, almost down to his ears. It looks sexy on him. Not business proper the way he dresses at the office. More like I’m in charge, and I’m going to

take advantage of you right now. His tongue slips between my lips, and for a moment, I lose track of time. That is, until another mover stomps past us, more of Max’s books in his arms. This is the last load of things from his old apartment. Most of his day-to-day stuff was in the house already, but since his lease Displaying off limits new cover.jpgdidn’t end until now, we waited to haul the remainder of his possessions over. I’m slightly regretting our stalling now that I’ve realized how many stacks of books he had hidden around his place, though. I lean back a little, biting his lower lip just before I break away from the kiss entirely. “You know, no amount of kissing is going to make me forget to tease you about how many copies of Lord of the Rings you own,” I point out. “Probably not,” he agrees. “But it might make you forget to get annoyed about the new bookshelf I bought for the dining room and besides, I saw that copy of Man Candy on your nightstand, babe,” he says teasing me about my own guilty pleasure. “Oh, brother,” I treat him to the eye roll he’s got coming. ”Where are we going to—” "Relax, it's a small one this time! Last one, I promise." He extends a pinky to me, and I lean in to bite it in response. "I get to eat your pinky if you're lying," I mutter. "Well, you do know how I enjoy it when you eat me," he replies, winking. I roll my eyes and shove him, though not hard enough to actually push him out of reach. I enjoy feeling his arms around me too much, damn him. “Do I?” I peer up at him. “Or do I just enjoy the view while I do?” I wink. "I knew it." He stands straight, shaking his head with a morose expression. "You're only using me for my looks." I snort and swat his chest lightly. "I've got bad news for you buddy, you aren't getting away that easily. I'm in this for the long haul. Even when you're old and gray and fat from eating too many In-N-Out burgers—” "First of all, there is no such thing as too many In-N-Out burgers," he corrects me with an arched brow. "And second of all. Good." He bends to kiss me again, gently this time. "Because you're stuck with me, too, gorgeous girl. I hope you know what you've signed up for." "I always read my contracts before I sign," I remind him, leaning up on tiptoe to kiss him back. "And this one? I've got to say I am more than happy with the terms." I rest my head on his chest, my gaze traveling out front to the sprawling lawn outside, and in the distance, the little copse of trees that I think reminded us both of the mushroom forest, when we found this apartment. Standing there, on the brink of starting our future together, nestled in this house, I can't think of anyone whose stacks of boxes I'd rather share, or anyone in the world whose arms I'd rather be in. "One more thing," he adds, a mischievous note in his tone.

"There's not another load of boxes, is there?" I reply with a raised eyebrow in warning. He smirks. "On my honor, Your Honor." I laugh, my cheeks flushing a little as one of the movers passes us at that moment. Good thing Max likes it when I blush. "What is it?" "I filed my change of address form with HR today." My throat tenses up. It's been an unspoken not-so-secret at work that we're together. Neither of us said anything, but neither of us didn't say anything, either. Not even when Martha "popped by" my office to interrogate me about who I'm dating now, since I "look so happy and full of life all the time lately." And not even when Hannah stopped touching Max's arm all the time and started making subtly annoyed comments to the other secretaries about my man-thieving ways. The only time I came close to saying something was when Paul summoned me to his office about two months ago, fully recovered and back to work, albeit with greatly reduced office hours. "You and that Davis kid get along pretty well, huh?" he said, the question evident in his eyes, though at least unlike everyone else, he didn't try to ask me point-blank. "We do," I admitted, trying to study his expression, to glean some idea of whether or not he approved. I didn't need to study him too closely. Paul's expression broke into a broad grin. "I met my wife at the office, you know. Total cliché. Boss falls for his doting secretary. But we made a great team, before I let it all fall to shit by not putting her first enough, not being there for her." Paul's eyes narrowed, then. "If he ever stops putting you first, believe me, he will rue the day." I laughed softly. "You know? I’m not even worried about that, honestly.” Paul’s smile deepened. "That's when you know it’s the real deal, kid. So don't you two worry your heads about any of the particulars here. Concentrate on what's most important, Chloe. Don't lose sight of that." It was the closest thing to a blessing we were going to get, I knew, and it was plenty for me. "I won't," I promise him. "What did they say?" I ask, and it feels a bit ridiculous, two grown people needing to ask a third party for permission to fall in love, but it's the way of the world nowadays, I guess. Max just laughs softly. "They said, and I'm quoting here, 'About damn time, you two.'" I laugh too, and this time when he pulls me into his arms, I relax against him completely, sighing with content. "Well then. I guess it's official now." "I guess so." He bends to nibble on my ear, and that rain of shivers he always manages to induce trickle down my spine. "Team MacDav for life." I punch him this time. "Oh my God you are so damn cheesy." “Told you so." "This is your idea of a romantic line?"

He bites my ear again a little harder. "Well, I could say I love you but you're probably sick of hearing that one." I roll my eyes, even as I bury my hand in his hair. "Never." "Well then. I love you, Chloe." "I love you too, babe.” "And we're changing the name of the house to MacDav, by the way. I've already filed the paperwork." I wriggle out of his arms and glare at him. "Motion to appeal." "Denied." "On what grounds?" I cross my arms. "On the grounds that I say so." He loops an arm around my waist and pulls me against him in one smooth motion. As our bodies crush together, his heat spilling around me, he leans down to claim my lips once more, kissing me long and hard. "Fine,” I reply when we part. “On one condition.” He lifts an eyebrow. "What's that?" I grin. "Tonight it's my turn to be the judge."

THE END

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EXCERPT OF TEACH ME

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“Looks like you dressed for the occasion." “You said I should come prepared, professor." She wriggles beneath me. I bring my hand down on her bare ass, just sharp enough to make her feel it, not enough to leave a mark. She inhales sharply, her hips bucking. “And have you, Ms. Reed? Or will I need to reprimand you more thoroughly?” When Harper Reed came to Oxford, her dream was to study modern poetry with the infamous Professor Jack Kingston, NOT to sleep with him. But his lectures are intoxicating, his knowledge captivating, and his accent drops panties faster than Charlie Hunnam on a Saturday night. Harper has never made good decisions when it comes to sex and Jack has never been able to commit, yet there’s something between them that neither of them has felt before. But students and teachers are not supposed to fraternize, even as this out of control connection puts both of their futures on the line. When their forbidden love is tested, can they make the grade?

Chapter One Harper I’m late. I force my legs to move faster, hugging my sheepskin coat around my body as I hurry through the cobblestone streets. By day, I’ve gotten decent at navigating Oxford—it’s not as big as London, so I can remember most of the major streets around the colleges. But it’s not as well-organized as London, either, so when I try to guess where a side street ought to be based on which road it runs parallel to, it doesn’t end well.

And, of course, I still haven’t fixed my US cell phone, so I don’t have GPS service either, only a basic text and call plan. I am actually using a paper map to get around. Mary Kate had better be grateful I’m coming to this damn party. I pause in the glow of windows from a corner pub to study the paper. “Need a hand there?” drawls a Scottish guy, a cigarette drooping from one lip and a foamy beer cooling in his fist. Beside him, an older guy is chugging a Guinness like there’s a prize for first to finish. “I’m looking for, um.” I squint at the text she sent me once again. Hey there my favorite USian pen pal. So excited you are finally coming to Englandia for more than just a week! You’re gonna love Oxford. I get into town the night before term starts—my friends are having a fancy dress party at 5 Pusey St. You better come or else!!! How long has it been since you were last in London, 2 years? You owe me a visit Xoxo. P.S. —wear your best habit! ;) “5 Pusey Street?” I say. The man shakes his head and takes the map from me. “This is us.” He points at one side. “You gotta go back up Broad to St. Giles, hang a right—you know where the Bird and Baby is?” I shake my head. His friend finishes his beer and belches. “The Eagle and Child,” he corrects the first guy. “Can’t you hear she’s not from around here?” “You don’t sound like you are either,” I snap, though I feel bad the moment I do. He’s from closer to here than I am. “Sorry. I know it. Thanks,” I tell them both. I’m just grumpy because it means I walked fifteen minutes in the dead wrong direction. I trudge past the row of stately buildings and colleges that look like they were plucked from a medieval movie set and plunked down in a modern-day parking lot. The Eagle and Child was the first pub I visited on my first day in Oxford. I’ve been trying to soak up the literary scene here, and that pub is famous for being Tolkien and C.S. Lewis’s haunt back in the day. My grumpiness eases as I study the side streets I pass, where old-fashioned street lamps illuminate cobblestones and chatty gaggles of students, voices loud from drink and white with smoke. Even the air smells inspiring. Fall mixed with the faint musk of rain on its way later. If there’s anywhere in the world I’m going to forget about Derrick—no, don’t even think his name, I scold myself—it’s here. If there’s anywhere I can find my inspiration again, anywhere I can start to write the poetry that I’m starving without, it’s here. And now I’m on my way to my first-ever British college party, to meet up with the girl I’ve been best pen pals with since we were 11 years old. Life is good. I have a huge grin on my face once more by the time I find the turn off of St. Giles and onto the side street where she sent me. At the entrance, I ring the buzzer and unbutton my jacket to smooth down my gray silk blouse and knee-length black

skirt. It hugs my hips just right to show I’m fun, not enough to show I can’t handle myself at a high society event. Mary Kate said fancy dress party, after all, and her joke about me dressing like a nun aside, I assume she meant I should wear my classiest outfit. This is, after all, my fresh start. Things are going to be different here. I’m going to be different. No more screw-ups. No more sneaking past Derrick’s roommates because I need to be kept secret; no more hooking up with that jerk film major who, it turns out, was just using me for my key to the English House. No more any assholes like that. I’m starting over here. A buzzer sounds from somewhere inside the building. I push open the door and follow MK’s text directions upstairs to the third floor. Even through the door, I can hear the sound of raised voices and loud music. I guess fancy parties can still be fun ones. I try the knob, find it open, and push open the door. Then I freeze like a deer in headlights, and gape at the scene within. The first people to catch my eye are a trio of guys in pope hats, fishnet leggings and black high heels. A girl in a nun habit and what looks like a bathing suit bikini takes photos of the guys while they perform a chorus kick line. “Welcome, welcome!” Another girl, this one in a low-cut shirt and bodice that look like something out of Oktoberfest, sweeps toward the door. “Don’t be shy, come on in!” “Sorry, I—I think I have the wrong address,” I stammer, fumbling in my coat pockets for my cell. “Don’t be silly! You must be Harper—MK’s in the kitchen.” Oktoberfest girl grabs my jacket from my shoulders and slides it off me and onto a coatrack nearby. “Can I get you anything? Some Pope Juice maybe?” I blink at her in confusion, and my gaze drifts back to the guys in pope hats. She giggles. “It’s punch, darling, don’t worry. Nothing sinister.” She grabs my hand and leads me through an old, rundown looking apartment toward a dingy kitchen. “I’m Amber, I went to school with MK. She was always talking about you, you know. I gotta admit, you aren’t what I expected.” Amber’s eyes dart up and down my long skirt, and the conservative, expensive blouse I picked out for this occasion, which I clearly and totally misunderstood. “What are you supposed to be, an actual nun?” “Escaped from a convent,” I manage. We reach the kitchen, and a mass of boobs and hair assaults me in a giant, bonecrushing hug. Mary Kate is dressed in her sluttiest best. Somehow she makes the skin-tight neon red miniskirt and matching pleather bustier totally work. It probably helps that she’s 5’10” of Victoria’s Secret model proportions. “Hi MK,” I manage to squeak out. “I thought you’d never get here!” she exclaims dramatically, still squeezing all the air from my lungs while she plants a wet kiss on my cheek. Someone’s already been at the pope juice, I see.

When she finally lets me go to breathe, I grin up at her. I could never stay mad at MK for long. She’s the one friend I could always pour my soul out to, ever since we were kids and our parents arranged for us to write letters through a pen pal program so we could both “experience new cultures” through each other. She’s the only person who knows the whole story about he-who-must-not-benamed, too. “Me?” I exclaim. “I thought you would never get here! You left me wandering around Oxford alone and confused for a whole week of foreign student orientation.” “I’m sorry darling—you know how the Mother can be. Punch?” She extends a fistful of some sort of violently red beverage. “You also didn’t explain the whole fancy dress thing,” I point out as I accept the punch. “I honestly thought you knew.” She pouts. She does look sorry. “Tarts and Vicars is a tradition on campus. Haven’t you ever seen Bridget Jones?” I snort into my cup of punch. Mm. The drink is pretty damn tasty. Pure sugar, just the way I like. MK spins to face the rest of the kitchen. A gaggle of guys and girls in various stages of undress smile at us expectantly. “Now. Let me introduce the crew.”

Three sips into my second round of punch, I realize my mistake. This stuff is strong. Mary Kate has migrated upstairs to the roof with a hot American guy I vaguely recognize from exchange orientation. Even though she paused to wink over his shoulder at me before going, I feel a little bit abandoned. First she brings me here without explaining what the hell “fancy dress” parties really entail, then she skips out with the first hot guy who winks at her? I mean, yes, her new boytoy displays an impressive arsenal of temptation, but really, she couldn’t have made sure I was okay first? Her friends from the kitchen have dissipated, and to be honest, I didn’t remember any of their names yet anyway. I walk (okay, stumble) toward the confessional booth in the corner. I haven’t seen anyone go in and out of it all night—it seems more like a party prop than anything else. Adding to the atmosphere. I only wish I’d known what that atmosphere would be before I agreed to meet MK tonight. This is everything I swore I would avoid this semester. I slide open the door to the right-hand booth of the confessional. I have to hand it to whoever designed this thing—it looks just like the real deal. I stare down at a red-cushioned seat, complete with a kneeler in front of it. Between this confessional booth and the left-hand one hangs a thin wooden screen, carved in elaborate curlicues, through which I can only glimpse shadows. Looks like both

sides are empty, as far as I can tell. I collapse onto the seat of one booth and pull the flimsy door shut behind me. It doesn’t do much to block out the sound of the party, but it helps. My head throbs. I’ve been so good all summer. Not a single drink until now. Looks like I’ve lost my tolerance. I set my remaining punch on the ledge beside my seat and lean my head back against the headrest with a groan. The wooden walls around me seem to close in, hug me close, comforting in their familiarity. I sat inside confessionals just like this as a kid, back when Mom and Dad still made us go to Sunday mass. Someone should’ve warned them that convincing me and Tara to be good Christian girls would never work. But I always did like this part. Closing myself into a secret dark place, unburdening my secrets to someone who actually cared to listen. I breathe out a sigh. I need to distract myself, so I start talking. “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It’s probably been . . . I don’t know, ten years since my last confession.” I’m speaking to myself, of course. So when a sigh answers me from the neighboring confessional, I nearly fall off the pew. “You’ve got me beat by five,” says a deep, masculine voice. My face flames red-hot. Good thing it’s dark in here. “Oh god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know anyone else was in here. I’ll go, I’m sorry,” I babble at the wooden separator. He laughs softly. “Relax. I don’t own the place.” Now that my heart isn’t pounding from surprise, it starts to pound all over again for a different reason. Dear lord, that accent. He sounds nothing like the Cockney boys down in London, or even the guys leading my orientation group, with their posh upper-class enunciation. His voice is more natural, smooth on the ears. I can’t place it, and I’m good at accents. It makes me want to stay and tease it out of him. “I’m not sure if I should be relieved or disappointed,” I reply, smiling even though I know he can’t see me in the shadows of the booth. “This lovely abode isn’t yours?” I glance through a crack in the booth door. On the worn and torn sofa, which sits directly opposite me, a girl in a schoolgirl miniskirt undoes the stark white collar of a guy in full priest garb. Okay, it’s cheesy, but I’ve got to hand it to them, now that my initial shock and embarrassment has started to wane—the party guests really went all-out with their outfits. “Alas, no.” He still sounds like he’s laughing. “This, ah . . . abode belongs to a pair of my very good friends. Who decided it would be hilarious to lure me over with the promise of, and I quote, a ‘quiet start of term dinner.’ ” I snort. “Oh, so you were an unwitting participant as well? I wish I’d known the dress code was going to be so . . . specific.” “Let me guess: a friend of yours played dupe the unwitting American?” So he’s listening to my accent too. For some reason that makes my breath hitch,

even as the rest of me flares at the accusation. “I am not unwitting.” “Shh, I’m still guessing. You’re studying abroad, your friends texted you an invite to a fancy dress bash or something similarly obscure, and then they all pulled innocent faces when you arrived. Happens every semester. Just be glad they didn’t invite you to a formal dinner and tell you it was tarts and vicars party—I’ve seen that happen too.” Something about his easy manner, the fact that he’s so sure he’s right (never mind that he is) makes me want to prove him wrong. What’s the harm? I’ll never see him again. “Actually,” I say, enunciating the word so sharply I almost sound British myself. “I live in London. I’m just up for the weekend to visit a friend who works here. She sent me the wrong address.” There’s a pause from the adjoining booth. “So you decided to stick around this party solo? You’re braver than I’d be.” He sounds impressed, which makes me bolder. “There were free drinks. Why not?” Never mind that I apparently couldn’t even handle 1.5 of those drinks. If I’m making up a whole new persona, I might as well run with it. I lower my voice, inject a little sultry sting. “Besides, it’s been a long time since I’ve had a chance to flirt with a vicar.” I expect him to laugh again. I’m starting to like his laugh, a sharp, surprised exhale of air like he’s not used to the sound, but he enjoys it when it bursts free. Instead of that laugh, I hear a rustle from the adjoining booth. When he speaks again, he’s closer and quieter. His shadow leans right up against the wooden curlicue divider. “Is that so, my child?” His tone has turned playful, but there’s something else under it. Something that sounds an awful lot like desire. “It has, I admit, been a very long time since I’ve been flirted with.” My pulse leaps through my veins. What’s the harm? it says. You can’t even see his face. You could be anyone. Say anything. “That is a shame,” I murmur, inching closer to the thin barrier between us myself. “Are you sure you remember how it’s done?” “I think I can figure it out.” He presses his hand to the wooden scrollwork. I lift mine, press it to my side. My skin thrills where it brushes his; I can feel his warm palm between pieces of the rough wood. Whoever built this booth used cheap material. Feels like the divider is nothing more than a couple centimeters of balsa wood. As though reading my mind, his other hand traces the edges of the panel. I imitate him and find a latch at the top. My finger pauses on it, toys with the idea of removing this flimsy shield between us. “But is it only flirting that you’re interested in?” I half-smile, wondering if he can see me through the latticework. It’s so dark in here I can’t see anything of him beyond the outline of his hand, a darker shadow where his head tilts toward the sound of my voice. “I must confess: impure thoughts do come to mind. Quite a lot of them, actually.

But should we really desecrate this sacred space?” His voice drips in sarcasm, and he drums his fingers on the wall, a beat that reverberates through my palms. My smile widens. “Father, is this space not meant for unburdening our darkest selves? Do we not enter here to confess the desires of our weak bodies?” “What is it your body desires now?” he whispers, the joking, priestly affectation gone, only his deep, radio-perfect voice remaining. My finger flips the latch, and the balsa wood screen between us unhinges. We both press our other hands to it reflexively and catch it between us, one hand on either side. Then he takes hold of the screen and lets it drop to his side of the cubicle. We stare at one another through the newly opened space. I still can’t see much. A strand of hair that hangs in his eyes. An angled jaw, a slice of cheekbone, a hollow where his eyes are. I don’t need to be able to see them to know he’s staring straight at me. I can feel it. A tiny part of my brain yells at me to hold up. Think this through. Remember last time? it shouts, and I can still picture he-who-must-not-be-named. The reason I applied to study abroad this semester in the first place, so I could get a break from his stupid, knowing smirk. But this is what I came here for. A fresh start. To get my mind off the past, off every bad decision I’ve made since setting foot on the Penn campus. What better way to start over than a harmless fling with an innocent guy I’ll never see again (or never see at all, for that matter)? Instead of answering him, I lean through the newly created opening and run my hands through his silk-smooth hair. He pauses an inch from my face, his nose brushing mine. “Walk on air against your better judgment,” he breathes, hot against my lips. It doesn’t seem like he’s talking to me. More to himself. Deep in the recesses of my mind, the tiny part that’s still functioning buzzes with recognition—I know that line. From where? Then I forget all about it, because his lips crush against mine. His hands tangle in my hair tightly. I let my fingers run through his hair down the back of his neck to curl around his white-hot skin. He breaks away, grabs a fistful of my hair to tilt my head to one side. His lips graze my jawline, followed fast by his teeth, sinking into the soft spot just beneath my ear, hard enough to leave a mark. “You taste just as good as you sound,” he murmurs. I groan. Something about the fact that he hasn’t bothered to ask my name— hasn’t even waited to see my face before taking me—is so fucking hot. “I could say the same about you, Father,” I whisper. His rough stubble scratches my cheek as I catch his ear between my teeth and bite down hard in response. That earns me a soft, guttural growl. There’s a splintering sound. He cracks through the remainder of the flimsy wall between us with one knee. For a second I freeze, afraid someone must have heard

that. They’ll open the door, find us in here. But outside, someone screams a terrible karaoke rendition of the newest Adele song. Background music blasts, cups clank, and the party rages on, no one the wiser about what’s happening behind the closed doors in this tiny, abandoned corner of the room. “Don’t worry.” I can practically hear the grin in his voice. “They won’t hear us. Not until I make you really scream.” Then his lips dig into mine once more and he’s lifting me, one arm around my waist, dragging me over the partition into his side of the confessional. “Forgive me, child, for I plan to sin.” “Is it wrong that I think I’ll enjoy it?” I lean down to lick his lips. He grabs my legs, adjusts me so I’m straddling him and runs his hands down my back to my skirt. “Only enjoy it? Oh, I think we can do better than that.” He toys with the waistband for a moment, then drops his hands farther, reaching for the hem at my knees. I grab at the hem of the thin shirt he’s wearing, but he catches my wrist. “Clothes on,” he whispers, more a command than a request. My heart skips a beat. Then he shoves up the hem of my too-long, too-proper skirt. It bunches around my waist, but he leaves it there and hooks a finger through my thong, tugging it down my legs inch by inch. The edge of his finger skates across my pussy, just a teasing brush, as he pulls my underwear down. “Wet already, I see. Why, it’s almost as if you’re more than enjoying this.” He stops when the thong is halfway down my thighs, and I wriggle, trying to pull it the rest of the way off. He holds me still with one firm arm around my waist. Fine. That’s how he wants to play it? My turn. “Seems like I’m not the only one enjoying this.” I drop my hand between us. Even through his jeans, I can feel the hard press of his cock. I trace the outline, feel him twitch when I press my fingertips against his tip. Suddenly, he grabs both of my wrists, pulls my arms behind my back so I can’t reach him, can’t touch him. I swallow a groan of frustration. “What?” He keeps holding me there, gazing up at me through a lock of hair that’s fallen across his face. If I’m not mistaken, he’s smiling. “Just you first,” he says. I open my mouth, about to say I don’t understand, when he pushes me onto my feet, slides off the confessional bench and drops to his knees between my legs. Oh god. He grips my ass hard with both hands, pulls my legs toward him. If anyone opened the door now, they’d have a face full of my . . . everything. I squeeze my eyes shut, heart pounding with nerves. Nerves, and something more. Something a lot like thrill. I’ve never done anything like this before. Fucking in the film room late at night in a near-abandoned library basement with a locked door and no windows was

hardly the same thing as being in a hastily constructed box with a party raging outside. This is such a terrible idea. And yet. Adrenaline floods my veins. Added to the lust already pulsing through them, there’s no way I’m telling him to stop. His lips brush my inner thigh. I forget the party. I forget everything. His tongue flashes out to trail up my leg. I shiver, and he laughs, a puff of hot air that burns against the sensitive skin he just licked. “You taste even better than I imagined,” he says, his voice almost a growl. “Fuck me,” I gasp. Another laugh. “Not yet,” he murmurs into my skin. “Not until you’re ready to burst.” His teeth nip along the crook of my leg and my hip. Nerve endings I didn’t know existed start to fire. Shivers ricochet up my spine. I can’t help the soft moan that breaks free. That earns me another laugh, this one right against my . . . oh GOD. His tongue swirls across the skin between my legs. His fingers clench my ass again and I jerk forward involuntarily, press myself hard against his face. I let one hand drop to cup his head, and when his tongue glides over my clit, I can’t help but clench my fist in his hair. “Shit,” I hiss. But he’s only getting started. He delves between the slick folds of my pussy, laps at me. One hand slides from my ass, skates over my hips to the front, where he brushes my bellybutton, still licking as his fingers trickle down, down, down. His tongue slides out of me and I gasp again, this time from want. I’m not left wanting long. I groan through gritted teeth as he slides one finger into me. It glides in easy. I’m soaked. “God, you’re so tight.” His tongue circles my clit again, sending bullets of pleasure shooting through my nerves while he thrusts in a second finger, then a third. I rock against him, my legs shaking so hard it’s difficult to stay standing. He holds me in place with his other hand, gripping so hard it’ll leave marks. His fingers fucking me slow at first, then faster, harder, while his tongue lashes my clit. Before I know it my head falls back and I’m moaning out loud, desperate, hanging on the edge of release. He curls his fingers inside me, brushing against my walls at the same time that his tongue spears my clit. The orgasm sparks through me and I cry out, my knees finally losing all control over keeping me upright. My head buzzes, my vision going red at the edges, and all I can think about is if he can do that with just his tongue . . . Luckily, he’s a faster thinker than I am at the moment. He catches me, yanks my underwear up and my skirt down fast as possible. I grab at his shirt in protest—we haven’t even done him yet, it’s my turn. But he spins me away from him, and I land

on his knee facing the confessional door just as it bursts open. Bright light floods my probably red-hot face, blinding me. I hold up a hand against it while my eyes struggle to adjust after what feels like hours spent inside this totally dark booth. Through a squint, I can see at least a dozen people peering in at us, wearing various expressions of surprise and amusement. The guy who opened the door has on a full bishop outfit, complete with giant scarlet hat. “Well you guys definitely win ballsiest move of the night,” he says in an American accent, his eyes drifting to the broken wooden stall beside us. “What have you done to the confessional?” With a shock I recognize him. It’s the guy Mary Kate went up to the roof with, the one from my exchange group. No one else behind him looks familiar, but I haven’t exactly memorized the whole campus yet. What have I done? “I’ve got to go,” I call over my shoulder without turning around. I can’t let him see my face, and I don’t want to see his. If I do, if I look at him . . . This will all get way too real, way too fast. “Wait,” he says, but I’m already flinging myself out of the booth, letting my now-very-mussed hair hide my burning face as best it can. The group who found us laugh and cheer as I race past, but I don’t stop for high fives. I make a beeline through the karaoke-filled living room, straight into the hallway. My coat swings on a hook there—I yank it free, throw it around my shoulders, and text Mary Kate from the hallway. I’m going home. Sorry I can’t stay. I know it’s a dick move, skipping out without a goodbye. But this is MK’s party. These are her friends. She’ll be fine. I’m the one who needs the chaperone.

“You don’t even know his name?” MK exclaims as we meander toward our first class, the one I really ought to be conscious for. Twentieth-Century English Poetry, the subject I specifically came here to study, with the professor I idolize. Now, I’m going to look like a total wreck on day one. Great first impression. The tall, crenelated medieval buildings of our campus look somewhat less inspiring at the ass-crack of dawn. Okay, so it’s 8:00 a.m., but that feels impossibly early after I stayed up all night in the dorm room replaying the party in an endless loop of embarrassment. Embarrassment, and some—what did he call them? Impure thoughts. “I already regret admitting anything,” I mutter between sips of my espresso. Coffee here kind of sucks, but I’ve got to admit, their espresso is the shit. Or at least, it makes me feel marginally less like shit, which after a night like the last one, is a minor miracle.

“Oh, please. Nick already told me how he found you. Like I’d let you get away without answering at least some basic questions. How hot was he, scale of one to fuck-me-stupid?” A group of girls crossing the green in the opposite direction, their patent leather shoes clacking on the cobblestones, glance our way. Were they at the party last night? Did someone tell them about me? My cheeks flush. “I told you, I didn’t see his face.” The girls pass us without a second glance. I’m getting paranoid. “At all?” Hearing her posh accent in such a shocked tone wins a slight grin from me. “Wow, Harper, I know you always tell me you’re trouble, but that’s a new high.” “Oh shut up. You’d have been tempted too if you heard his voice.” “The accent? I thought you were immune to such charms by this point. You’ve only been over here visiting me half a dozen times.” “I’ve never heard an accent like his.” I catch myself, and clear my throat. Almost drifted into dreamy for a second there. I definitely do not have a crush on the sort of guy who would go down on me at a costume party in a closet. “It was fun, that’s all,” I say out loud. MK points at a door that looks more like a hobbit hole than a classroom entrance. It’s so short she has to duck as she enters, though for little 5’5” me it’s nothing. We step through the arched stone entrance and into a room paneled in dark wood. A dais surrounded by chalkboards stands at the head of the room. Stadium desks rise around it, each one equipped with an uncomfortable-looking chair. We slide into seats in the second row, high enough so that we’re looking down a few feet at the professor as he sets up. MK elbows me and leans over to whisper in my ear. “Should I warn you to behave yourself again?” she asks with a grin in teacher’s direction. Jack Kingston, leading expert in twentieth-century poets and a star professor of Merton College, is pretty damn hot, I must admit. Dark eyes that match his choppy, neck-length, jet black hair, and the kind of angled, severely masculine face you’d expect to see on billboards, not in front of a classroom. His nose is a little long, but it works on his face, gives him that distinguished academic air. “I might be reckless, but I’m not that stupid,” I hiss back at MK. Dating professors is where I draw the line. Even back home with Derrick, I made sure he was only a TA before I let anything happen. Only a TA. Are you listening to yourself? I heave a sigh and sink lower in my desk chair. It’s going to be a long day. While the rest of the students file into their seats, I flip open my notebook and jot down the notes already scrawled across the board. Because even more than escaping from my litany of exes, even more than spending a semester with MK exploring a whole new country, this class, this professor, is the reason I’m here in

Oxford. Back home, I’ve already declared my focus on T. S. Eliot, who not so coincidentally attended this very college. Professor Kingston is a leading scholar on his work, the author of the paper that inspired me to start studying Eliot in the first place. I need to forget the hookup, forget everything except this class. We’re starting with Seamus Heaney. We’d been assigned ten of his poems to read before class, and an essay on those same poems due in a couple of days. I have to admit, though, I only skimmed the last one, “The Gravel Walks.” Someone insisted on dragging me out to a party instead. I cast Mary Kate a sideways glance. She’s busy batting her eyelashes at Professor Dreamboat. Finally, the clock on the wall hits 8:30 and Dreamboat breaks the hum and chatter of the room with a clap of his hands. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” My eyes snap forward, lock onto him the moment he speaks. No. He claps his hands and turns that stately, chiseled profile on us. “I recognize most of you from eighteenth century—glad you all decided my class was worth a second go-round. For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Jack Kingston; you can call me Jack, Professor JK, Prof, I really don’t care what, as long as you do the readings and participate.” No way. No goddamn way. “As you know—hopefully—we are starting with Seamus Heaney, one of the great Irish poets of our time. Heaney won the Nobel Prize in 1995, and penned, in my opinion, some of the greatest literature not just of the twentieth century, but the English canon on the whole. You’ll have read ten of his best in preparation for today’s class—in fact, one of the lines from one of those poems is the epitaph on his gravestone. Can anyone guess which line that was?” His eyes meet mine, and for a moment he frowns, faintly, as though confused. Probably because I’m gaping at him in abject horror. “How about you, Miss . . . ?” He lifts an eyebrow, clearly waiting for me to tell him my name. I can’t force any sound through my throat. It’s permanently closed. My brain has checked out. I manage to shut my mouth, open it again, then clamp my lips tight and shake my head. Beside me, MK lifts an eyebrow, clearly wondering if I’m suffering a mental breakdown. Professor Jack Kingston waits another moment, blinks a few times, and then calls on a boy across the room, waving his hand frantically in the air. “Yes, Henry?” I already know what Henry’s going to say, even before he opens his mouth. I remember where I’ve heard that line of poetry now, too late to save myself. Far too late. “‘Walk on air against your better judgment,’ sir,” Henry recites.

“Very good,” replies our famous professor, the man I came here hoping to study with. The guy I hooked up with last night.

Want to read more? Teach Me is out now and FREE on KU!

Keep reading for a sneak peak of Chandler by Laurelin Paige. Coming out September 20, 2016! Preorder it now!

I dominate the boardroom. I’m a Pierce—it’s what we do. But I never had a reason to bring that persona into the bedroom. Until Genevive Fasbender. She’s brash and bold and stubborn as hell, and she doesn’t believe it’s possible to satisfy her. But I’ve discovered her secret, one she hasn’t even figured out herself—she wants what I want. And not only does she want it—I'll make her need it. No matter what.

Chapter One “Can you manage to keep your dick in your pants for one night?” Hudson’s question is meant to grab my attention, and it does. To be fair, I heard most of what he’d said up to this point. The parts that were of interest, anyway. Okay, maybe that wasn’t much. “Probably not. I don’t sleep in my pants, for one, and I do plan on sleeping.” I pull next to the valet podium at the Whitney Museum of Art, and add, “eventually,” because I know it will rile my brother up. His sigh is heavy with exasperation. “Can you keep your dick in your pants at the gala?” I grab my phone from its dock, automatically switching it out of Bluetooth mode, and bring it up to my ear. I pretend to consider as I step out of the car and button my tux jacket. “Hmm.” “Nice wheels,” the valet says, unconcerned that I’m on the phone. I pull out my wallet and flash a fifty-dollar bill. “Take care of her and this is yours.” “Yes sir, Mr. Pierce.” If Hudson were here, he’d wince at the recognition. It’s possible the valet knows me from the latest list of “Richest Men Under Thirty”—it’s the first year I’ve hit since I only got my trust fund when I turned twenty-four a few months back. But one look at the tattooed, pony-tailed Italian says he isn’t the type to read Forbes, which means he recognizes me from the gossip sites instead. Honestly, I don’t mind that I have a rep. It’s the elder Pierce who seems to care. Speaking of the elder Pierce… “Can I keep it in my pants until after the gala?” I repeat his earlier question as I stride toward the entrance of the museum. “I don’t know. How long is this thing supposed to last?” I’m messing with Hudson. It’s too easy not to. And really, what

does he expect me to say? It’s not like I’m planning to try to get a girl to blow me on the event premises. Though, if one were to offer… “And don’t hit on anyone while you’re there, either.” Now he’s going too far. “Is that a baby crying?” I don’t really hear a baby crying, but the likelihood that there is one somewhere near him isn’t too slim. The recent birth of his twins is the whole reason I’m stuck going to this stupid shindig in the first place. “I mean it, Chandler.” As if on cue, a baby actually does start crying in the background. “Shouldn’t you go put a pacifier in it or something?” Hudson ignores me. “This is an important event,” he chides. “Accelecom is about to strike a deal with Werner Media, and it’s crucial we make a good impression.” “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” It’s not like I don’t know this. He’s told me seventeen times just today, plus several hundred times earlier this week. In fact, every conversation we’ve had in the past few days has been about Accelecom’s charity gala tonight, which is more than a little strange, even for my work-obsessed older brother. Mainly because Werner Media isn’t a company we own. Sure, it belongs to family friends, but the Pierces haven’t been that close to the Werners since, well, around the time I graduated from high school. So why the fuck does he care so much about the impression I leave? It suddenly occurs to me to ask. “What exactly is it you hope to gain from my presence here tonight? The Werner-Accelecom merger has nothing to do with Pierce Industries, does it?” A beat goes by. “It’s a good opportunity for you,” he says finally. “There will be a lot of press there this evening, and if you play nice, you could get a good write-up, one that doesn’t involve the mayor’s daughter.” His answer is irritating. Though he’s easing me into the family business, I’m technically an owner of Pierce Industries, just like he is, and I hate it when he treats me like an average employee. But I’m not in the mood to argue. I’m in the mood to deflect. “Man, that kid of yours is really howling. I didn’t know you subscribed to the cry-it-out method. I knew you were old, but 1990’s parenting? Come on.” “Chandler.” Hudson’s tone is clipped and stern. He means it to be intimidating. Spoiler: Hudson doesn’t scare me. “I’m hanging up now,” I say, pushing through the doors of the museum. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” “Yes. I understand. Dad.” I expect him to growl about my latest poke, but he’s distracted. “I’ll take him,” I hear him say, his words muffled as though he has his hand over the mouthpiece. Then, more clearly, “Chandler, I have to help Alayna with the babies.”

“Finally. Wouldn’t want to have to accuse you of child neglect.” Without saying goodbye, I click END and, after putting it on silent, slip my phone into my inside jacket pocket. Hudson’s children can only preoccupy him for so long. Sooner or later, he’ll be back to riding my ass, and even though I’m here at this event in his place, as far as I’m concerned, I’m off the clock.

The thing is, Hudson’s concerns are somewhat legit. Not because I can’t keep my cock in my pants, but because most of the time I don’t want to. What can I say? I’m a guy who loves women. Lucky for me, women usually love me too. And why wouldn’t they? I’m charming, young, good-looking, smart. Decent at my job, despite what Hudson tells anyone. Oh, and let’s not forget, filthy rich. I’m shower masturbation material come to life. Most impressive, though, is my bedroom portfolio—it’s not a secret that I’m a giver. Swear on the Pierce family name, I do not let a woman leave my sheets before she’s received at least two orgasms. The goal is always three, but I’m willing to concede that there are sometimes other factors besides me contributing to that outcome. Maybe she’s tired. Maybe her head’s too into it. Maybe she’s not good at relaxing. Whatever, I get it. But she’s getting two O’s regardless. Before I start sounding too noble, let me clarify—the orgasms are for me. There’s nothing like the feel of a pussy clenching around your cock, milking you to your own climax—that’s got to be the best definition of heaven around. But the biggest reason I deliver is because of the cost-benefit ratio. I’m a firm believer in what goes around, comes around. The happier she is, the happier she’ll want to make me. I’m talking Happy with a capital “H.” And while I’m a onenight-only kind of guy—a fact I always make clear from the beginning—I’ve done really well with referrals. Call it a successful “business” model. Sometimes too successful, considering the way some of the ladies are eyeing me as I glance around the museum. It only takes one sweep of my gaze to know tonight is not going to create any problems for my brother. The room is filled with the kinds of women I’m one hundred percent not attracted to. Trophy wives looking for a distraction. Cougars who sit on the boards—and the faces—of whatever-and-whoever-is-in-thisweek. Rich dames with so much Botox and spandex their bodies don’t even jiggle when they’re supposed to—and if she’s lying underneath me, it’s supposed to. That just leaves the women I’ve already been with, and I don’t do repeats. Well then, let’s make this trip an easy in and out, just like I like it. This time when I glance around, I look for the quickest opportunities to achieve the “make a good impression” edict that Hudson has given me. I make a plan. Mingle with the execs from my father’s country club, say hello to Warren Werner who I’ve just spotted by the fondue station, and then put in a bid at the auction in the adjoining

room to make sure the Pierce presence is duly noticed. But first, I need a drink. A waitress passes by with a tray of caviar. “Excuse me. Is there a bar somewhere?” She tilts her lip into a flirtatious grin as she checks me out. Now this woman might be an option… But she’s working, and I’ll have to stick around until she gets off before I’ll have any chance of getting off myself, and I can already tell this thing is going to be a snooze-fest. Especially when she answers. “There’s champagne floating around. And some punch that should be spiked if it hasn’t been already.” “Well, shit. I should have brought my flask.” Though, if I had, it would have been filled with a single-malt Scotch and not something I’d ever mix, let alone with fruit punch. I wink. “But thanks for the heads-up.” I can tell she wouldn’t mind more cozy conversation, but I slip away before she gets any ideas, and after a quick chat with some men I’ve done business with in the past, I run smack into Warren. “Chandler! I didn’t expect to see you here tonight. Where’s Hudson?” The man is practically a father to me, or rather, he was around while I was growing up about as much as my own dad was, which is to say, not much. In other words, I have to talk to him, but it’s going to be boring as hell. I put on my friendliest grin. “Alayna had her babies early. He’s taking some time ‘off.’” I use air quotes around the word off because Warren and I both know my brother works in his sleep. “Oh, yes. I recall hearing that.” He goes on to deliver heartfelt congratulations and the like before moving to the obligatory inquiries about the rest of my family, which I give, dutifully. This kind of small talk is the worst. I’m dying inside with every polite word. I only manage to tolerate it by dreaming about the real drink I’ll get later at The Sky Launch or another one of the nightclubs where hooking up is practically an item on the drink menu. Eventually, after Warren’s told me all about his upcoming plans to retire, I courteously ask about his daughter, Celia—Hudson’s childhood peer/possible lover/almost-baby-mama/part-of-a-complicated-friendship-that-I’ve-neverunderstood. Though Warren’s expression remains warm, his eyes harden, and I sense he’d prefer not to talk about her with me. While I was too young to be privy to the rift that happened between our once-close families, I have a feeling most of the bad blood has to do with Hudson not marrying Warren’s daughter. “Celia’s good,” he says curtly. “She’s in town at the moment. In fact, she was supposed to be here tonight but ended up canceling because of a headache.” Or because she was afraid she’d run into Hudson. “You know she’s married now to—” His sentence is cut off by a younger gentleman tapping on his shoulder. “Sorry

to interrupt, but Mr. Fasbender is looking for you.” Fasbender. I recognize that name. He’s the owner of Accelecom and probably one of the people that Hudson would most prefer I be seen with tonight. Which is why I decide not to bother. I’ve done a fair bit of schmoozing already. If Hudson wanted more from me, he could have been more specific when he asked. Besides, he needs to learn to deal with disappointment, and who better to teach him but me. Grabbing a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, I head to the area where the silent auction has been situated. I peruse the items up for bid, quickly bypassing the most popular draws—a houseboat, a vineyard in France, a private island off of Malta—and settle on the gaudiest piece of art I’ve ever set my eyes on. Complete with a five-inch thick ostentatious gold frame, the six-foot square canvas is covered with abstract red-hued phallic brush strokes. It’s bold and brusque. It makes me angry just to look at it. It’s perfect. I pull a Montblanc fountain pen from my breast pocket and find the next blank line on the auction sheet. Tripling the last amount offered, I fill in my own bid. Then, with a gleeful smirk, I sign Hudson’s name and his office phone number before tucking the pen back in my jacket. There. I’ll pose for a picture at the door on my way out for good measure, but otherwise my work here is done. And without causing any trouble. Consider it a baby gift, Hudson. Downing the too-sweet champagne, I turn to search for a place to set my empty glass before making my trek back across the museum floor. That’s when I see her. My breath is knocked from my chest the second my gaze slams into her. I swear there’s a spotlight on her. Cliché, isn’t it? But I pull my eyes up toward the ceiling to see if there’s a fixture directed at her and am surprised when I find none. Because she literally shines. Frozen to my spot, I ignore the people pressing past me coming to and from the auction tables, drinking in every detail I can of the beauty across the room. Her long shapely legs, her lusciously curved hips, her pouty mouth drawn into a tight line. She’s wearing a lace shift dress—my sister owns a boutique, I know these terms— simple in shape, but the pattern is elegant, making her look classier than many of the older women here in their skin-tight bling-bling gowns. She’s on the tall side, but not too tall. With her modest heels, she’s just the right height to kiss. Just the right height to devour without having to bend. Just the right height to be able to look in her eyes as my hand presses gently at her throat. Jesus, did I just fantasize about choking a woman? What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m the first to admit I’m a pig, but I’ve never had those kinds of kinky thoughts. I’ve never not been a gentleman. Never wanted to not be nice like I want to not be nice looking at her. She’s just so…captivating. I’m not the only one who notices. She’s surrounded by a flock of men who are

not very good at hiding their eagerness to see what’s beneath her dress, and I can’t say that I blame them. She’s that alluring. That hypnotizing. She’s not even the kind of girl I’m attracted to. Too thin, too brunette. Too young—she can’t be more than twenty-five. But there’s something about her. Something that separates her from the crowd. Something in her gestures as she patiently tolerates her would-be suitors. Something about her posture, which is polished, but aloof. Something about her entire being that keeps my eyes pinned to her like a lion’s pinned to his prey. I should leave. I know this. It’s not my M.O. to stalk. I prefer to be the one reeled in—again, part of the model I’ve successfully honed. But I’m stuck, glued to the spot, staring at this intriguing creature with graceful movements and delicate features. And then there’s a clearing in her swarm of admirers, and I’m suddenly not stuck, but moving toward her, drawn as if on the descent of a zip-line. She hasn’t noticed me, and I take advantage of that, circling around her so that I can approach her from behind. It gives me a chance to check her hand when I’m near enough for signs of a ring. A ring is a deal-breaker for me. I don’t do infidelity, never have. Once, I came close. Or rather, the situation felt close to cheating, and it was terrible. I won’t do that again. But that was five long years ago now and not only has that lesson been learned, it also seems to be unnecessary tonight. The slinky brunette that has lured me across the room is ring-less. I’m assuming she’s also date-less, or if not, she should be, because no way in hell would any decent man leave his girlfriend alone around the predators here. Predators like me. It briefly occurs to me that I’ve never once thought of myself as a predator, and that maybe these ideas in my head are a sign that I need to get the fuck out of Dodge. But I can’t. For reasons I can’t explain. Reasons that are primal and base and as out of my control as breathing. As well as being ring-less, she’s also drink-less, and so, as a waiter passes, I drop off my empty flute, and retrieve two fresh glasses. When my prey turns casually in my direction, I’m ready. I hold out a glass in her direction. “Champagne?” Her grey eyes spark when they catch mine, sending a jolt straight to my dick. I’d know that look anywhere—she likes what she sees, and thank God, because now that I’ve seen her close up, I’m absolutely certain that I have to have her. Have to possess her. Have to do unspeakably dirty things to every inch of her body. Tighten those reins, boy. Get a hold of yourself. I almost do, but then she narrows her stare and twists her lip. It’s the lip that does me in. “How do I know you didn’t put anything in it?” she asks, and JesusfuckingChrist, she’s got an English accent. I’m instantly hard. Okay, semi-hard. I’m not twelve. I have some control.

“Well,” I consider, “I have two drinks. You choose which one, and I’ll drink the other.” She hesitates, suspicion vibrating from her body. Which is crazy—I’m a puppy. Except I’m not a puppy. Not right now, not around her, and her distrust increases my interest in her tenfold. “How about you drink from both of them? And then I’ll choose one.” Whichever she chooses, she’ll have her lips on the glass after mine. That’s so hot. Maybe I am only twelve. With her eyes still caught in mine, I take a swallow from one flute and then from the other. “Now choose.” “I’ll have this one,” she says, claiming the glass I drank more from. “Thank you.” Her skepticism relaxes slightly, but she’s still wary. As she should be. I’m surprised how much it arouses me. Tipping it forward, I clink my flute to hers. “You’ve been surrounded all night.” “And?” She’s polite enough not to sigh, but I can hear the weariness behind the single word. I should leave her alone. I can’t. “I didn’t like it.” She tilts her head, her expression both appalled and intrigued. “I don’t really think it matters what you like.” “True, true.” I give her the Chandler grin, the one that drops panties at the speed of light. “Thing is, I don’t think you liked it either.” She crosses her arms over herself and leans her weight on one gorgeous hip. “So, since I didn’t like a bunch of men trying to pick me up, you thought you’d come over and pick me up instead?” “When you put it that way, I sound like an asshole.” “You said it, not me.” She seems truly put off, and I’m momentarily thrown off my game. Mostly because this isn’t at all the game I usually play. Usually, I’m the target. There are too many already willing women to waste time working for one. Smile and say goodnight, Chandler. I take a swallow from my drink. The sweetness is so much more tolerable as I imagine licking it off her lips, and now that I’ve imagined it, there’s no going back. “How about I make it up to you?” I say, totally improvising. “When you’re ready to go, I’ll escort you out so no one bothers you. Once outside, you can totally tell me to take a hike.” She gives me the same expression she did before—the shocked and fascinated one—and this time I catch a hint of amusement as well. “You’re really full of yourself, thinking I need you to help me get out of here.” An unexpected filthy, crass comment about filling her instead flutters on the tip of my tongue, but I push it away. Play nice. “I wasn’t implying that at all. I’m just offering a service that could be mutually beneficial.”

“How would that benefit you?” “I’d get to be the guy seen walking out with the most beautiful woman in the room.” Yes! Now my brain’s on the right track. She gives me an incredulous glare, but her icy demeanor has melted. “You American men are such charmers.” She takes a sip from her drink, and when she licks her tongue over her bottom lip? Talk about melting. I’m so hot I’m a puddle of molten lava over this girl. Somehow I manage to remain charming. “Oh,” I mock groan, clutching my chest as though she’s wounded my heart. “You’ve lumped me with the all the other ‘American men.’ That’s a real low blow.” She laughs, and it’s so adorable that I want to sink my teeth into the sound and bite, want to mark it and claim it as mine. “Perhaps it was a little crueler than necessary,” she says, then sobers quickly. “Let me ask you this—is being seen with me the only thing you’re interested in?” No, it’s most definitely not at all. I’m also interested in fucking her. I’m interested in dragging her into a dark corner so I can feed her my cock. I’m interested in watching her ride me, her petite tits bouncing as she drives up and down the length of my shaft. And now I am hard. So hard it hurts. I don’t answer. Which is an answer in itself. Damn, I need to get out of here. I catch sight of the crowd that had earlier surrounded her and use it as my excuse. “Your entourage seems to be returning. I’ll let you attend to them.” I will myself to turn and walk away, but my feet don’t move, and before I know it, I’m leaning into her, so close I can smell her natural scent underneath her floral perfume. “My offer stands if you want it,” I say quietly. “Come and find me. I’ll be here.” Shit. Now I’ve done it. If she has any sense, she’ll tell me not to bother waiting around. It’s my only hope. But when I straighten, her eyes lock on mine, and I can’t help but think she might be as twisted up over me as I am about her. “Genevieve,” she says, holding her hand out to me. I barely manage to mask the shock that runs through me when my hand clasps around hers. “Chandler. Chandler Pierce.” Her brow rises in recognition, and for the first time in my life, I’m worried about my reputation. Usually, I wear my name like it’s a designer brand. My name gets me things I like. Gets me out of speeding tickets and into the arms of pretty women. But I’ve never cared who the pretty woman was—this time I do. This time, I want the pretty woman to be this one. I want Genevieve. Her expression is unreadable, and I can’t tell if I’ve just sealed the deal or if I’ve blown any chance I might have had. Then she says, “It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Pierce,” and turns to greet the

gentleman who has just arrived at her side, also carrying two flutes of champagne. Though she clings to the one I gave her, her dismissal is clear. Mr. Pierce, she said. So cold and detached. So utterly unimpressed. I take the cue and slip away. I should leave the event entirely, but I can’t force myself to go. I told her I’d be here, and maybe it’s because I really am a nice guy that I can’t seem to bring myself to break my word. Or maybe I just can’t bear to let her go yet. I mingle. Some woman I’ve fucked in the past drapes herself over my shoulder and introduces her friend who drapes herself over my other arm. This is my audience. I could take either of them home right now. Both of them. But as they fawn, my focus is on Genevieve. I watch as she excuses herself from her admirers. My gaze follows her as she approaches a group of men. She taps one on the shoulder, one old enough to be her father. He puts a finger up, telling her to wait, and I bristle at the gesture because it’s rude but also because it’s familiar. Just like I didn’t like the crowd that had surrounded her, I don’t like what this man might be to her. I have no right to care. I’ve only just met her, and every interest I have in her is carnal. Yet I do care. Very much. Which is why, when I see her heading toward me a few minutes later, I already know I’m about to say or do something I shouldn’t. Ignoring the women clinging to me, Genevieve looks me straight in the eye. “Does your offer still stand, Chandler? Because I’m ready to go now.” I don’t hesitate even a beat. “Definitely,” I say, shucking off the women as though they were a well-worn jacket. I slip my hand in Genevieve’s. “Let’s go, shall we?” Told you I’d do something I shouldn’t. Sorry, Hudson.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To my friends and family, for cheering me on every step of the way and for supporting my absences while I’m hiding in my cave, I love you. Each and every one of you. Thank you for reminding me how important it is to live each day as if it’s the most important and to shoot for the stars. To my little bugs, who better not read these books until they’re 40—at least—I love you, nuggets. Thank you for all your Skype chats, your cards and your homemade gifts. Aunt Lo loves you like no one else and yes, you can have all the Star Wars things. Always. To Heather Roberts, cheerleader, ass kicker when I need one and for all the love in between. Thanks for being you, for your daily inspirational Jamie pics, and those other pics we will keep between us. LOL! I love you, PETALS. You’ll never know how much. To Candi Kane, there will never be enough words to express my gratitude and love for you. Thank you for pimping me like nobody’s business. Without you, no one would know the name Lola Darling. I am forever in your debt and you are permanently tattooed on my heart. I love you, lady. To Wander Aguiar, thank you for this amazing photo of Jacob Cooley and for all your efforts in getting the perfect shot. I am in love with this cover and it's all due to you. Thank you for bringing Max to life. xo To my team at Social Butterfly PR, thank you, thank you, thank you. Thank you for this kick ass cover and for your tireless hard work. Hilary Suppes, you rock, and that adorable baby of yours is lucky to call you Mama. Thank you, ladies, for everything. To Laurelin Paige, Melanie Harlow Sydney Jamesson and Roxy Sloane, thank you for inspiring me with every word you write and for your generous support. You are what this community is all about and to have you in my corner means the world to me. To the bloggers who take time out of your busy lives to read and post about my books, my God, I don’t know how you do it all. Crystal Grizzard Burnette, one day I’m going to hug your neck for all that you do, but until then, thank you for each and every post. They make my heart swell. Angie McKeon, you are a delight. I love your posts and your positivity. Peggy Lee, thanks for all that you do to support indie

authors and our filthy love stories. It does not go unnoticed. Ang Oh, you and your Dirty Girl tribe are some of the best out there. Keep up all the hard work, and thank you for all the Lola Love. Jen McCoy, you filthy, filthy girl. I love your face. You know it’s true. Thanks for your Dirty Quotes and for all the love. The Literary Gossip is one amazing blog and I adore you all. (You too, Nina LOL.) And last, but never least to the readers, sweet mercy, you make me happy. Thank you for taking a chance on another one of my books, for loving Max and Chloe’s love story and for each and every tweet, review, comment, tag, and PM. You make this sometime solitary life worth every sacrifice. I LOVE YOU ALL! Lola xo

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lola Darling is a romantic with a naughty side. Born and raised in Texas, she's a lover of lip gloss, a Star Wars junkie and full time book nerd. When not writing steamy, smutty novels, she can be found playing with her cute and cuddly Rottweiler, Rocky, or spoiling her eight adorable nieces and nephews rotten. Want to know all her secrets? Get on her mailing list and get a bonus epilogue for Off Limits! SIGN UP HERE! Check out Lola’s Off Limits playlist here! Connect with Lola on social media! @xololadarling LolaDarlingAuthor loladarlingbooks.com