Copyright © 2017 Lauren LeDonne

Excerpt from I Knew You Were Trouble copyright © 2017 Lauren LeDonne

Cover photography © Cover images © studioloco/Shutterstock (woman) and PeopleImages/iStock (man)

The right of Lauren Layne to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in this Ebook edition in 2017

by HEADLINE ETERNAL

An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by arrangement with Loveswept, a member of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book I Knew You Were Trouble by Lauren Layne. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

eISBN 978 1 4722 4875 6

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Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

About the Author

Praise for Lauren Layne

By Lauren Layne

About the Book

Georgie

Georgie

Georgie

Georgie

Georgie

Andrew

Georgie

Georgie

Georgie

Georgie

Andrew

Georgie

Andrew

Georgie

Georgie

Georgie

Georgie

Georgie

Georgie

Andrew

Georgie

Georgie

Georgie

Georgie

Georgie

Andrew

Georgie

Andrew

Georgie

Georgie

Georgie

Andrew

Georgie

Georgie

Andrew

Georgie

Andrew

Georgie

Epilogue

Dedication

Acknowledgments and Letter to Readers

An excerpt from I Knew You Were Trouble

Discover these sexy romances from Lauren Layne

Find out more about Headline Eternal

About the Author

Lauren Layne is the New York Times bestselling author of romantic comedies. A former e-commerce and web marketing manager from Seattle, Lauren relocated to New York City in 2011 to pursue a full-time writing career.

She lives in midtown Manhattan with her high-school sweetheart, where she writes smart romantic comedies with just enough sexy-times to make your mother blush. In LL’s ideal world, every stiletto-wearing, Kate Spade wielding woman would carry a Kindle stocked with Lauren Layne books.

Join Lauren at www.laurenlayne.com to get news on her latest books, or keep up to date with her on Twitter: @_LaurenLayne, Facebook: www.facebook.com/LaurenLayneAuthor and Instagram: www.instagram.com/_laurenlayne.

Praise for Lauren Layne’s irresistible romances:

‘A wonderful, enchanting, toe-curling love story of two opposites attracting and falling hard! I adored this couple and their slow-burn romance’ Lauren Blakely, New York Times bestselling author

‘Walk of Shame is my favorite read of 2017 so far! The sexy banter and sparks that flew between Andrew and Georgie made this so much fun, I couldn’t help fall in love with the two of them’ A. L. Jackson, New York Times bestselling author

‘Fun, sexy, and sharp as a spike heel’ Ruthie Knox, New York Times bestselling author

‘I absolutely adored this outstanding story’ Sandi Lynn, New York Times bestselling author

‘My kind of book, sexy and witty, and the banter between the characters is off the charts. You’ll fall in love with their chemistry from page one’ Sidney Halston, USA Today bestselling author

‘Lauren Layne is the queen of fun and sexy all rolled into one. She knows how to write smart and hilarious characters that I want to read over and over again’ Cassie Mae, bestselling author of Doing It For Love

‘A raw, no-holds-barred portrayal of two best friends making the choice to become lovers . . . the best I’ve ever read!’ The Romance Reviews

‘Fresh and fast-paced . . . a perfect escape/comfort read, and guaranteed to cheer a girl up when she’s feeling down’ Unquietly Me

‘Layne is one of the best authors writing today and I was reminded of that as I read this book . . . It was hot and sexy and sweet. I laughed and shrieked and cried, exactly what I want from a book’ Obsessed with Romance

By Lauren Layne

Love Unexpectedly Standalones

Blurred Lines

Good Girl

Love Story

Walk Of Shame

Wedding Belles Series

From This Day Forward (e-novella)

To Have And To Hold

For Better Or Worse

To Love And To Cherish

Oxford Series

Irresistibly Yours

I Wish You Were Mine

Someone Like You

I Knew You Were Trouble (June 2017)

I Do, I Don’t Series

Ready To Run (August 2017)

Runaway Groom (September 2017)

Just Run With It (October 2017)

About the Book

Pampered heiress Georgiana Watkins has a party-girl image to maintain, but all the shopping and clubbing is starting to feel a little bit hollow – and a whole lot lonely. Though Georgie would never admit it, the highlights of her week are the mornings when she comes home at the same time as her uptight, workaholic neighbour is leaving to hit the gym and put in a long day at the office. Teasing him is the most fun Georgie’s had in years – and the fuel for all her naughtiest daydreams.

Celebrity divorce attorney Andrew Mulroney doesn’t have much time for women, especially spoiled tabloid princesses who spend more time on Page Six than at an actual job. Although Georgie’s drop-dead gorgeous, she’s also everything Andrew resents: the type of girl who inherited her penthouse instead of earning it. But after Andrew caps one of their predawn sparring sessions with a surprise kiss – a kiss that’s caught on camera – all of Manhattan is gossiping about whether they’re a real couple. And nobody’s more surprised than Andrew to find that the answer just might be yes.

Want more fun, fresh, flirty and very sexy rom-com? Check out the titles in the Oxford series, beginning with Irresistibly Yours, and don’t miss the warm, witty and sexy Wedding Belles series.

Georgie

TUESDAY MORNING

Let’s talk about five A.M. for a second.

Also known as the worst hour of the day, am I right?

Here’s why:

If you’re awake to see five in the freaking morning, it means one of a few things, all of them heinous.

Scenario one: You’re on your way to the airport for an early morning flight. Heinous.

Scenario two: You’ve been out all night, and now your vodka buzz is fading, and you’re just sober enough to realize that the rest of your day will likely involve Excedrin, carbs, and indoor voices. Heinous.

Scenario three: You’ve got a crap-ton on your mind, and you’re lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, hating your life. Maybe hating yourself a little bit, I dunno, who am I to judge? Heinous.

Now brace yourself, because scenario four is the most heinous of them all: You’re awake at five A.M. because you’re an uptight prick whose schedule is even more rigid than your posture, and your life is an endless string of working out, the corner office, repeat. You’re also likely the type of person who subsists on protein shakes and kale smoothies, and you have been known to utter the phrase the body is a temple, thus solidifying what we already knew about you.

You have no friends.

But wait, I’m getting ahead of myself.

See, it’s five A.M., and I, Georgie Watkins, am . . . kind of excited about it.

I know. I know. Four months ago I’d have bet my favorite vintage Chanel bag that there was exactly zero chance I’d actually look forward to the ghoulish hour of five in the morning.

And yet here we are.

I guess you could say there’s a scenario five on reasons to be up this early.

“Good morning, Ramon,” I sing, pushing through the revolving doors of the luxury high-rise on 56th and Park, the place I call home.

The concierge/security guard/all-around good guy glances up and gives me a friendly smile. “Ms. Watkins. Good morning.”

Usually the massive front desk is a bustling, busy affair. Starting at around seven, an army of well-dressed concierges will be smoothly facilitating the needs of impatient residents, as tiny dogs let out sharp, high-pitched barks of greeting from their Louis Vuitton carriers.

But that’s later.

Right now, the luxurious lobby is mostly silent, with just the lone overnight guy working the front desk, holding down the fort until the day guys arrive to handle the morning crush.

My new Tory Burch clutch tucked into my armpit, I hold up the box in my hands and waggle my eyebrows. “Brought you something.”

Ramon’s smile grows wider, brown eyes lighting. “My wife says you’re going to make me fat.”

“Tell Marta that the dad bod is totally in style right now,” I say, setting the box of donuts on the counter and lifting the lid. “Unless, of course, you don’t want a maple bacon donut?”

Ramon is already reaching inside the box, shaking his head in reverence as he lifts the sugary treat. “Still warm.”

“Well, technically the shop doesn’t open until five, but I’m such a loyal customer, they let me in a bit early,” I say, surveying the array of donuts and trying to decide if I’m in a chocolate kind of mood or if I want to risk the powdered sugar one.

Since my Alexander McQueen minidress is black (the archnemesis of powdered sugar), I reach for the chocolate as I set my clutch on the counter and fish out my phone: 4:58 A.M.

Two more minutes.

“How’s Marta dealing with the pregnancy of baby number three?” I ask, taking a bite of the donut and shifting attention back to Ramon, who’s already polished off his donut and is contemplating a second. I nudge the box toward him.

“She’s good,” he says. “Excited that we’re finally having a girl.”

“A girl!” I say, reaching across the counter and squeezing his massive forearm. “Congratulations, I hadn’t heard!”

“Just found out yesterday,” he says with a happy smile, apparently deciding that the occasion calls for another donut.

“Oh my gosh, I have the perfect baby gift,” I say, nibbling at a piece of my donut. “I saw this adorable Burberry onesie in Bergdorf’s the other day, with this precious little red bow—”

“Yes, because that’s what every infant needs,” a low voice interrupts. “A four-hundred-dollar piece of fabric that needs to be dry-cleaned. Don’t be ridiculous, Georgiana.”

I don’t have to look at my clock to know what time it is.

Five o’clock.

On the dot.

Not even bothering to turn around, I roll my eyes as my red nails tear off another piece of donut and pop it into my mouth. “Ramon, do you think you could talk to maintenance about adjusting the temp? It just got a little cold in here.”

Ramon’s been working here long enough to know my request isn’t for real. He’s not even paying attention to me. He’s already set his donut aside and has straightened up, practically saluting the newcomer.

“Mr. Mulroney. Good morning, sir.”

“Mr. Ramirez.” The voice is low and serious, a touch impatient, although not quite rude.

You know that adage that you catch more flies with honey? I’m not so sure it’s true. I bring donuts to the front desk guys just about every morning, and they adore me. I know they do.

But they respect him.

Giving in to the inevitable, I finally let my eyes flick to the side, my gaze colliding with a stern brown scowl.

I put on my widest, sparkliest smile, only because I know it drives him crazy.

As always, I see a muscle in his jaw twitch as I flutter my eyelashes.

“Good morning, Andrew,” I say sweetly.

“Georgiana.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Only my late grandmother has ever called me that, and I’m pretty sure that’s because I was her namesake. Everyone else calls me Georgie. Well, okay, not everyone. Ramon and the other guys still insist on calling me Ms. Watkins, but I’m working on it. See: daily donuts.

I smile wider and push the box in Andrew’s direction. “Donut?”

His lip curls. In case you haven’t already gotten a read on this guy, he’s the type that sneers at donuts.

He lifts a boring black travel mug. “Already have my breakfast.”

“Blended-up quinoa sprinkled with a few bits of spinach and pretension?” I ask.

“Whey powder protein shake.”

“Sounds immensely satisfying.”

He takes a sip of the nastiness and watches me with cold brown eyes. “The body is a temple, Georgiana.”

There it is.

Full circle to my above commentary about what sort of people are up and about at five A.M.

Me? I’m the one just coming in from a night out, although I’m pleased to say that at twenty-six, I’m a lot better at it than I was at twenty-two, and no longer feel the need to drink myself into oblivion. A few glasses of champagne is my usual limit, and never past two A.M., so I’m perfectly sober at the moment. Fortunately, unfortunately . . . not sure yet.

Him, though?

Well, you already know which type of five A.M. person he is. Scenario four.

And who is he, you ask?

Andrew Mulroney, Esquire.

I know this because we moved into the building on the exact same day, and right before we got into a horrendous fight over whose movers should have access to the building loading dock first, he handed me his business card.

The thick white card stock declared that he had a fancy law degree to go along with the fancy suit he was wearing on a Saturday.

Andrew handed it over with such superiority, I actually wished for a half second that I had a business card of my own that would somehow be better than his. Like, lined with gold or something. No, platinum. With a diamond in the corner. It would be too heavy for him to hold, and he’d drop it, thus having to kneel at my feet to pick it up.

But then I realized it was just as well that I didn’t have a business card.

Because it would say . . . what? Georgie Watkins, professional party girl?

Anyway, I digress. Despite the high temps of that swampy July morning, the encounter had been the start of an epic cold war.

Me, the socialite in apartment 86A against the uptight esquire in apartment 79B.

I’m not entirely sure I’m winning the war, but I’ll never tell him that.

I let my gaze drift over Andrew, even though his appearance rarely holds any surprises. The man’s a lesson in sameness, like some sort of anal-retentive version of Groundhog Day.

There’s always the black mug with some healthy gunk inside held in his right hand, Tom Ford briefcase and Armani garment bag in his left, containing what I know to be a perfectly tailored three-piece suit.

Andrew’s coppery hair is perfectly styled, although I’d swear that there’s some natural curl in there threatening to disrupt his perfect order. I imagine that annoys him, so it therefore makes me happy.

Let’s see, what else about my nemesis?

He’s got a hard, unfriendly jawline that’s perfectly shaven.

Dark brown eyes, cold and flat. Black gym bag over one shoulder.

I suppose you could say he changes up his attire, because he does alternate between black and gray gym shirts. But considering that they seem to be the exact same fit, both colors molding perfectly to his impressively sculpted upper body, we’re not giving him any points for variety there.

Same goes for the lower half. The black shorts worn in summer have given way to sleek black sweatpants now that October’s upon us, but they’re both black and Nike, so we’ll give him no credit for changing it up there either.

The shoes, though . . .

I do a double take.

Well, well, well . . .

Instead of the usual black gym shoes, the man’s shoes are red. I don’t know how I missed it before.

I drag my eyes back up his body with a grin, and he gives just the slightest roll of his eyes to indicate that he’s noticed my slow perusal and isn’t fazed in the least.

“You went shopping, Dorothy!” I say happily.

He stares at me. “I don’t shop.”

Of course not. Far too frivolous.

“No, that makes sense,” I say, pointing at his feet. “Glinda would have given these to you.”

Andrew looks down at his Rolex watch. “I’ve got to go. Have a good day, Mr. Ramirez.”

“You too, Mr. Mulroney,” Ramon says with a deferential nod. “Enjoy your workout.”

“Yes, do,” I say, turning and watching as Andrew moves toward the front door of our building. “What’s on the schedule today? Treadmill, or just skipping down the Yellow Brick Road?”

Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even turn before pushing through the revolving doors and stepping out into the still-dark autumn morning.

Now come on. Tell me that wasn’t at least a little bit fun, despite the ungodly hour.

I turn back to Ramon, who’s once again picked up his donut. “You don’t have to kiss his ass, you know.”

Ramon gives the slightest smile. “I do if I want a Christmas bonus.”

I lay a hand over my chest in mock affront. “You don’t kiss my ass, and I’ll still give you a Christmas bonus.”

“Respectfully, you’re a bit different from most of our residents, Ms. Watkins.”

“Does that mean you’ll call me Georgie?” I ask hopefully.

He merely smiles wider. “Enjoy your morning, Ms. Watkins.”

I sigh. “Thought so.” I push the box of donuts toward him. “Give these to the other guys when they come in. And don’t forget to take one home to Marta.”

“Will do, and thank you.”

I pluck my cranberry-colored clutch off the desk and walk backward toward the elevator, not even the slightest bit unsteady in my sky-high Jimmy Choos. “Enjoy your ‘weekend,’” I tell Ramon, knowing that although today’s Tuesday, Ramon has Wednesday and Thursday off.

When I step into the elevator, the button for the eighty-sixth floor is already lit up, courtesy of Ramon and the building’s fancy tech. I give a happy sigh and start to anticipate the prospect of crawling into bed and getting a few hours’ sleep before I have to be at my hair appointment at four.

And if for a second my mind registers the depressing thought that the most exciting part of my day has already come and gone?

I push it away.

Georgie

TUESDAY AFTERNOON

“What are we doing today, love? More of the same?”

I smile in thanks at the girl who just brought me a glass of champagne before turning my attention to Stefan, the guy who’s been doing my hair for the past three years.

“Same old,” I confirm, taking a sip of the Moët et Chandon. “The tiniest bit off the bottom to keep the ends fresh, touch up the honey highlights.”

Now, I don’t want to be vain. But if I were going to be vain . . .

My hair’s totally my best feature.

See, truthfully, I’m barely passably pretty. Attractive, sure, but not stop-traffic gorgeous like my mom. My features are in the right spot and all. But my boobs, butt, eyes, mouth . . . more or less, average.

So while I may not wake up looking like a Park Avenue princess, when you have a mother who started a beauty empire, you learn your way around a contour palette and a Tom Ford eyeshadow pan at an early age.

My hair, though? Well, I fake that a little bit too with the highlights, but mostly it’s all me. It’s long and thick and shiny, and Page Six actually deemed my distinct “cinnamon-sugar waves” as the hairstyle to watch last year. Based on that write-up, Stefan got a handful of new clients demanding “the Georgie.”

You’re probably rolling your eyes right now, but come on. At least admit it’s a little cool to have a hairstyle named after you. I mean, it did wonders for Jennifer Aniston, right?

I chat with Stefan about who’s likely to be the next Bachelorette while he applies my color, then his assistant brings me a big old stack of Us Weeklys to peruse while my highlights take hold. After scanning the “Who Wore It Better” section (Beyoncé, always), I turn my attention to my phone and begin to put together my evening plans.

There’s a black-tie fundraiser at the Met, but my parents will probably be there, and I’m not in the mood to listen to my mom critique my dress while my dad tries desperately to drag me into business talk with his colleagues. Pass.

A friend of a friend is having a birthday dinner at Babbo, but she’s one of those girls who likes to talk about who she knows rather than actually getting to know anybody. Not in the mood for that either.

I bite my lip and mull over a text message from Evan. He’s hot. We hooked up a few times a couple months back, and I’m pretty sure that his “get together at my place” is a polite booty call. And though it’s been a long, long time since I’ve gotten any of that . . .

Hmm, no. Not in the mood for that either.

I text my best friend. Marley Hamlen’s the daughter of a brainiac angel investor who pretty much dominated Silicon Valley before moving to New York. Marley’s been my right-hand girl ever since she transferred to Trinity in the third grade and promptly punched Sena Corlin in the nose after Sena called Marley “new money.”

Who wouldn’t want to be best friends with that? I claimed that feisty goodness as my BFF.

(And don’t go feeling too bad for Sena. When she was sixteen, she disappeared for a week and came back with a slimmer, much-improved nose. Told everyone it was because she had a deviated septum courtesy of Marley’s punch. Everyone together now—let’s lift a skeptical eyebrow.)

Anyway, where was I? Oh, right. Texting Marley.

You back in town? Plans tonight?

I flip through the magazine while I wait for Marley to confirm whether or not she’s returned from her cousin’s extended bachelorette weekend in Vegas.

I’m baaaaaack, Marley texts. Definitely want to get out, but count me in for dinner only, nothing late night. Vegas nearly killed me. When did we get OLD?

It’s been downhill since 22. In the mood for a filet. STK? Wolfgang? Del Frisco?

Marley sends the thinky-face emoji back, followed by, Del Frisco. If we go early enough we can catch some of the hot after-work guys in suits.

What about Jon? I ask, referring to her on-again, off-again train wreck of a relationship with a tattoo artist who I’m pretty sure she’s dating only to piss off her dad. When it comes to her love life, Marley is twenty-seven going on thirteen.

Cheated. Again, she texts. Moving on. Need a clean-cut grown-up who doesn’t think biting his fingernails counts as personal grooming.

Gross. We will martini-solve the problem tonight. 7?

Perfect, she confirms, followed by the kiss-face emoji that I’ve learned is her “conversation over” send-off.

I put my phone away as Stefan’s assistant comes to rinse the dye out of my hair, and then for the next half hour Stefan and I analyze whether his boyfriend’s refusal to turn the home office into a nursery means he’s baby-never or baby-not-right-now as he trims my ends.

I’m firmly in camp just ask him, but Stefan’s holding strong in the I’m gonna hack his email account approach. So. That’s healthy.

I usually style my own hair in loose waves with a big-barrel curling iron, but Stefan likes it blown out super-straight and sleek, so I let him do his thing. By the time I’m done, it’s past six. Just enough time to run a quick errand before heading over to the restaurant to meet Marley.

The salon I go to, John Barrett (duh), is conveniently right atop Bergdorf Goodman. Primping and shopping all in one place—heaven.

I head to the baby section, which I’m becoming increasingly familiar with as more and more of my friends start popping out kids.

I make a beeline for the Burberry onesie I mentioned to Ramon this morning.

Despite Andrew Mulroney’s snide remarks about babies and designer clothing, we all know that it’s not really about the babies. It’s about the moms. And Marta will love this for her daughter, I know she will.

“Gift-wrapped?” the girl behind the counter asks.

“Yes, please. And do you have a little card to go with the gift box?”

“Of course.”

As the girl wraps the onesie box in pale lavender, I dig a pen out of my purse, grinning as inspiration strikes for the card’s message.

Ramon & Marta,

For your darling princess, who will undoubtedly be as lovely inside as she is outside, just like her parents. Congratulations and our best to your whole family,

Georgie Watkins & Andrew

Mulroney

I grin wider as I put the card into the tiny envelope and write Ramon’s name on the front. Oh, to see Andrew’s face when Ramon thanks him for the overpriced baby outfit . . .

I give the girl my address to have the package delivered so I don’t have to carry it around all night, then kill another few minutes looking at Dior’s new lipstick line in the cosmetics department before hailing a cab.

“Forty-ninth and Sixth, please,” I say, shutting the door and mouth-breathing out of habit, since NYC cabs tend to take on the odors of whatever their drivers had for lunch.

It’s slow going, given that I’m trying to get around midtown at rush hour, but I don’t mind. I’ve lived in Manhattan my entire life, save for the four years getting an economics degree at Brown, and I know it’s going to sound nuts, but I’ve never ever gotten sick of it.

Oh, sure, the summers are gross, and I retreat to the Hamptons when the hot-garbage smell threatens my sanity. And, naturally, I wouldn’t be caught dead around Rockefeller Center at Christmas or in Times Square on New Year’s Eve. But mostly not a day goes by that I don’t step out into the city that is my playground and feel darn lucky to be here.

It’s only . . . it’s just . . .

Hmm. Lately I’ve had the strangest sense that I’m missing something. Like the world is my oyster and all that, and I’ve got bunches of friends, and more money than I know what to do with, and I can get into just about any hot-spot restaurant or club I want, any night of the week.

I know, right? Sometimes I annoy even myself.

And the truth is, lately it’s all just feeling a little bit blah.

It’s not the city or the people. It’s me.

Even getting increasingly involved with my favorite charities isn’t taking the edge off lately.

I tap my red nails on the seat and, as I’ve been doing for weeks, let myself contemplate the prospect of getting a real job. A nine-to-five where I exchange time for a paycheck and have a boss . . .

Okay, for real? I’m not even gonna lie to you—it sounds sort of lame.

I like making my own schedule.

I like doing my own thing. I like helping my mom with a trunk show at a moment’s notice. I like that I have a ton of free hours to help organize fundraisers. And yes, okay, I like the fact that I can go shopping whenever I darn well feel like it.

But this endless loop of shopping and hair appointments and drinks and dinners and more drinks and dancing and repeat . . .

It’s getting old.

Or maybe I’m getting old.

The most annoying thing about all this is I can pinpoint the moment this seed of discontent was planted, almost down to the second. The very day I moved into my building and met Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, and his ever-present sidekick of intense disdain.

I liked my life just fine until I saw it through his eyes, and now . . . well, I don’t know.

You can see why I don’t like the guy. I had a great thing going, and he ruins it with every scowl.

I pay the driver using the app on my phone, and a couple of minutes later I enter Del Frisco’s bustling after-work scene, scanning the bar for Marley.

I spot her almost immediately, chatting up a good-looking blond guy in a charcoal suit. I contemplate giving her a few more minutes to work her magic, but on closer look, she seems more interested in the olives in her martini than in whatever the guy’s droning on about.

“Ah!” she says, brightening when she sees me. “There you are!”

She motions me forward, and after exchanging an air kiss with my best girl, I smile prettily at the guy who’s blocking the bar stool next to Marley.

His return smile isn’t nearly as bright, but I’ll give him credit for not being dense, because he backs away with a murmured, “Enjoy your dinner.”

“Fab dress,” I say, turning back to Marley, suit guy already forgotten.

“Thanks! New,” she says, glancing down at the navy sweater dress with a high neck and cutout shoulders. As I suspect she knows, it’s the perfect color to bring out the bright blue of her eyes. The cut’s interesting enough to be modern, yet classic enough to be consistent with Marley’s trademark look, which is very Betty Draper in season one of Mad Men. Marley even has the blond bob, although she wears it smooth and straight just below the chin rather than Betty’s hair-spray-dependent sixties style.

“Salon day. I like,” she says, gesturing to my straight hair with her martini before nodding her chin to direct my attention to the approaching bartender.

“Belvedere martini with olives,” I say with a smile.

He smiles back. “You two make it easy.”

Marley and I almost always order the same drink, although our tastes have evolved over the years. It used to be we’d order the sweetest thing on the menu; then there was a champagne phase, followed by margaritas in the summer, and now we’re on to vodka martinis.

“Oh my gosh,” Marley says, setting her fingers on my arm and tapping excitedly. “You’ll never guess who’s here.”

I lift my eyebrows in question as I take a sip of my drink, knowing she’ll tell me without me saying a word.

“Liv Dotson.”

“Really,” I say, straightening slightly. “Are there any cameras?”

Like Marley and myself, Liv Dotson is a twentysomething socialite. But whereas Marley and I might warrant the occasional mention in Page Six, usually in reference to our more-famous parents (or, every now and then, my hair), Liv Dotson is on the Kardashian track of being famous just for being famous.

She’s a gorgeous redhead who dabbled in modeling and started her own clothing line, then kicked up her fame another notch by marrying the New York Yankees’ center fielder a couple of years ago. They now have their own reality show called Live, Love, Liv, which I watch with far more enthusiasm than I’m proud of.

Liv and I used to be kind of close a couple of years ago, but she and Marley were after the same guy for a while and it got tense. Since I ended up on Team Marley, obviously, Liv sort of keeps me at arm’s length. She’s friendly, but I’m not exactly holding out hope for making a cameo on her show.

“No cameras,” Marley says, craning her neck to get a better look.

Just as I’m about to turn and check out the situation for myself, the hostess finds us to tell us our table’s ready.

“Perfect,” Marley says, dropping a few bills for the bartender. “I asked for a seat by the window, so we’ll walk right by Liv’s table and can say hi. Got to bury the hatchet sometime, right?”

Marley and I follow the hostess, and I’m still scanning for Liv’s red hair, trying to spot her for myself.

“Oh. My. Gawd,” Marley hisses, grabbing my arm with her free hand. “You’ll never guess who she’s having dinner with!”

“I take it by the scandalized tone that it’s not her husband,” I say, still scanning the crowd while also trying not to look too celebrity-stalkerish.

“Um, try the most famous divorce attorney in the city,” Marley says.

My mouth drops open. “No. They can’t be getting divorced. They’re so happy!”

“Obviously not,” Marley murmurs.

I’m still hoping Marley’s wrong when another thought hits.

“Wait. Wait,” I whisper urgently. “How do you know who the most famous divorce lawyer in New York is? Who is it?” I start scrutinizing the tables more closely.

“Um, because I read TMZ like a proper citizen of this city. And because he’s practically as famous as the celebrities themselves.”

No. No. I know the name before Marley has a chance to respond.

Sitting across from the gorgeous Liv Dotson is one Andrew Mulroney, Esquire.

Georgie

TUESDAY EVENING

Now, it’s not the first time I’ve seen Andrew outside of our early morning meet-ups.

In addition to that first disastrous move-in day, our paths have crossed a handful of times coming and going in the evenings, him getting home after a long day, me just heading for a night out.

You know, me blowing him a kiss, him pretending I don’t exist. That sort of thing.

But it is the first time I’ve seen him outside of our apartment building, and seeing him out in the wild like this is . . . strange.

Gone are this morning’s workout clothes; in their place is a dark blue suit and striped tie.

Marley doesn’t seem to notice that I’m a lot more interested in the divorce lawyer than I am in the maybe-divorcée herself.

Probably because . . . well, I kind of sort of haven’t told my best friend about the thing Andrew and I have. I’ve been telling myself it’s because it’s not a big enough deal to warrant mentioning, but the truth is, I don’t know how to explain it.

I don’t know how to say out loud that there’s this guy who doesn’t like me and that it bothers me. A lot.

And now a blissfully unaware Marley is shifting her megawatt smile toward Liv, obviously hoping the other woman will forget they were both once engaged in a semi-epic game of the boy is mine and spill some gossip.

“Liv. Darling! How are you?” Marley gushes.

Liv looks up, her dark blue eyes widening slightly in surprise, and maybe panic, but she recovers and stands to greet us.

The three of us girls do that air-kissing thing we learned to do about the same time we learned to walk, and I purposely don’t look at Andrew, savoring the anticipation of the moment our eyes meet.

Marley is laying it on thick, gushing over Liv’s outfit, and my bestie has a point, because Liv looks stunning in cream suede pants and a chocolate-colored sweater that hugs her impressive curves.

There’s an awkward moment of silence where Liv should make introductions but instead stays silent. I’m about to take pity on her and throw myself under the proverbial bus that is Andrew Mulroney’s glare, but he’s a step ahead of me.

He’s already standing, having gotten to his feet when we approached the table, and smooths his tie with his left hand as he extends his right toward Marley. “Good evening. I’m Mr. Mulroney.”

For a split second his gaze flicks sideways and collides with mine. I feel my stomach do an annoying little flutter of awareness that it hasn’t done since, like . . . the eighth grade.

The moment’s broken when Marley steps forward, holding out a hand in greeting as she introduces herself.

“Marley Hamlen,” she says with a wide grin. “And this is my friend Georgie Watkins.”

This time when he turns his attention toward me, I’m prepared for it, and I hold my breath for a brief second in anticipation of the second our eyes meet.

I’m . . . let down.

Whatever was there a moment ago, he’s shut it down, and now there’s nothing in his gaze as his palm meets mine. Not annoyance, not surprise, not even recognition.

“Ms. Watkins,” he says in a bland tone. “Nice to meet you. How do you ladies know Ms. Dotson?”

My teeth click shut sharply.

Is it just me, or does he seem to linger when he looks at Liv?

Meanwhile, he’s acting like he doesn’t even know me.

Liv has recovered from her social faux pas and is explaining to Andrew about how she, Marley, and I have mutual friends. Marley and I wait a little expectantly for her to explain how she knows Andrew, but she skips that part.

Two minutes ago I was devastated to think that Liv was hiring a divorce attorney, but now I’m distracted by an even worse suspicion—that she might be dating a divorce attorney.

My best-friend radar is telling me that Marley is practically bursting at the silent confirmation that Liv is very likely hiring a high-powered divorce attorney.

In any other situation, I’d be right there with her, deliciously scandalized by the scoop unfolding in front of our eyes.

Instead, the fact that I’m getting the inside track on breaking-news gossip (I have a firm policy against spreading gossip, but it doesn’t mean I don’t like hearing it) barely registers.

I’m too busy fuming that my early morning nemesis won’t even acknowledge that we’ve met.

As though he’s embarrassed.

Of what, knowing me? Ha. I’m Georgie Watkins of the cinnamon-sugar hair, and he’s . . . well, okay, fine.

He’s kind of a big deal.

I may have learned during my Google-stalking that the guy’s represented some of the biggest names in Hollywood.

I smile and nod my way through whatever Marley and Liv are chatting about, even as my gaze stays locked on Andrew’s angular profile. Not that he’s looking at me. Nope, his attention’s a hundred percent on Liv.

He laughs at something she says, and my world tilts sideways, just for a moment. I don’t know what to do with laughing, smiling, charming Andrew Mulroney.

Why can’t I coax that from him?

Why do I want to?

I’ll figure it out later. When I’m plotting my revenge.

“Well, we’ll let you guys enjoy your dinner,” Marley says, with another air-kiss exchange with Liv. “Lovely to meet you, Mr. Mulroney.”

“Yes, lovely,” I say sweetly, starting to follow Marley and the hostess.

I slow down just the slightest bit as I pass Andrew, giving him the opportunity to throw down a gauntlet under his breath. A see you tomorrow, or perhaps a you’re ridiculous. That’s one of his favorites.

He says nothing, already sitting back down, attention fixed on Liv Dotson as though I literally don’t exist.

Whatever.

I lift my chin and stride after Marley, taking a sip from my half-empty martini glass as I walk.

So our cold war just turned straight-up icy. No problem. I can work with that.

Georgie

FRIDAY, 5:03 A.M.

“Ramon, you owe me,” I say as I push through the revolving door of my building. “The donut shop guy forgot his key, so he opened up a few minutes late, but I love you, so I waited, and—”

I break off when I see that Ramon’s not alone, as he usually is when I come bearing donuts.

This is what I get for being three minutes late.

The back of Andrew Mulroney, Esquire.

True to form, the guy doesn’t even turn his head to watch me approach, which is really his loss, because the light pink dress is a super-cute color on me, and the matching Manolo Blahnik stilettos are completely on point.

“Ms. Watkins, good morning,” the concierge says.

I heave a sigh. “Oh, Ramon, no. You have your deferential face on. I hate that.”

“Do you even know what deferential means?” Andrew asks, not looking up from where he’s writing something on an envelope in anal, pretentious little letters.

“Oh, you’re talking to me now?” I say with a fake start of surprise.

“I always speak with you, Georgiana. Someone has to tell you when you’re being ridiculous.”

“Which is always?” I guess wryly.

He finally looks up. Looks me over. “Are you wearing glitter?”

Maybe.

He doesn’t even glance my way as he tucks in the flap of the envelope and hands it to Ramon. “Spare key for my apartment. Someone will be coming by later today who will need to get in.”

“Exterminator?” I say, nudging the donut box toward Ramon. “Going to be a bit hard for them to eliminate the vermin, won’t it? What with the rat himself being in your office all day?”

Andrew sighs and bends to pick his bags and briefcase off the floor before turning to face me. “Custom closet designer.”

I nod in understanding as I select a sugared donut from the box. “Makes sense. You’ll want an expert to weigh in on how to best showcase your ruby-red slippers.”

I glance down, and the donut pauses halfway to my mouth when I realize he’s not wearing the red shoes. “Did Toto piss on your sneakers this morning? You’re not wearing your Oz kicks today.”

“Wasn’t wearing them yesterday or the day before either,” he says in a clipped tone as he adjusts his bag on his shoulder and picks up his black travel mug.

My eyes narrow just slightly as I chew my bite of donut and study him, wondering if his comment’s a very subtly disguised inquiry as to where I’ve been the past couple days.

Not that I’ll tell him, of course. My reasons for skipping our past morning meetings have been twofold. Partially I haven’t been feeling the going-out vibe; partially I may have taken his pretend you don’t exist and raised it a notch to I’m going to avoid you altogether.

I confess, I’ve put a lot more thought than I should into whether or not he’d even notice my absence, and I can’t hide my smirk now that he’s confirmed that he noticed, if not exactly cared.

I feel a tiny stab of relief that he’s as aware of me as I am of him, even if neither of us is happy with the situation.

If I had even a lick of sense, I’d forget him and this weird game we’re playing. Instead I keep coming back for more.

I’ve been thinking about why, and, well . . . I’m simply not used to people not liking me. And yes, I know how that sounds. Diva much? But really, usually people at least want to be my friend. He hated me on sight for no reason, and I seem to be having a wee bit of a difficult time letting it go.

“Miss me?” I ask, licking sugar off my finger, eager as ever to provoke him.

“Don’t look too pleased with yourself, Georgiana,” he says in a bored voice. “They’ve been the most peaceful mornings I’ve had in months.”

“You know what I think?”

“Breathless with wondering.”

“I think you’ve had too much peaceful in your life. I think peaceful has become synonymous with boring.”

His face is unreadable. “Are you sure we’re talking about my life, Georgiana?”

I withhold a flinch. Barely. The man’s barb hits closer to home than I care to let him see. “You’re the one who stole Dorothy’s slippers.”

“Of the two of us, you’re the one who dresses for attention.” His eyes flick downward just slightly, lingering on the expanse of bare legs, modest by nightclub standards, but admittedly a little short by Grace Kelly’s elegance standards.

I pop another piece of donut in my mouth and smile. “It’s fine. I won’t tell a soul you checked me out.”

“I wasn’t—” He clears his throat. “Forget it. You’re ridiculous.”

I’m grinning outright now, because that’s two you’re ridiculouses this morning, and when he takes to repeating himself, I know I’ve successfully gotten under his skin.

Georgie, one; Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, zero.

Ramon’s been more or less ignoring us, due to a sudden influx of phone calls, but there’s finally a gap in the incessant ringing and he leans forward to get our attention, his hand resting on a familiar Bergdorf box. “Mr. Mulroney, Ms. Watkins, before I forget: I’ve been off for the past two days, but I got your package when I got in late last night. I’ll wait until I’m with Marta to open it, but I saw the card and wanted to say thank you for your thoughtfulness.”

I clap my hands together happily. “Oh, you got it! Lovely!”

Andrew goes even more rigid than usual beside me, and he doesn’t say a word as he reaches out a hand and flicks open the little card with one long finger, reading my handiwork on the card.

He stares at it just a beat too long before raising his gaze to Ramon’s. “Congratulations. My best to both of you.”

“We already said that,” I say, pointing to the card. “See? Right here.”

He looks down at me, and with him being six foot two to my five foot five, it’s definitely a downward glare, even with my high heels.

For one delightful moment I think it’s finally going to happen. He’s finally going to lose his cool and show some sort of emotion.

Instead he inhales long and slow through his nose, as though trying to rein in his temper.

Unfortunately for me, he succeeds, and with a curt “Mr. Ramirez, Georgiana,” he turns and walks toward the front door.

Ramon’s phone rings, and he picks it up even as he points to the box and mouths another “Thank you.”

I give him a little wave, then help myself to another donut. I’ve earned it, after all.

This morning might be as close as I’ve come to making progress on cracking Andrew Mulroney, Esquire.

Georgie

SUNDAY MORNING, BRUNCH

My mom doesn’t glance up from her work as I enter my parents’ dining room, but lifts a hand to wave me over. “Georgie, honey, hi. Grab a drink, then come look at this palette for the spring line. Do you think it whispers sweet pastels or does it simply scream tacky Easter egg hunt?”

I shrug out of my Burberry trench and drape it on the back of the chair before going and kissing the top of my dad’s salt-and-pepper head. He reaches up, patting my cheek fondly, as I go to the sideboard and pour myself a mimosa from the crystal carafe of orange juice and champagne nestled into the ice bucket alongside a gorgeous bouquet of lilies. I stroke a finger over a petal before taking my champagne flute over to where my mom sits bent over her work at the dining room table.

I sip and look over her shoulder as she holds up the swatches for my inspection. “Colors are good,” I say, “but there’s too much sparkle. Looks too much like what you did last year with the whole ‘modern fairy’ theme.”

As I say it, Andrew Mulroney’s derisive dismissal of my glitter makeup flits through my mind. It wasn’t worth the energy to tell him the difference between shimmer and sparkle, but damn, what I wouldn’t give to reverse his opinion of me, just a little bit.

“The fairy theme was two years ago,” Mom says distractedly. “But you’re right. You’re right. The colors want to say classy brunch, but the glitter’s saying bachelorette party.”

She scribbles something in her notebook and picks up her phone to shoot off an email. Dismissed, I take another sip of mimosa and glance across the table. Dad catches my eye over the top of the newspaper and winks before turning his attention back to the WSJ.

Welcome to Sunday brunch with my parents. It’s been a Watkins family institution for as long as I can remember. Fond memories, mostly, although if I’m going to be really honest, it got even more fun after I turned twenty-one and was allowed access to the champagne instead of being limited to the orange juice.

“How’s my darling daughter?” my dad asks, turning the page of his paper.

“I’ve been great,” I chirp, plopping down into my usual chair and giving Linda, my parents’ part-time housekeeper, a little wave as she sets a quiche and fruit salad on the table. My parents actually have a personal chef (I know), but Gavin only works on weekdays, so Sunday brunch is always catered. Sometimes it’s a quiche, sometimes a lox platter, sometimes eggs Benedict. One thing it’s not ever is homemade. New Yorkers aren’t known for their kitchen prowess.

“How are you? How’s work?” I ask.

My dad glances quickly at my mom before turning his attention to me. I know it’s silly, but it bothers me the way he seems to be seeking permission from my mom to talk about his work, when she hasn’t once looked up from hers.

Once upon a time, my family dynamics had worked like this:

Dad was the CEO of the real estate empire he inherited from my grandfather. My mom was the hottest thing in Hollywood after starring as a Bond-girl-style character in a blockbuster hit. They got married, had me, and my mom’s acting career fizzled before it ever really took off.

She didn’t seem to mind—she threw herself into the role of a Park Avenue housewife like nobody’s business.

But here’s the part that bugs me: back when my dad was the sole breadwinner, my mom was adamant that there be no work talk at the dinner table. It sounds like a decent enough plan, I guess, but my dad loves his work. Yeah, sure, he inherited a billion-dollar company, but he’s turned it into a multibillion-dollar company through ambition, smarts, and passion.

The older I got, the more it killed me to see him come home lit up with all this happy energy, only to have to tuck it away to ask my mom about her book club while he was forbidden to talk about the highlight of his day.

And now you’re thinking, But Georgie, your mom had good intentions.

Hmm, did she? Probably.

But get this: when Mom started her business, guess what? Her work talk was allowed at the dinner table. One might even say that Elite Cosmetics dominated the dinner table.

Take a look at the tableau in front of me—Sunday mornings are the one time each week my family gets together, and my mom’s end of the table is covered in folders and swatches, her gold MacBook, an iPad Pro, a phone. . . .

I’ll just say this: the hypocrisy bothers me. I love my mom. I love both my parents, fiercely. But I confess that sometimes I wish they just seemed . . . happier.

I’ll clarify. I wish they seemed happier together. I wish my dad didn’t look at my mom like a whipped dog, and I wish that my mom looked at my dad more.

Still, generally speaking, I know I’ve got it pretty good, so I try not to dwell.

I refocus my attention on my dad, who’s talking about some new deal he just signed for a multiuse high-rise on the West Side.

“That’s awesome,” I say, meaning it.

I didn’t get the real estate bug, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t see how hard he works. I appreciate that the empire he sits on—yes, the very empire that made it possible for me to afford my apartment, courtesy of the inheritance my grandmother left me—came from sweat and tears and long hours.

“What have you been up to, Georgie, sweetie?” Mom asks, practically the second my dad stops talking to take a sip of coffee.

“Oh, same old,” I say.

She glances up and gives me a sly smile. “I don’t suppose you’re going to bring a guy around one of these days? You haven’t dated anyone seriously since Marco.”

“Eh.” I lift my shoulders and spin my champagne flute on the table. “Nobody interesting enough to hold my attention.”

“Nobody?” my dad asks, giving me a curious glance.

I exhale through my nose, wondering how to explain that Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, doesn’t count.

He’s interesting, but not for me.

“There’s just this guy in my building. Getting under my skin a little,” I admit.

Both parents fix their attention on me at the same time. A rarity, trust me. They both love me, but usually they seem to take turns looking my way, perhaps to avoid eye contact with each other.

“Need me to beat him up?” my dad says.

My mom wrinkles her nose. “Jack, please.”

I tense at her snotty dismissal of him, but he gives me a wink. “Okay, fine. I know a guy. Better?”

I smile back. “Nah, he’s not worth the effort.”

“Who is he?”

“Andrew Mulroney, Esquire,” I say in a hoity-toity accent, miming the motion of drinking tea with my pinky finger in the air.

“Ah, a lawyer,” Dad says dismissively. “I know the type.”

“Wait, I know that name,” Mom says, tapping her black-manicured nails on her notebook. “Why do I know that name?”

I wave her comment away with the stem of my champagne flute. “He’s some celebrity divorce lawyer. Makes obscene amounts of money from busting up marriages.”

“Yes!” my mom says in recognition, pointing her pen at me and waving. “I know him. He handled Gwen Vanderman’s divorce last year. She ended up getting everything.”

“Everything but Bob, and he was the most decent thing about her,” my dad mutters.

“Gwen called him a boy genius. Made partner at an exceptionally young age,” my mom says, shifting attention back to her iPad. “He’s a good connection for you to have.”

“For what?” I ask incredulously. “I don’t even have a boyfriend, and you’re already planning my divorce?”

“This city’s all about networking,” Mom says distractedly. “Never hurts to align yourself with powerful people.”

“Oh, Andrew and I are aligned, all right,” I say, standing to refill my mimosa. “Him at one end of the battlefield, me at the other.”

“My money’s on you, sweetie,” my dad says loyally.

I turn back around, intending to ask if they want to go see the new exhibit at the Guggenheim.

I open my mouth, then shut it again when I see that my mom’s on the phone and my dad’s face is buried once more in his newspaper.

I head with my mimosa toward the kitchen to chat with Linda.

I’m not sure either parent notices when I leave.

Andrew

MONDAY, 4:45 A.M.

Andrew Mulroney pushed through the revolving doors of his apartment building and out into the dark Monday morning drizzle.

It was one of the few times in his adult life that he was off schedule, fifteen minutes earlier than usual, but if he had to be out of his routine, better to be ahead of schedule than behind.

One of his clients was in Bali on her “divorce-moon,” whatever the hell that was, and the time difference necessitated him getting into the office earlier than usual if he hoped to catch her on the phone before her cocktail hour.

He didn’t mind. Fifteen minutes were nothing in the grand scheme of things.

Although . . .

These days, fifteen minutes in the early morning hours meant the difference between seeing Georgiana Watkins and not seeing her. His earlier-than-usual morning meant that he’d miss her today, and thank God for that.

The socialite was everything that he abhorred. Self-indulged, flighty, useless . . . ridiculous.

And yet . . . Andrew took a sip of his chocolate protein shake, pausing to dig his umbrella out of his bag, trying to ignore his inconvenient thoughts.

Thoughts that told him his feelings about missing Georgiana this morning had a lot more to do with disappointment than with relief.

It wasn’t like he wanted to see her, and yet there was just something about the woman that got to him. He had no use for pampered princesses who shopped during the days and partied their nights away. And yet there was an irritating kindness to her—a warmth that she bestowed upon everyone who crossed her path.

Except for him.

He popped open his umbrella, annoyed with himself.

Andrew had just started in the direction of his gym when a flash of yellow caught his eye. He glanced up, watching as the taxi door opened and one high-heeled sandal emerged, followed by a shapely female calf.

The woman stepped onto the sidewalk, wobbling just the slightest bit on the skyscraper heels as she slammed the taxi door shut.

Andrew dragged his gaze up the slim legs and mostly bare thighs, all the way up to the light brown waves.

His throat went a bit dry. Apparently he wasn’t going to miss Ms. Watkins this morning after all.

Georgiana was waving goodbye at the departing taxi. No doubt she’d become best friends with the driver. She was also holding her usual pink box filled with donuts, or cupcakes, or whatever junk food nightmare she insisted on stuffing the front-desk guys with.

Andrew watched her for a moment and contemplated crossing the street to spare them both. Yes. He’d do that.

Just as he was about to turn away before she could spot him, she took a step forward, not quite stumbling, but not exactly steady either.

His eyes narrowed. Just unsteady on the high heels, or . . .?

Georgiana hiccupped, the sound echoing in the quiet morning.

Jesus.

The ridiculous girl was intoxicated. He waited for the annoyance, but felt only . . . protectiveness.

Still, he glanced around for the doorman, who was paid handsomely to deal with such situations. But there was nobody on the sidewalk but Georgiana and himself.

She took another step, another wobble. Not quite stumbling, just a little unsteady, like a foal taking its first steps. Andrew figured the chances of her making it across the slick pavement and the slick marble of their building’s foyer without tumbling were about fifty-fifty. Her gait was pathetically slow, and the rain was coming harder, plastering the short, bright blue dress to slim curves.

He moved toward her before he could rethink it. She glanced up as he approached, wide brown eyes blinking up at him through wet, spiky lashes.

He expected some sort of slurred put-down, but instead she gave a dismayed sigh. “I’m late. I thought I was early, but I’m late.”

“What?” Andrew asked irritably as he held the umbrella over her. He started to walk toward the building, but she’d skidded to a halt, apparently trying to dig something out of her purse. “Where’s my phone? I need to see what time it is.”

He rolled his eyes and glanced at his watch. “It’s four forty-seven.”

Her nose scrunched. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” he said, carefully hiding a smile.

“How?”

“Because I know how to tell time, and because I’m now late.”

“You’re not late. You’re early. You’re not even supposed to be at the front desk for another . . .” She counted on her fingers. “Thirteen minutes.”

“Will you please just get inside so I can get to work?” he said with more irritation in his tone than he actually felt.

Her smile faded as though he’d hurt her feelings, and he opened his mouth to say . . . what? He never knew what to say around her.

“Oh, for God’s sake.” He snatched her clutch out of her hand, placed it on top of the donut box, and then shoved his travel mug at her. He wrapped his free arm around her waist and half pushed, half dragged her the remaining few steps toward the front door, holding the umbrella over both of them.

The revolving door seemed too complicated in her current state, so he dug his key fob out of his pocket and used the side door, pulling the umbrella closed before ushering her into the lobby.

Georgiana seemed uncharacteristically agreeable. He glanced down warily, thinking of how determined she usually seemed to be as difficult as possible.

He cursed under his breath. She was drinking his breakfast.

Andrew jerked the mug back out of her hands, his eyes reluctantly locked on the way the tip of her tongue flicked across her top lip. “That tastes better than I expected. Like cold hot chocolate.”

“Try it again sometime when your body’s not starved for nutrients after too much vodka.”

Georgiana sighed heavily. “You’re right. I remember now why I don’t do this sort of thing anymore.”

“Why’d you do it now?” he asked, trying to keep his eyes on hers, and not on the way the cold rainwater had made her nipples tighten beneath the slip of a dress.

She sighed again, and this time the sound was sad. “You’ll say I’m ridiculous.”

His lips twitched. “Probably.”

Georgiana looked back up at him, her eyes wide and guileless. “I was sad. Dumb, right? Trying to drown sadness in shots?”

“Why were you sad?” he asked quietly.

Damn it, what was he doing? Why was he letting this mess of a creature put him more behind schedule by the minute?

She’d opened the donut box, although she shut it again without taking one out. “It’s my parents. I wish they were . . . I wish we were more of a family. A different kind of family, I guess I should say.”

Please don’t cry, please don’t cry.

He watched as she bowed her head, wondering what the hell he was supposed to say. She couldn’t have picked a worse shoulder to cry on. Sure, he knew how to make sympathetic noises when his more heartbroken clients bemoaned their ex’s infidelity or inattentiveness, but he never really knew what to say when it mattered.

Somehow it mattered here, now, with this mess of a girl, and for the first time in a long time, he wished he were better with the touchy-feely shit.

Then again, in her current state, it was more than possible that she wouldn’t even remember having this conversation, or this entire encounter. A part of him hoped she didn’t. Keeping Georgiana Watkins at a distance felt . . . safe. Smart.

Georgiana shook her head as though trying to banish all the sad thoughts. Before he could react, she’d reached out and wrapped slim fingers around his wrist, pulling his watch face toward her.

Then she grinned, her melancholy mood apparently behind her. “There we go.”

“There we go what?” he asked gruffly, trying not to register the feeling of her fingertips against his skin.

“Five o’clock,” she said, dropping his hand. “Right on schedule. Shall we start arguing now?”

“I don’t have time to argue with you. You’ve already made me late enough.”

She didn’t seem to notice his sharp words, her vodka-soaked brain already moving on to the next subject. Georgiana was glancing down, and she made a happy sound when she looked at his feet.

“Your Dorothy slippers! They’re back!”

She started to bend as though to touch his gym shoes, and Andrew cursed, grabbing her arm and pulling her upright. Enough already.

“Mr. Ramirez,” he called across the expansive lobby to where the concierge had been discreetly minding his own business, “Ms. Watkins’s shoes are a little slippery from the rain. Can you help her to the elevators?”

Ramon immediately started moving toward them, and Andrew slid his hand from Georgiana’s small wrist to her elbow, making sure she stayed steady on her feet until he could hand her off.

“You okay?” he asked.

She didn’t answer. She was rummaging around in the donut box, saying, “Eenie, meenie, minie—”

“Hey,” he said firmly, grabbing her chin gently, lifting her face to his. “Don’t eat that. You don’t need the sugar right now. Let Ramon get you upstairs, take an Advil, wash it down with two glasses of water, and eat a banana if you have one.”

“I don’t have one. But I have a leftover red velvet cupcake from Sprinkles. Does that count as a substitution?”

“Why would that—You know what? Never mind,” he muttered as Ramon approached.

He and the other man exchanged a brief look and a nod of understanding as Ramon placed a hand beneath Georgiana’s elbow. “Careful now, Ms. Watkins. Let me just help you to the elevators. I’ll have someone clean up the water on the floor right away.”

The water wasn’t the problem, and he and Ramon both knew it, but Georgie seemed oblivious, linking her arm in Ramon’s like they were best friends and happily chatting about the bakery throwing a complimentary pumpkin spice old-fashioned into the donut box.

Andrew watched them a moment longer, making sure that Ramon’s grip was enough to prevent Georgiana from falling on her face. Once she made it to the elevator, Andrew started to turn away to get on with his day, but then he heard his name.

He glanced back and saw Georgiana waving at him happily, much as she had with the cab driver.

Don’t wave back. For the love of God, man, don’t—

Andrew lifted his hand, just briefly, in acknowledgment.

Damn. She really was the most ridiculous creature. He carefully hid his smile until he was back outside.

Georgie

MONDAY AFTERNOON

Ugh.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had a hangover. And a long, long time since I’ve had a hangover this bad.

I shuffle into the kitchen and open the fridge, hoping for Gatorade to magically appear. Those electrolytes got me through sorority life.

Nope.

I settle for a San Pellegrino and a cupcake.

It’s red velvet with delicious vanilla frosting, but for some reason as I chew I keep thinking . . . banana?

Not because it tastes like banana, but because . . .

I groan as fuzzy memories creep forward.

Andrew freaking Mulroney.

The details are hazy, but I remember enough to lose my appetite. I toss the rest of the cupcake in the trash.

Crap. Now I owe the guy. Not because he was nice. I may not remember all the details, but I distinctly remember that he wasn’t nice.

But he was decent, and that’s . . . that’s . . .

Annoying.

I lean against the counter and sip the fizzy water, trying to figure out if my nausea is just from the excess booze or if it’s from the sense that I’m indebted to my worst enemy.

There’s probably a little self-loathing in there as well. Despite what you’re probably thinking right now, I am not that girl who goes out and gets drunk to erase her troubles. Sure, I like to party, but as I’ve said before, I’m pretty tame about it. A few cocktails here and there, but I space them out, I drink water, I don’t drink on an empty stomach.

Last night, though . . .

I groan as flashes of the evening come back to me. Marley wasn’t able to come out, which was my first mistake. Marley and I have gone drinking together enough times to develop a code word: spins. Translation: You’re one sip away from the spins, which means you’re already past the point of feeling like crap tomorrow.

But there was no Marley, no one to utter the code word, and so I drowned all my regrets about my parents and their unhappy marriage and my loneliness with Grey Goose citron.

Tacky, Georgie. Very, very tacky.

Somewhere around three-thirty A.M. I ran into Trevor and Brett, a couple at the top of the city’s gay elite, and kind souls. They took me to a twenty-four-hour diner and tried unsuccessfully to get me to eat a few bites of scrambled eggs and some coffee before loading me into a cab.

At least I’m pretty sure that’s how it happened. And I remember going to the donut shop—even tipsy, I don’t forget the important things in life.

And then I ran into . . . Andrew Mulroney, Esquire. Damn it.

Why was he so nice? I don’t like when he’s nice. It makes me feel . . . funny. And how am I supposed to act when I see him next?

At least I’ll have another day to figure it out. No way am I going out tonight, which means I’ll have no reason to be downstairs at five A.M. I could set my alarm and go down anyway, but that’s just pathetic.

So I have until Wednesday to figure out how to act when I see him.

For now, though . . . I take a hot shower, change into Lululemon pants and a comfy sweater, and spend the rest of the afternoon and evening catching up with my old friends Phoebe, Monica, Chandler, and the rest of the gang.

Somewhere around seven, I order in a sesame bagel and Gatorade from Seamless, a food delivery service that’s served many a kitchen-impaired New Yorker. At the last minute, I notice the bagel place has fruit as side items, and I order a banana.

With Ross and Rachel bickering in the background over whether or not they were on a break, I text with Marley and somehow find myself being talked into hosting a dinner party tomorrow.

I’ll have it catered, obviously, but my apartment building has a great community space with an awesome view. My crew hangs out there sometimes when we’re in the mood to chat with close friends rather than see and be seen. I leave Marley in charge of the guest list and start going through my mental list of food options for a group of ten people.

My mom calls somewhere around nine P.M.

I ignore it.

Georgie

TUESDAY EVENING

“Georgie. I appreciate you inviting me.”

Ugh. Gross. I shove the corners of my mouth upward, hoping it resembles a smile, as the dark-haired charmer bends to kiss my cheek.

His lips land maybe just a little too close to mine.

Meet Brody Nash.

I know what you’re thinking: name sounds like he might be a player, right? Ding ding ding. Correct.

Brody Nash has a gift for making you think he gets you, that you’re special to him, maybe the one.

And it doesn’t hurt that all those soulful vibes come from a very attractive package. He’s gorgeous. Warm hazel eyes, short black hair, really good features.

Really good everything, honestly.

Now, I haven’t slept with Brody Nash.

But not too long ago . . . I’d wanted to.

We dated. Or at least, I thought we were dating.

He’d singled me out, or so I thought. Drinks, just the two of us, before meeting up with the group. Then it progressed to dinner. Brunch. Walks in the freaking park.

Then he’d invited me to his parents’ house in the Hamptons—just the two of us.

I mean, what was I supposed to think?!

My bags had been half packed when, the night before, I went out to Lisa’s bachelorette party.

During one of those dumb drinking games that leads to things being confessed that shouldn’t, I’d learned that not only had the bride-to-be slept with Brody, but so had five of my other friends.

And that he apparently kept a list. That he showed people.

Eyes wide open, I’d canceled my trip with Brody and kept him at arm’s length ever since, even though he somehow remains a part of our group, like a really bad rash that everyone’s given up on getting rid of.

And since Marley was in charge of the guest list, and since I’d successfully convinced her that being around Brody didn’t bother me . . .

Well, here he is.

“We should hang out soon. I miss you,” Brody says quietly, giving me a forlorn smile.

I reach around him to pluck my glass of pinot grigio off the counter. “Uh-huh.”

Brody touches my arm, then moves his hand to my hip. “Hey.”

His voice is soft and compelling, and I look away so that I’m not even tempted to be lured into that dangerous place where I’d let him make me feel special—important.

Only, as my gaze is swinging around wildly looking for something besides Brody to fixate on, I see something way, way worse than Brody.

My best friend is strolling through the door of the community event room I reserved, her arm entwined with that of Andrew Mulroney, Esquire.

No friggin’ way. I blink. Blink again.

Yup. Definitely him.

As I’ve said before, I do occasionally see Andrew outside our five o’clock meetings, but not all that often.

And the sight of him in a three-piece gray suit with a skinny black tie does something funny to my belly.

His copper-brown hair’s a little more tidy than it is first thing in the mornings, so I’m guessing that after he showers at the gym, he puts some sort of product in it to keep the waves under control.

Right now I’d be hard-pressed to say which style I like better.

Not that it matters. I meet his eyes, and shocker of all shockers, he’s glaring at me.

Well, not really glaring. That would require emotion, and Ice Man’s got none. But if I’d been maybe holding out hope that him being semi-decent to drunk Georgie yesterday morning would be a step forward . . . nope.

“George, you’ll never guess who I ran into in your elevator lobby,” Marley gushes, patting Andrew’s arm. “This is Andrew Mulroney. We met him briefly last week when he was at dinner with Liv?”

Oh, that? You mean that time when the jerk pretended he didn’t even know me?

I remember I never got revenge for that, and decide it’s time for payback.

I rearrange my features in a polite, slightly embarrassed expression, as though I’ve just been caught in the awkward social faux pas of having to be reintroduced to someone I’ve already met.

“Of course,” I say with false sincerity. “Mr. Mulroney, nice to see you again.”

As I extend my hand, I see something unexpected flicker across Andrew’s face. I can’t tell what exactly. It’s not the indifference I’m expecting, but not quite annoyance either.

He hesitates just a fraction of a second, setting his gym bag aside before shifting his briefcase from his right hand to his left and shaking mine.

Andrew doesn’t meet my eyes, and it bothers me, because he doesn’t seem to be ignoring me so much as hiding something.

I have this weird sense that I’ve hurt his feelings with my impersonal greeting.

Which is blatantly unfair. He’s the very definition of impersonal.

But I feel a sting of regret all the same.

Making everything way worse, Brody appears by my side, his hand slipping around my waist as though it has a right to be there, and he too extends a hand to Andrew. “Hey, man. Brody Nash. Nice to meet you.”

Andrew’s gaze shifts briefly to Brody’s hand on my waist, but he still refuses to meet my eyes as he shakes Brody’s hand.

“So, you’re staying, obviously,” Marley says to Andrew in the bossy, self-assured tone that’s earned her the reputation as the mom of our group.

“No, thank you,” Andrew says a little gruffly.

“Unless you have other plans, I’m going to have to insist,” Marley says, pressing against his arm. “Although I should warn you, if you tell me you have a date, I’m going to be very disappointed.”

My stomach twists at Marley’s flirting, and I feel a sudden stab of regret that I haven’t told her about Andrew’s and my . . . thing.

Not that we’re involved, and not that he’s off-limits. So what do I care if my best friend has terrible taste in men and can’t tell that Andrew Mulroney is . . .

I look up, see him watching me. “I don’t want to impose,” he says.

“Oh, poo, you’re not,” Marley says, waving her hand. “Right, Georgie?”

“Of course not,” I hear myself say. “There’s plenty of food, wine, booze, whatever you want.”

I would have said it to anybody—our friend circle is an open, chatty group. We’re always welcoming strangers, our group ever expanding. But I’m not sure it’s autopilot manners that have me urging Andrew to stay so much as the unexpectedly vulnerable look on his face.

“All right, then,” he says with a slightly stiff nod. “I’ll just run up to my place, drop my stuff off.”

Marley slides her hand out of his arm to let him go. “Okay, but hurry back.”

She walks backward away from him, blowing him a playful kiss before turning to fetch her drink.

Brody’s fingers are firm on my waist, pulling me back toward my friends, but before I can think better of it, I slip away, following after Andrew’s retreating back.

“Hey,” I say, touching his sleeve just before he can leave the room.

Andrew glances down, first at my fingers, then at my face. “What?”

I nearly smile at the irritability he manages to stuff into that one word.

“You’re not planning to come back down, are you? After you ‘put your bag down’?”

He looks away and I know I’m right.

“Marley will be disappointed,” I say.

He blinks. “Who’s Marley?”

Oh boy.

I tilt my head back toward the group. “Pretty blonde? The one who found you in the elevator, dragged you up here?”

“Oh. Right. Ms. Hamlen.”

I can’t stop the little laugh. “Where are you from? I’m pretty sure Buckingham Palace has less formality than you.”

He stares down at me. “I’m merely polite. Try it sometime.”

“Hey!” I say, stung. “I have plenty of flaws, but impoliteness isn’t one of them. I invited you to stay!”

“After you pretended not to know me.”

“That was just payback!” I say, raising my voice and then quickly lowering it. “For the restaurant last week, when you pretended not to know me.”

He takes a small step forward, his eyes flashing. “Not the same thing. I was working. I needed to retain a certain level of anonymity. I can’t have a would-be client thinking I’d go gabbing about her case with the annoying girl who lives in my building.”

I can’t help the smile. “Have you ever gabbed in your life? I’d kill to see it.”

He sighs and runs a hand over the back of his neck.

I smile wider. “Okay, I forgive you for the dinner snub the other night. So you can forgive me for the snub just now.”

Andrew looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “It doesn’t work like that. You don’t get to just exchange one apology for another.”

“You do when they’re the same offense.”

“Yes, but mine was done out of professional necessity, yours was just petty—”

“I ate a banana,” I interrupt.

He opens his mouth, then shuts it, at a loss for words. “What?”

“Yesterday. I was hungover, as you probably expected, and I didn’t have a banana, but I ordered one for dinner.”

He’s silent for a full thirty seconds. “You ordered a banana for dinner.”

“I did.”

Andrew closes his eyes for a moment. “You really are ridiculous, Georgiana.”

“So does that mean you’ll stay for dinner?”

“What? No. I swear, the lack of logic in your thought process never fails to astound—”

I reach out, snatch the briefcase from his hand, and take a step back.

His face is menacing. “Georgiana . . .”

I hold it up. “I’m holding it hostage. Until after dinner.”

He takes a step nearer. “Stop acting like a child.”

“Stop acting like an asshole,” I fire back. “Have a drink. Eat some food. Make some friends.”

Like me.

He glares. “They’re your friends, and—”

“Well, lucky for you, I’m good at sharing,” I interrupt before he can make some disparaging comment about the types of people that would lower themselves to hanging out with the likes of me.

Brody comes up behind me and, for the first time in months, I’m semi-glad to see him, because now Andrew won’t tackle me to get the briefcase back.

Although would that be such a bad thing? He does work out a lot, all that lean, sculpted weight on top of me . . .

“Babe, I refilled your wine.”

I look up at Brody and smile in thanks as I accept the glass. “Perfect. Now we need to get something for Andrew here.”

“Sure,” Brody says with an easy smile. “What are you having?”

I watch as Andrew swallows, his gaze flicking briefly from the briefcase in my hand to the crowd of people behind us and finally back to Brody. Clearly he realizes he’s trapped. “Red wine’s fine.”

“There are already a bunch of bottles open—come take your pick,” Brody says, gesturing in the direction of the drinks table someone’s set up.

Andrew follows Brady, pausing as he passes me and reaching for the briefcase.

I step back before he can reach it. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t trust you not to run away without some incentive to stay.”

“Yeah, well, that’s my problem,” he mutters, more to himself than to me. “It would seem that my incentive to leave and my incentive to stay are one and the same.”

Wait, what? What does that mean?

“Hey, Mulroney. Barolo or Bordeaux?” Brody calls.

Andrew walks away to inspect his wine choices, leaving me to stare after him, a little uncomfortable with just how glad I am that he’s staying.

Georgie

TUESDAY NIGHT, LATER

I made an error in judgment.

Not my first, to be sure, but annoying all the same. See, when I asked Andrew to stick around for dinner, I hadn’t anticipated that people might, well . . . like him.

And by people, I mean my female friends.

I shove a big mouthful of tiramisu in my mouth, pretending to be interested in the delicious dessert, but out of the corner of my eye, I watch as Hailey Miller laughs hysterically at something Andrew’s just told her.

Really? Because I know for a fact that the man’s not even the slightest bit funny.

Hailey apparently disagrees. As did Lynlee, Susannah, and Jen when they had their turns throwing themselves at him earlier.

Marley comes up beside me, draping an arm around my neck and giving me a smacking kiss on the side of my head. “You should have told me, but I’ll forgive you if you give me a bite of that. Calories don’t count when they come from someone else’s plate.”

“Forgive me for what?” I ask as I hold up a forkful of tiramisu to her mouth.

She cleans the fork. “For not telling me,” she says around the dessert.

“Telling you . . .?”

Marley rolls her eyes. “That you like the lawyer. Heck, you didn’t even tell me that you knew him. Gimme another bite, and I’ll forgive you for that too.”

I give her another bite since watching Hailey and Andrew flirting made me lose my appetite anyway.

“You’re not playing dumb, so that’s good,” she says, turning and mimicking my posture, leaning back against the counter and facing out into the room where a few remaining friends linger, finishing their last drink.

I shrug. “Okay, so I do know him, but like him . . . I’m not really sure about that. It’s more like . . .”

“Delicious sexual tension.”

I snort. “I’m not sure the man has hormones. He’s sort of an ice king.”

“How’d you guys meet?”

“Move-in day,” I say, setting the plate aside and grabbing my water bottle. “The building double-booked the loading dock, and neither of us handled it particularly well.”

“Aha! So the attraction was instant,” she says, snapping her fingers.

“What part of what I just said translated to attraction?”

“None of it,” Marley admits. “But I saw you guys talking when he first came in. It was a toss-up whether you were going to arm-wrestle or just start making out.”

I sneak another glance at him, but all of his attention is on Hailey and her big blue eyes and the adorable gap between her front two teeth.

The kicker? I really like Hailey. She’s super sweet, but not sugary sweet. And she’s smart. Funny. Pretty. Damn it.

I’m telling myself that the only reason I’m annoyed is because she’s too good for him. He’d try to diminish all her light, dull her sunshine.

“You’re staring,” Marley whispers.

“He hates me,” I mutter, deciding to have more tiramisu after all.

“Nope. He just doesn’t know what to do with you.”

I turn toward her, making a continue gesture with my hand.

She smirks. “Oh, man. You’ve got a crush! You really haven’t seen him watching you all night?”

“Are we talking about the same person? Stuffy guy in a fussy suit? I’ve seen him pay attention to every girl but me.”

“Not me, though,” Marley says, holding up a finger. “I want friend points for that. I haven’t made a single move now that I know how things stand with you two.”

“Things don’t stand anywhere. Things are lying down, dead all over the ground,” I say, gesturing dramatically.

“Ask him out,” she says.

“Um, no.”

“Why not?” Marley demands.

“Because we haven’t had a single conversation that’s lasted longer than five minutes and was even halfway friendly.”

“Hmm. Plus, he did pretend not to know you when we saw him with Liv,” Marley muses. “This may be trickier than I thought.”

“Exactly!” I proceed to scrape the plate clean, thinking the conversation is done, and when I glance up, Hailey and Andrew are still talking, only she’s typing something on a phone.

His phone, I realize as she hands the iPhone back to him.

I toss the plate into the trash.

Marley pats my arm. “I got this.”

“Got what? Marley!”

My friend’s already moving away from me. “Hailey!”

The pretty blonde turns.

“You’re headed to Cielo later, right? Want to share a cab?” Marley asks.

“Oh. Sure.” Hailey glances my way. “We should help Georgie clean up first, though.”

See? Told you she was nice.

“Nah, I got it,” Brody says, refilling his wineglass and coming to stand beside me. Close enough for his arm to brush mine just barely, but the casualness of it has a couple-y feeling. Deliberate, I’m guessing.

I glance at Andrew, but his attention’s on his phone. Probably already texting Hailey.

“No, I’m fine,” I say to Brody. “You guys can go.”

Brody frowns. “You’re not coming to the club?”

“Nah, I have an early morning tomorrow, which means I need to make it an early night.”

I think I hear Andrew snort, but nobody else looks his way, so maybe I imagined it.

“No worries,” Brody says with a smile. “Early night it is for me too, then.”

“For God’s sake, Brody, take a hint. She doesn’t want you to stay,” the ever-blunt Lynlee says in exasperation, sauntering over and linking her arm in Brody’s. “Besides, the rest of us need you to run dance floor interference, give the stink-eye to the creepers.”

Brody opens his mouth, but I nudge my hip playfully against his. Anything to get him to leave. “She’s right. Our people need you.”

He searches my face and correctly reads that he isn’t going to get lucky. He takes a gulp of wine and sets the glass aside. “All right, then. But tomorrow night, George. No excuses.”

“No excuses,” I confirm, lifting my water bottle in confirmation.

Brody grins and leans down, his mouth close to my ear. “Wear that strapless pink dress you wore last week. Hot.”

“Don’t be gross, Brody,” Marley calls out. “Crew, we’re headed out.”

“You should come,” Hailey is saying to Andrew.

Lynlee chimes in. “Yes, do!”

“No. Thank you,” he says stiffly. “I have an early morning tomorrow.”

I smile just a little at his exact echo of my words, even though he doesn’t look at me while he says it.

“We can make it an early night. Have you home by two,” Lynlee says.

His eyebrows lift. “That’s an early night?”

“Leave him alone,” Marley orders our friends as she starts ushering everyone toward the door. She winks at me and I give her a laser burn with my eyes, causing her to trot over.

“You realize you’re leaving me with a huge mess in the name of futile matchmaking,” I say when she grins big and mischievous at me.

“I know. Sucks. But you’ll thank me one day, promise.”

“Uh-huh.” I know my friend. Her grand plan is to force me and Andrew to spend time together.

But I know him better than she does. The man struggles to tolerate my company in the best of circumstances. He’s certainly not going to jump at the chance to clean up takeout containers, paper plates, and a butt-load of wine bottles.

I hug my friends goodbye, apologizing for bailing on them two nights in a row and promising that I’ll see them tomorrow. Brody’s hug is just a little too lingering, and I’m suddenly extra glad that cleanup duty’s given me an excuse to hang back. I don’t know what’s happened to make Brody renew his efforts, but I’m finding it kind of exhausting.

Finally, finally, my noisy, wine-buzzed friends are out the door and I exhale a long breath, knowing there’s one more goodbye to get through and it won’t involve a hug, lingering or otherwise.

But when I turn around, Andrew’s not right there, waiting to exchange barbs.

Instead he’s opening and closing all of the cabinets in the room. Looking for his briefcase, no doubt. Which he’ll find in three, two . . .

He pulls it out of the cabinet and holds it up, giving me a look. You’re ridiculous.

But he doesn’t say it out loud. And instead of dashing for the door, he merely sets it to the side and continues opening and closing cabinets.

“What are you looking for?” I ask.

“Garbage bags.”

I blink. “Can’t take it anymore, huh? Going to off me and drag my body out of the building in a big black bag?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Georgiana.” There it is. “You’re small enough that I could just put your body down the trash chute. Far more practical.”

I laugh. “Did you just make a joke?”

He looks up. “Are there trash bags in here or no?”

“You don’t rent the community space often, huh?”

“Can’t say I’ve had much occasion to, no.”

I walk to my purse and pull out the roll of garbage bags I brought with me. “Well, spectacular as the room and view are, pretty much nothing else is included. Gotta bring your own cleanup supplies.”

Andrew reaches out to take the garbage bag roll, but I don’t release it. “You don’t have to help me clean, you know.”

“Yes, I’m aware.”

He pulls the roll from my grip and looks down at it for a second before tossing it on the counter.

“Change your mind about cleaning?” I watch him a little bit warily, because it feels like something’s shifting. I feel his focus a hundred percent on me. He’s considering something, and I’m torn between nervousness and anticipation.

“For the moment, yes.” He walks to the sideboard and fishes among the bottles of white wine in the ice bucket. “You were drinking the pinot grigio, yes?”

“Yeah.” I watch in puzzlement as he pours a glass, then a glass of red for himself.

“You hardly had one glass,” he murmurs, walking back to me and handing it over. “Too busy flitting around, playing hostess.”

“Because I was the hostess,” I say defensively.

He meets my eyes. “I wasn’t criticizing, Georgiana.”

“For once.”

“I didn’t mean to be critical. I meant only that you’ve earned the right to relax a bit. Enjoy a glass of wine.”

“So you can prove your hypothesis that I’m a drunken, hopeless party girl?”

“God damn, you’re difficult,” he says angrily, stepping near me. “Why can’t you just be—”

“What?” I ask when he doesn’t finish. I order myself to meet his gaze, but I can’t seem to stop looking at his mouth. It’s not smiling, and I’m used to that, but for some reason I can’t stop thinking about how firm it must be, what it would be like to kiss someone so rigidly in control.

Would he dominate?

Would I like it?

I feel the heat coming off him, and it answers my question.

Yes. Yes, I’d like it.

I’d like making him lose control even more.

Andrew swears again under his breath and takes a step back.

I expect him to say something insulting and disappear, but he surprises me by nodding toward the wide floor-to-ceiling windows in the corner of the room. “Would you mind if we sat?”

Yeah, um, not what I expected. And yet . . . intriguing.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to,” he says gruffly. “It’s just been a long day. Your friends are mostly pleasant, but I could use a breather.”

“And you want to do it here? With me?”

He lets out the smallest of almost-laughs. “Do you have any idea how exhausting it is trying to speak with you?”

“I’m just confused,” I say honestly.

“About?”

“Why, if you want a breather, you’re not trying to get away from me as quickly as possible.”

He blows out a breath, his head dipping a little, looking defeated and a little . . . sad.

When he looks back up, his eyes are guarded, all former traces of easiness vanished, and I feel a stab of regret, as though I’ve just stamped out the possibility of something special.

“I’ll take my leave, then,” he says quietly, setting his wineglass on the counter.

“No,” I say, taking a step forward, hand outstretched before quickly dropping it to my side. “You can stay.”

Andrew meets my eyes warily, and I shrug and grin. “I need time to figure out the best way to make fun of you for using the phrase take my leave.”

He nods, picking up his wineglass once more. “Shall we?”

There’s a love seat and two chairs, all situated in a semicircle to best take in the view of Manhattan at night.

He sits in one of the chairs, and I curl up in the love seat, pulling my bare legs beneath me and smoothing my skirt over my knees to keep things decent and non-crotch-shot.

Not that he’s looking.

Instead he surprises me by slouching just a little in the large leather chair, his head falling back on the chair. He looks exhausted, and I realize that he hadn’t been lying about it being a long day. The poor guy really does look like he needs a minute.

My mouth goes dry as he reaches up a hand, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt, hooking a finger into his tie and loosening it.

He’s obviously preoccupied, not paying attention to me at all, so I take advantage and pay attention to him.

I’ve only ever seen him looking down at me, but seeing him like this, relaxed and a little informal, is entirely different. I can see just how trim his torso is, how long and well shaped his fingers are.

The hollows of his cheeks are delicious, as is the tiny cleft in his chin.

“If you had a beard, it’d be ginger,” I blurt out.

He looks over. “What?”

I gesture over my lower face. “Your bristles. They’re sort of orange-ish in this light.”

He runs a hand over his cheek, and I swallow. “Five o’clock shadow,” he mutters. “Or ten o’clock shadow, depending what time it is.” He lifts his wrist to check his watch.

I don’t ask for the time. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to do anything that will remind him that he’s being ridiculous spending time with me.

“So why the long day?” I ask.

He heaves out a sigh and sits up, leaning forward and clasping his wineglass between his hands, watching as he gently rocks the red liquid from side to side. “Just a particularly acrimonious divorce.”

“Are there any non-bitter divorces?” I ask.

“Not many,” he admits. “At least not ones that come across my desk. All of the mutually-irreconcilable-differences ones don’t need to bring in the big guns.”

“Google says you’re the biggest divorce lawyer in the city. So does Marley.”

He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t stop watching his wine. “Not sure that’s a compliment.”

“Yes it is,” I insist. “It means you’re good at your job.”

He looks up at that. “I would have thought a girl like you would hate my job.”

“A girl like me?”

“Optimistic. Bubbly. Enthusiastic about glitter, and—”

“And . . .?” I prompt. “Say it. You know you want to.”

He takes a sip of wine and glances out at the city before relenting. “And ridiculous.”

He looks at me out of the corner of his eye as he says it, a whisper of a smile playing on his mouth that makes me go all warm inside.

I lift a glass. “If ridiculous means I don’t believe in divorce, then I’m proud of it.”

“You can’t not believe in divorce. It’s a reality.”

“I know,” I say sadly, taking a sip of my wine. “I guess I mean I don’t believe in it for me.”

“Well, the good news is, you’ve got some time. First comes marriage and all that. Unless you’re close to that.”

“Um, no.”

He’s watching me. “Brody?”

“Not a thing.”

“He’s interested.”

I shrug. “Yep.”

We both fall silent for a few moments that are surprisingly peaceful considering that just a couple of days ago we were icing each other out hard-core.

“What about you?” I ask. “Is there a lady becoming the next Mrs. Mulroney anytime soon?”

“Not soon, not ever.”

“Oh no,” I say in exasperation. “You’re not that guy. The one that thinks he’s never going to get married because his career only shows him the bad side of marriage.”

He looks at me again. “I am definitely that guy.”

“But you do date?”

“Sometimes.”

“What about Hailey?”

His brow furrows. “Your friend? What about her?”

“You should ask her out. She likes you. I saw you exchange numbers.”

Andrew takes a sip of his wine. “You did not.”

“I did.”

He leans back again. “You saw her give me her number. I didn’t give her mine.”

“Why not?”

He doesn’t answer, instead looking behind him. “Shall we start on the cleaning?”

I’m oddly disappointed by his lack of response, but I nod. “Yeah. I should probably get it over with. You don’t have to help.”

He’s already on his feet, extending a hand down to me. I know it’s just a gentlemanly gesture to help me up, but my stomach flutters a little all the same.

I give him a carefree smile as I place my palm in his, as though I’ve done this millions of times with millions of guys, which I sort of have.

But the feeling I get when my skin touches his is anything but routine. It’s . . . electric isn’t quite the right word; that’s too sharp.

It just feels . . . pivotal.

Get it together, Georgie.

He releases my hand the second I’m on my feet, and I think I see his hand clench as he drops his arm to his side.

“You didn’t go out tonight. With your friends,” he says.

I lift my eyebrows. “Obviously.”

He looks away. “So you won’t be out late tonight. Or early. Whatever you call it.”

“Correct.”

Andrew’s eyes flick back to mine. “I won’t be seeing you tomorrow morning.”

I laugh. “Well, since I’m not a robot like you who lives and dies by making it to the gym on time, no, probably not.”

The comment comes out sharper than I intend, and his eyes narrow. “There’s nothing wrong with how I live my life, Georgiana.”

The tiny emphasis on my has my teeth grinding. “Ah, of course. It’s my life that’s the mess, right? Because I don’t live and die by a schedule?”

“You have no idea what my life is like,” he snaps.

Annnnd . . . goodbye peace treaty.

“And you have no idea what my life is like,” I snap back. “So you don’t really get to judge.”

He takes a step closer. “You wouldn’t last five minutes in my shoes.”

His simple dismissal of me rolls off his tongue so confidently that I suck in a breath. I’m so tired of being nothing in his eyes, so eager to change his opinion. . . .

“Try me,” I blurt out.

He blinks. “What?”

“Take me along. One day in your life, wherever you go, I go. I’ll prove I could Elle Woods the hell out of this city.”

He doesn’t even pause to question my Legally Blonde reference.

“One day in my life,” he repeats.

I lift my eyebrows. “Worried it’ll kill you? Spending all that time with me?”

“Honestly?” he says, his voice gruff. “A little.”

His eyes drift over me when he says it, and I realize that he’s talking about an entirely different kind of reaction to spending time with me. The sexy kind.

I bite my lip to keep from asking him to kiss me.

Instead, I extend my right hand. “Five o’clock tomorrow morning?”

His grin is victorious, and I suspect I just caught a preview of what Andrew looks like after he wins a big case. Terrifying.

“Five o’clock,” he confirms reluctantly. “And Georgiana?”

I meet his eyes and hold my breath as he leans in. “Yeah?”

“Wear your workout clothes.” He steps back.

I exhale my disappointment, and he turns away, but not before I catch his knowing smirk.

It would seem our cold war just got a tiny bit warmer.

Bring it.

Georgie

WEDNESDAY, 4:49 A.M.

I drag myself out of the elevator and into the lobby, determined to beat Andrew downstairs.

Last night I felt great about my plan.

This morning, though?

Oh. Holy. Hell.

People do this? Willingly set their alarm and haul their ass out of bed while it’s still dark out?

I’m a little grateful that it’s a new guy behind the front desk. Charles is a sweet balding dude who works the early morning shift on Ramon’s days off. He’s only been here a few weeks and, lucky for him, I don’t think he’s grasped the full scope of the tornado that is me and Andrew Mulroney in the same space.

Last night’s temporary reprieve excepted, of course. I’m not sure what that quiet moment over wine was. An anomaly, definitely, because the rest of the cleanup session was half antagonism (me) and half icy silence (him).

It’s why I had to make sure to look extra good this morning.

Now, you might be thinking, how good can one look in workout clothes?

One word: formfitting.

The point is, I’m pretty sure my early morning grogginess will all be worth it when I see Andrew’s face when he catches a glimpse of me in yoga pants.

“Good morning, Charles!” I sing as I stroll into the lobby.

“Ms. Watkins,” he says, looking up in surprise. “Don’t I usually see you coming from the other direction this time of the morning?”

“You do,” I say, all but skipping over to the counter, delighted to have beaten Andrew down here. “Sorry I don’t have donuts for you this morning. A little change in routine.”

Charles pats his belly. “Just as well. Where you headed so early?”

“The gym, apparently,” I say, dropping my bag on the floor by my feet and rifling through the little bowl of chocolates they sometimes put out on the desk, searching for dark chocolate.

I’ve just popped it into my mouth when I hear his voice.

“Candy is not breakfast, Georgiana.”

My head whips around and my stomach gives a little flip that has nothing to do with the chocolate.

He’s wearing the exact same thing as always—gray shirt, black pants, black gym bag, et cetera—but something feels . . . different.

Not the glare. That’s still the same. But there’s an extra little snap of awareness between us.

My eyes deliberately drift down his body to the black sneakers. “No Oz detour today?”

“No time. I’ll have a tagalong slowing me down.”

“Don’t let me stop you. I love poofy dresses. I can totally be the Glinda to your Dorothy.”

Andrew leans his elbow on the counter and takes a sip of the health goo in his travel mug as he stares me down. “Really? Because I sort of had you pegged as the Scarecrow.”

I blink. It takes me a minute to get it, but when I do . . .

Wow. Wow.

The comment is so unkind that I instinctively replay it once more, looking for a second meaning, because surely even he isn’t so much a jerk as to imply . . .

I swallow. “Did you just imply I have no brain?”

My voice is a little hoarse, and I’m horrified to feel the sting of tears.

Out of the corner of one now-blurry eye, I see Charles pick up the phone. Not because it rang, but because I’m assuming he’d rather fake a phone call than be present in the awkwardness that is this moment.

Andrew’s face seems to go slightly white at my reaction. “Wait. No.”

“Then what?” I ask, anger mingling in with the hurt now. “That’s how the story goes, right? The Tin Man needs a heart, the Cowardly Lion needs courage, and the dumb Scarecrow needs the brain. Just like ditzy, flighty Georgie Watkins.”

“Georgiana—”

I shake my head and bend to pick up my bag. “Have fun at the gym, Mulroney. I hope you choke on your wheatgrass.”

I’m still blinking back tears, but at least I manage to walk away with my head held high.

He catches up with me before I can make it to the elevator, his fingers wrapping firmly around my biceps and pulling me back around. “Georgiana.”

“What?” I snap, turning around. “What can you possibly say that you haven’t said a million times already with every scowl, with every eye roll, with every you’re ridiculous? You think I’m stupid and worthless. I get it.”

The guy’s expression is one tangled knot of emotional constipation. “That’s not what I think.”

“Yeah? Okay. I’m sure there was another interpretation of me being the brainless Scarecrow.”

I try to turn away, but he holds me still, his fingers in a vise grip around my arm. “Just—just give me a minute,” he snaps.

I wrench my arm free. “A minute for what? So you can think of new ways to insult me again? Pass.”

“I thought we had a deal,” he says in what seems to be a slightly desperate voice. “You tag along with me today, so we can prove—”

“That I don’t fit into your world?” I say, whirling around and taking a step closer to him.

He looks wary but doesn’t step back, not even when I stab my pointer finger into his solar plexus. “You know what? I think we can skip the whole exercise,” I say. “I don’t care about whether or not I fit into your world, because I’ve seen enough of it to know I don’t want to belong.”

“Georgiana.”

I put my weight against my finger, pushing away from him disdainfully. “Save it. Go find some woman with a big old brain who enjoys your condescension. Because this girl? She’s not it.”

“Wait—”

I don’t wait. I keep right on walking. “Hey, Charles,” I call over my shoulder, carefully avoiding looking at Andrew. “If anyone comes looking for me, take a message, would you? Let them know I’m unavailable because I’m off being ridiculous.”

Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, doesn’t say a word, not as I stab the elevator’s up button, not after I step into the safety of the elevator itself.

I catch a glimpse of him as the doors shut, his expression utterly blank, and even as I hate him, I want to know what he’s thinking.

I want . . . him.

Andrew

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

Andrew looked across the desk at another of the firm’s partners and realized he hadn’t absorbed a single word Katherine Hopkins had said since coming into his office ten minutes earlier.

He gritted his teeth against the unfamiliar sensation of being distracted. It wasn’t a familiar emotion. Nor a welcome one.

“Anyway,” Katherine said with a dismissive wave of her hand, “thanks for listening. Poor Jim’s sick to death of hearing me talk about this, but if I don’t vent to someone about the bitch, I’ll implode.”

“Not a problem,” Andrew said smoothly, even though he wasn’t entirely sure who the “bitch” was in this scenario.

Not that it mattered. Like himself, Katherine specialized in divorce law, and also like himself, she had no shortage of high-maintenance, shark-like female clients.

“How are things with you?” Katherine said as she smoothed her skirt and stood. “I’m still jealous you got the Dotson case, by the way. Although it’s just as well. The lawyer in me salivates over the rumored lack of prenup, but the woman in me sort of hoped Liv and Chris were going to beat the odds and make it. They’re so dang likable.”

Andrew shrugged. “Famous people get divorced just as often as regular people.”

She tossed her long dark hair back and sighed. “I know. But sometimes I want to believe in the fairy tale. Don’t you?”

“You’re living it,” he said, picking up the pen he’d bought himself when he graduated from law school. “I’m not.”

“Not yet,” she teased. “And, I didn’t think it was going to happen for me either, but then . . . bam, forty-two rolled around and I met Jim. You’re only, what, twelve? You’ve got plenty of time.”

Andrew gave a grim smile. His age was a favorite joke around the office. He knew thirty was young to make partner, especially at a firm as large as this one. But then that had sort of been his life. He’d skipped a grade here, another one there. College in three years instead of four, and so on. As far as his professional life went, he’d always been ten steps ahead of his peers.

His personal life, though . . .

Andrew swallowed as once again his mind drifted to the very reason he was having such a hell of a time focusing today. It didn’t matter what he turned his attention to: email, client work, meetings, lunch, Twitter. Everywhere he looked, he saw only one thing . . . big brown eyes, brimming with tears.

Tears that he’d caused.

And as much as he wanted to brush her off as ridiculous, as much as he wanted to label the whole episode as female sentimentality and forget about it, the truth was . . .

He’d fucked up.

“You okay?” Katherine asked, tilting her head and giving him a curious look.

Andrew cleared his throat and looked back at her. “Yeah. Just mentally prepping for a thorny case later this afternoon.”

She held up her hands and took a step back. “Got it. I’ll let you get back to work.”

She gave him a little wave, and though he knew it was irrational, he felt a stab of regret that she hadn’t pressed him for more information—that it hadn’t even occurred to her that Andrew Mulroney might have something weighing on his mind other than work.

Not that he could blame her. Until recently, he hadn’t had anything weighing on his mind other than work. But he suspected that was a particular gift that Georgiana Watkins had—flouncing her way into the consciousness of people who had no use for her.

Andrew vaguely registered Katherine exiting his office and shutting the door behind her, and he gave in to the urge to prop his elbows on his desk and rest his face in his hands, just for a minute.

This wouldn’t do. He hadn’t gotten a single bit of work done all day. He couldn’t think about anything except the horrible moment when he’d thought he was making a joke, only to realize the second it left his mouth that it had been downright cruel.

Andrew had never been good with women.

But damn it, he was better than this. Smarter than to tell a woman she was essentially brainless.

The real kicker was, Georgiana was far from brainless. Ridiculous, yes, but to his way of thinking, there were few markers more telling of intelligence than a quick wit and a sharp tongue, and Georgiana had both in spades.

And even if she’d been as empty-headed as a balloon, his manners weren’t so off-kilter as to imply a woman had no brain.

He hadn’t meant anything by it; he’d just grown so accustomed to attempting to keep up with her, trying to stay one step ahead of her barbs.

And yet . . . there were barbs, and then there was just mean.

He dragged his fingers over his face, letting his hands fall with a thump to the mahogany desk.

What did a man do when he’d inadvertently called a woman an idiot simply because he’d wanted to hold her attention, to keep the conversation going so she didn’t tire of him?

It was schoolyard nonsense.

Andrew drummed his fingers on the desk, staring straight ahead at the bland, abstract painting that the firm’s interior designer had hung on his wall and which he’d never bothered to notice.

He could call her.

And say what?

Hell, forget that. He didn’t even have the woman’s phone number.

His eyes narrowed as he remembered that he did have her friend’s phone number . . . the sweet but forgettable Hailey. But somehow he didn’t think telling Georgiana that he’d contacted her friend to get her number would help his cause.

He could forget the whole thing. Let it blow over, then go back to their usual bickering tomorrow morning.

But what if she didn’t show tomorrow morning? What if she avoided him every morning from now on?

The thought caused more regret than he cared to admit, even to himself.

He drummed his fingers more rapidly, his brain running through the options before finally settling on one. It was a cliché. He’d hardly get points for creativity. But he needed to do something to ease the weird throb in his chest, or he’d never get any work done.

In the end he opted to text Hailey after all.

Then Andrew started to reach for his desk phone to call his assistant, but at the last second opened his laptop instead.

He might not know much about women like Georgiana, but even he knew that there were some things that you were better off doing yourself.

Georgie

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, LATER

After the snub from Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, Asshole of the First Degree, I’ve spent most of the day trying to lose myself in a breast-cancer fundraising brunch I volunteered to help plan.

I know a lot of people think that women who work on fundraisers are just women trying really hard to make it look like they’re “working,” but the truth is, it is work.

Just try it. Go ahead and try to find an available venue on a Sunday afternoon in Manhattan that fits five hundred people, allows outside caterers, and has plenty of natural light, or at least is old and established enough that people forgive the lack of windows.

You try to find a bottle of champagne that’s impressive enough to move the richy-rich to open their wallets without being so expensive as to negate the entire purpose of a fundraiser in the first place.

You try to spend forty-five minutes on hold with some aging pop princess’s agent in hopes she’ll do a show for free.

Anyway, you get the point.

As far as distractions go, it hasn’t been a horrible one. Not only does it keep me busy, but it keeps me busy doing something that doesn’t feel brainless.

Okay. So, not quite as distracted as I thought. I just keep thinking of this morning, and, well . . . hurting.

Which is dumb, right? I’m letting some anal, uptight tool have way too much power over me.

I push back from my kitchen table to retrieve my phone from the couch, where I threw it after getting exasperated with the caterer’s insistence on asparagus-stuffed cheese puffs. Let me ask you this: what is the point of a cheese puff if it’s ruined with vegetables? Am I right? I’m right.

I pick up the phone and see a couple of texts from my mom asking if I want to meet up with her for dinner tomorrow night. Just her. No Dad. Hmm.

I’ll respond to that later.

I text Marley to ask what the plan is for tonight, and I’m a little embarrassed to say I consider texting Brody, even though I’ve recently learned the hard way that drowning one’s feelings in toxic substances has dire consequences. And as far as toxic substances go, I’m pretty sure that attention from Brody is right up there with too much vodka.

Luckily, I’m saved from making that mistake by an incoming phone call from the front desk of my apartment building.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Watkins, it’s Joe downstairs.”

I smile and plop onto the couch. “Joe! How are you? Is your pup all better after being fixed?”

“Hating the cone of shame, as expected, but all good, thanks. I’ve got a delivery for you here. You around for me to send it up, or shall I hold it here for you?”

“Sure, send it up,” I say, even as I scratch my nose in puzzlement.

UPS, FedEx, and all that good stuff is automatically received and delivered by them as part of the daily routine. The only time they ever call before sending something up is if it’s a food delivery, and I haven’t ordered anything.

A few minutes later I open the door to something that’s anything but part of my daily routine.

I can’t even see the person behind the delivery, because the flowers literally take up my entire doorway.

I gasp in pleasure. I’m totally not one of those girls who bemoans fresh flowers for the flowery death they represent. Nope, I love me some flowers, the more elaborate the arrangement the better, and this is most definitely in the elaborate category.

I hand the guy a generous tip and kick the door closed.

Heaving the arrangement onto the counter, I smile even wider as I take in the sheer impressiveness of the arrangement. It’s mostly pink roses and lilies, but some flower genius has mixed in white tulips and mums to keep it feeling fresh and unexpected.

The best part, though, is little sprigs of silver sparkle and rhinestones. The whole bouquet is very, well . . . Georgie.

I begin digging around for a card, wondering which of the florists I called and spoke with today has the rather impressive marketing approach of sending a sample product to the woman who’ll be making the decisions on flowers for a big fundraiser, a job that will be worth thousands of dollars.

I finally find the envelope, but the discreet lavender logo of the card isn’t one that I recognize. Odd.

I fish out the small ivory card and read what’s written there.

Then I read it again.

Perfectly ridiculous.

There’s just those two words. No name, but then, I don’t need one. The ridiculous is a calling card of sorts.

Although it’s not the ridiculous that has me smiling a little bit. It’s the perfectly.

Perfectly ridiculous.

There are two ways to read that. Perfectly ridiculous as in the most perfect example of ridiculous. Could not be more ridiculous.

Knowing Andrew Mulroney, that’s a possible interpretation. Probable, even.

But there’s another interpretation that I like far better: perfectly ridiculous as in perfect in its ridiculousness.

Because the flowers are exactly that. The arrangement is wonderfully frivolous.

Just like me?

I mean, I like to think so. But does he?

Hmm.

Which is it?

I’m so busy overanalyzing the two words that I belatedly notice that there’s a phone number at the bottom. I skipped it at first, assuming it was the florist’s number, but it’s handwritten, and different from the phone number that’s beneath the florist’s logo and address on the back of the card.

I tap the card against my bottom lip as I study the sparkling, ostentatious bouquet, my smile growing wider all the time.

As far as apologies go . . .

Well, is it one?

There’s no sorry. There’s certainly not nearly enough groveling, considering he callously insulted my intellect.

And yet this gesture feels sort of perfectly . . . us.

I retrieve my phone and consider texting him (no, I’m not going to call him; this isn’t the nineties), but . . .

What to say?

Thank you is too obvious to a man who can’t say sorry.

And I can’t say, All good! Because I’m not sure it is all good. Not quite yet.

In the end, I decide not to text him at all.

I’ve got something better in mind.

Andrew

THURSDAY, 5:06 A.M.

If anyone accused him of waiting for her, he’d deny it with his dying breath, but damn it, where was the infernal woman?

Had she gotten the fucking flowers or not? Had she liked them? Apparently not, or he wouldn’t be lingering in the lobby of his own building, pretending to have a conversation with Charles when really all of his attention was on whether or not Georgiana Watkins would join him.

Hell, he didn’t care which direction she came from. She could come from the elevators, or she could come from the front door, returning from a long night out.

Scratch that. He’d only be okay with her coming home from a night out so long as her night hadn’t involved another man. . . .

Andrew blew out a breath and tried to get a hold of himself and focus on Charles’s polite small talk. What the hell was up with him? Since when did he care how Georgiana Watkins spent her time?

And since when did her morning appearances seem so vital to his very existence?

He lingered until five fucking twenty before accepting that she wasn’t going to show. She hadn’t liked the flowers. Hadn’t forgiven him.

Andrew swallowed as he pushed through the revolving doors into the autumn morning.

He was angry.

He told himself it was because he was now twenty minutes late starting his day.

He was lying.

Georgie

FRIDAY, 5:01 A.M.

Today’s plan of action required getting up even earlier than Wednesday. Which I didn’t know was possible.

But . . . worth it.

I’m nibbling the corner of my donut and chatting up Ramon, who’s already on his second donut, when I feel the air change.

Popping another bite of donut into my mouth, I slowly turn toward the source of the heat.

“Morning, Andrew.”

His expression is the same as it always is. Which is to say: completely expressionless.

But because I’m watching for it—anticipating it—I swear I see a little something extra flare in his eyes when he sees me.

Satisfaction? Gladness? Hard to say, since irritation is the only one of his nuances I know really well. But I’m pretty sure it was something.

“Mr. Ramirez. Georgiana. Good morning,” he says.

“Mr. Mulroney, sir. Good morning.”

“Donut?” I ask sweetly, pushing the box toward Andrew. “They’re perfectly delicious.”

His eyes narrow slightly at my emphasis on perfectly before his eyes drift over me, narrowing even farther at my ensemble.

As with Wednesday morning, I’m wearing gym clothes.

Unlike Wednesday morning, I got up extra early to bust my ass getting to the donut shop and then back here, so I could get the jump on him.

The puzzlement he’s trying to hide as he takes in my workout clothes makes the hideous 4:15 A.M. chirp of my alarm a happy memory.

“You’re late today,” I say, offering him a bite of my donut.

He ignores the donut. “Says the woman who didn’t show at all yesterday.”

“Someone’s keeping track.”

“Someone’s playing games. I don’t like games, Georgiana.”

“Which is why you need to play them, Andy.”

He blinks. “It’s Andrew.”

“Hmm. How about Drew?”

“No.” The word is a growl. “Georgiana.”

“Yes, Andy?”

He exhales. “I’m going to kill you.”

I can’t help the laugh. “See, I don’t think so.”

“Don’t you?”

“Nope,” I say, sucking sugar off my thumb. “You don’t send flowers to someone you’re going to kill.”

“Maybe they were for your funeral.”

I beam up at him. “So are we doing this?”

“Your funeral? God, I hope so.”

“Going to the gym,” I clarify. “You know, that whole thing about whether brainless Georgie can keep up with Andy and his Einstein mind.”

He grunts and checks his watch. “I said I was sorry about that.”

I laugh outright now. “You did not say sorry.”

Andrew looks away. “I tried to.”

I take pity on him and reach out to touch his forearm. Which, by the way, is very firm and nicely formed. Maybe I should consider this gym thing for real. “The flowers were perfect. Really.”

He meets my eyes, his mouth opening as though he wants to say something, but his gaze cuts over to Ramon, then to his watch once more.

“We should go.”

I bounce on my toes. “You’re letting me come with?”

“Do I even have a choice?”

“Ah, now see?” I say, pivoting and turning so that I can link my arm with his. “Look how well you know me already, and the day hasn’t even started.”

Andrew shakes his head and all but drags me forward. “You’re ridiculous.”

But I’m pretty sure I hear a smile in his voice when he says it.

Georgie

FRIDAY MORNING, LATER

If you’re wondering what Andrew Mulroney looks like while he’s in workout mode, picture this: Thor and Captain America somehow defeat biology and have a love child together. And call him Andrew.

You’re welcome for the visual.

Anyway, my idea of the gym is something like this: trot on the treadmill or the elliptical at a pace just vigorous enough to make your boobs and ponytail look good, but without actually breaking a sweat. Twenty minutes, max.

But twenty minutes pass, and out of the corner of my eye I see that Andrew’s at the same machine he started with and doesn’t look like he’s even remotely close to finished with his workout.

While I talked at him (yes, at him) on the way here, I asked why he came to this gym instead of the fancy one in our building.

He muttered something about a particular machine that he liked.

To which I replied that he was a machine.

And then he quit talking altogether.

I trot for another ten minutes or so, then decide that I should probably hit the shower if I’m going to have enough time to make myself pretty before I follow him to the office.

Because yup, I’m totally taking him up on his offer to see what the hell it is he does all day and prove that I can keep up. If he thinks sitting behind a desk and talking legalese is hard, he’s never been down Fifth Avenue in December. I make a mental note to force him to do that with me in a few weeks.

I trot over to where he’s loading weights onto the end of a metal rod. “What?” he asks, not looking at me.

I drape myself over the metal. “How much longer?”

He pauses in the process of hoisting the weight, his biceps flexing with the strain, then sets it back down again with an expression that’s half exasperated, half triumphant.

“That’s it?” he asks. “That’s all you’ve got? Thirty minutes in my shoes?”

I lift a finger and gesture at his feet. “I’m confident I would have made it much longer if you’d worn Dorothy’s slippers. Those black ones you’re wearing are boring.”

“They’re practical.”

“Boring,” I correct. “So what’s next?”

“Well, considering I’ve barely started on my workout—”

“Okay, fast-forward,” I say, spinning my finger. “Lucky for you, my usual hairstyle doesn’t do itself, so I’ll be able to keep myself busy while you finish your aspiring-bodybuilder routine. I mean, what happens after?”

Instead of answering, he lets his gaze roam over me, almost reluctantly. I regret that I opted to drape myself over the bar instead of standing up straight so I could pretend to stretch my lower back in a way that pushes out my boobs.

Wait. What?

I don’t want him thinking of me like that. Because I don’t think of him like that.

Do I? Oh, dear. I’m not sure, not when he’s looking at me with . . .

Oh. It’s disdain. Never mind, then.

“What exactly did you do for exercise, Georgiana?” he says, giving me a skeptical look. “Twirl your hair?”

“If I do it vigorously, it counts as cardio.”

He gives the slightest of eye rolls. “Fine. Go shower. I’ll walk you home when I’m done.”

“Wait, no,” I say, feeling a little surge of disappointment and panic. “I’m going with you to work.”

Andrew rubs at his forehead. “Look, when I agreed to this the other night I was . . . I don’t know. Tired. Frustrated. If you’re bored here in the gym, you’ll be beyond bored with the rest of my day. The rest of my life.”

The way he says it is just a little bit sad, and I’m suddenly desperate to make it better.

“So show me,” I say, standing up straight.

“I can’t teach you to be a lawyer in a day,” he snaps.

I reach out and pinch his arm. “Quit pissing me off. I mean show me your routine here at the gym. We’ll do this one step at a time. I’ll let you know when I cry uncle and want to go back to Bloomingdale’s.”

“No thanks. Besides, you’re not dressed for it. That zippy thing looks like something you wear on a Starbucks run, not something you sweat in.”

“Fine,” I say, somehow managing to pour sugar into the word through my gritted teeth. “I’ll take it off.”

He doesn’t seem to register my words, but he does register the sound of a zipper being pulled, because his head whips back around just as the zipper reaches my waist, leaving the two sides of the jacket hanging open on either side of my torso.

Don’t worry. I didn’t flash the guy.

I’m wearing a perfectly gym-appropriate Lululemon sports bra, not at all different from what half the other women in here are wearing.

But the way Andrew is looking at my exposed tummy sure as hell makes it feel different.

His eyes burn hot against my skin, and I realize I’m so totally in over my head. But backing down is not an option, so instead of rezipping it like I want to, I place my hands on my hips.

“So?” I say, my voice a little lower than usual. “Show me your workout. Let me prove I can keep up.”

Andrew takes a step nearer to me, and my pulse goes crazy. Touch me. Touch me, touch me, touch me. . . .

His hands extend toward my sides, the warm pads of his fingers touching the outside of my stomach, and we both suck in a breath at the contact. My eyes close, silently begging him to slide his hands all the way into my jacket, to put his hands on me.

Andrew’s fingers skim up my torso, over my rib cage, lightly, teasingly.

His breathing is harsh and I’m pretty sure I’m panting.

But before things get really interesting he jerks his hands away from my skin, instead grabbing the sides of my jacket, tugging it together, then zipping it up.

Sure, the way his fingers adeptly pull at the tiny zipper is a sexy promise of how adept he could be with women’s clothes. . . .

But apparently the only thing he wants to be doing with my clothes is keeping them on.

“Go take a shower, Georgiana.”

“But—”

The tip of his index finger touches the center of my lip. “If I take you to my office, do you promise to be quiet and not get in my way?”

I slowly shake my head, not wanting to speak for fear he’ll remove his finger, and I suddenly feel like I need him to touch me in any way I can get. Who knew that prissy, asshole guys did it for me? But Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, is really doing it for me right now, all sweaty and irritated and a little bossy.

He shakes his head slightly, and I’m pretty sure he wants to smile, but he resists the urge. “Go shower.”

His hands drop back to his sides.

“I can come to your office? See what you do?”

He closes his eyes and runs a hand over the back of his neck. “Why do I get the feeling you’ll make me regret it no matter which way I answer?”

“See you in an hour!” I chirp, spinning on my heel to retrieve my bag and get pretty for the day.

“An hour?” he calls after me. “What can possibly take you an hour?”

Oh, Andy. How adorable.

Georgie

FRIDAY, JUST BEFORE LUNCHTIME

Andrew’s assistant is a hard nut to crack, but other than Andrew Mulroney, I’ve yet to meet a person I can’t break, and by lunchtime Shelley and I are best friends.

It wasn’t easy, though.

Andrew kicked me out of his office sometime around ten A.M. after I’d asked him exactly nine million questions about his job. Supposedly it was so he could take a phone call, but he’s been in there ever since, so I’m pretty sure I’ve been banished.

As revenge, I spent the better part of the last two hours trying to pry useful information out of his assistant.

“Do you like working here?”

“Yes.”

“Is Andrew a good boss?”

“Yes.”

“Is he a nice guy?”

After a pause: “Yes.”

“Does he have any siblings?”

“I believe so.”

“Brothers or sisters? Older or younger?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“What did he get you for Christmas?”

“An Amazon gift card.”

I laughed. “No, for real?”

Silence.

“Oh, shit. Okay. Well, I love your emerald-cut diamond ring. Have you been married long?”

Annnnnnnd . . . the floodgates opened.

Shelley Jones is engaged, getting married on Long Island in four months, her best guy from high school is going to be the “guy” of honor, she met her fiancé while waiting in the ATM line at Chase, and her color scheme for the wedding is pink and white polka dots.

Yes, you heard that correctly. Andrew Mulroney’s assistant is all no-nonsense chignon and beige turtleneck on the outside, but on the inside she is pink polka dots.

My kind of girl.

“So, I don’t totally get why you’re here,” Shelley says, sipping one of the pumpkin spice lattes I went out to get us. “Is it like an intern program or something?”

I spin in the spare chair she borrowed from a vacationing coworker. “Heck, no. More of a . . . dare, of sorts.”

She bites her lip, and I can tell she’s torn between professionalism and curiosity. The latter wins, and she leans forward after sneaking a peak at the door.

“He’s never brought a woman here before. Not friend, girlfriend, sister . . .”

“So he does have a sister?”

“Actually, I don’t know,” she admits. “If he has, he’s never mentioned her. I know he has an older brother, and only because he asks me to send him a birthday gift every year. Pappy Van Winkle bourbon.”

“Generous,” I murmur, taking a sip of my own drink. “How long have you been working for him?”

“Four years,” she says, rubbing her thumb along the base of her engagement ring, as I’ve noticed is a habit. Shelley’s pretty in an understated kind of way. I mean, I sort of want to loosen her bun, and I think she’d be better suited to black mascara than the too-blah brown she’s wearing, but I suppose she couldn’t be more perfect as Andrew’s assistant. There’s a quietness about her that I’m sure he lovvvvves.

If he even notices.

“So what’s the plan for the rest of your day?” she asks.

“Great question,” I say, spinning on the chair again. “We didn’t really talk it through when we came up with this little arrangement.”

“How did it come about?”

I shrug. “Basically, we’ve been engaged in a cold war for a few months. Things came to a head a couple of days ago when he said I could never survive in his world of suits and structure. So I’m here to prove it. Except I can’t prove much of anything now that he’s kicked me out.”

“Well, for privacy reasons, he really can’t have you around for his phone calls,” she says kindly.

I sigh. “I know. Is it always this . . . boring?”

“It’s actually usually pretty nuts around here. But Fridays are our slowest day. In fact, the call he’s on now is his last scheduled call of the day.”

“Really,” I say, putting my toe on the floor to stop my spinning. “So he has the afternoon free?”

Shelley surprises me by laughing. “I don’t think Mr. Mulroney even knows what a free afternoon is.”

“Does he ask you to call him that? Mr. Mulroney? After four years?”

“Well, no,” she says. “But he’s never exactly said ‘Call me Andrew’ either.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” I agree, my mind spinning with options. “So, if he doesn’t have any meetings, what does that mean you have to do the rest of the afternoon?”

She lifts her shoulders. “Surprisingly, I’m pretty caught up on everything. Mostly I answer the phone, make sure paperwork’s in order for next week.”

“Watch the clock?” I guess.

She smiles guiltily. “Fridays are worse than others. And John’s taking me champagne tasting tonight.”

“Oooh, date night! What are you wearing?”

Shelley blinks at me, then looks down. “This?”

“Oh!” Whoops.

Shelley laughs. “I know. Fashion’s not really my thing, but I know enough to know that your dress is fabulous.”

I glance down at the royal blue sweater dress. “Honestly, this is the most demure thing I own. Didn’t want to give him one more reason to dislike me.”

“If he dislikes you, why would he bring you here?”

I smile. “He didn’t. I sort of forced his hand. And note the closed door. Probably locked.”

I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s playing solitaire, waiting for me to leave.

“Nah, that light means he’s still on the phone,” she says, pointing at her own phone. “Oh! He just hung up.”

Perfect. I slip my bare feet back into my suede high-heeled boots and stand. “Thanks for the chat!” I tell her with a smile. “I’ll see if I can’t get him to let you go early.”

I think I hear her snort, and she has a point. I doubt Andrew’s ever heard of such a thing as a lunch break, much less calling it an early day.

Lucky for both of them, they have me.

I give a quick knock with my knuckles before opening the door to his office.

His hand is already reaching for the phone again, but he drops it to the desk when he sees me, his expression a mixture of irritation and disbelief.

“Hey, Andy!”

He sighs. “I don’t go by that.”

“Well, I don’t go by Georgiana, but it doesn’t seem to stop you from calling me that.”

“What do you need?”

“I’m starving,” I say, sidling up to the wall and looking at the boring canvas that’s a generic blend of whites and muted greens. “This is ugly—why’d you pick it out?”

“I didn’t.”

I turn. “You don’t like art?”

“I don’t have an opinion either way.”

“Can I pick something for you?”

He’s leaning back in his chair, watching me as I go from picture to picture, ugly fake plant to ugly fake plant.

“You like art?” he asks.

I shrug, coming to a stop in front of a framed diploma. “I know it. Keeps us socialite types busy. Those of us with a brain anyway.”

“Georgiana—”

“How old are you?” I interrupt, squinting my eyes at the Harvard diploma.

“Thirty.”

I point at the diploma and turn to face him. “I thought you were about that, but according to this, you would have had to graduate from law school when you were—”

“Twenty-two.”

I stare at him. “That’s young. Really young.”

He lifts his shoulders and becomes suddenly fascinated with a file on his desk.

“You poor thing,” I murmur. “How many grades did you skip? How quickly did you blow through undergrad?”

“Fast enough,” he says in a clipped tone. “I was efficient.”

My chest squeezes a little at the defensive look on his face, and I realize that I’m getting a rare glimpse inside. It wouldn’t have been easy to be so smart so young. He must have been at least a couple of years younger than all of his peers. He would have stood out, probably struggling to make friends. He would have been alone.

Instead of gently teasing him about being a too-smart nerd, I reach forward and pluck the folder from his hands. He glares. “I have work to do. You’re the one who begged me to let you come along, so if you want to stay, make yourself busy on Instagram, or—”

“Take me to lunch, Andy.”

“Take yourself to lunch.”

“What if I promise not to call you Andy anymore?” I say, deciding to skip threats and go straight for bribery.

His eyes narrow. “A quick lunch. A sandwich at the deli, we bring it back here and eat it.”

“No deal. Del Frisco. We’ll take our time and have a drink.”

“It’s barely noon.”

“So have a mimosa. Also, you should give Shelley the afternoon off.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“She has date night with her fiancé tonight. Tell her to go shopping for a new outfit. Hell, give her a bonus to buy the new outfit.”

“Shelley’s engaged?”

Semi-defeated, I let my chin drop against my chest. “Sometimes I don’t know what to do with you.”

“I know the feeling,” he mutters. Then he stands and straightens his tie before pulling his suit jacket from the back of his chair and putting it on. The masculine gesture does something funny to my girl parts.

“So what’s it going to be?” I ask, trying to distract myself from how good he looks in pinstripes. “The deli and I call you Andy forever, or . . .”

“I don’t suppose I could exchange a steak lunch for you calling me Mr. Mulroney?”

“I’d rather die. But speaking of that, you should tell Shel to call you Andrew. She’s been with you for four years. Her first day of work was also her birthday, by the way.”

He gives me an incredulous look. “How are you best friends with my assistant already? Exactly how long did I leave you alone with her?”

“Long enough, Andrew. Long enough. Also, I bought her a PSL, so, girlfriends for life.”

“I don’t even want to know,” he mutters, coming around to the front of his desk before nodding toward the door. “Shall we?”

I give him a bright smile before flouncing out in front of him. I drop my now-empty Starbucks cup in the trash by his door as I open it and turn my smile on a startled Shelley.

“Good news!” I sing. “Andrew here insists that you take the afternoon off. Also, pro tip, there’s a Diane von Furstenberg sale at Saks and you’d look fabulous in a wrap dress.”

“I, um . . . what?” Shelley asks, looking nervously at Andrew.

He simply shakes his head and shrugs. “Best not to fight it, Ms. Jones. Georgiana is accustomed to getting what she wants.”

I narrow my eyes as he leads me toward the elevator. “Did you just call me spoiled?”

Andrew glances down at me with a speculative look. “You have a bad habit of misinterpreting everything I say about you for the worst. Why do you think that is?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say breezily. “Maybe because you hate me? And because I’ve never seen you smile. Like, ever.”

He inhales for patience and punches the elevator button with an impatient finger. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But perfectly ridiculous. Right?” I push when he doesn’t respond.

I hate that I need the answer so badly.

He looks me over, then surprises me by reaching out a hand, his thumb brushing gently over my earlobe, sending goosebumps every which way. “Your earrings . . . are they . . .?”

“Diamond cupcakes,” I say, trying for chipper, but the words come out breathless.

I had no idea how sensitive ears could be until this moment.

“Diamond cupcakes,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly against the stud, before he drops his arm, shoves his hand in his pocket, and clears his throat.

The elevator door opens, and we step inside, a half dozen people shifting to make room for us inside the crowded car.

He stares straight ahead as the doors close, then says quietly, under his breath: “Yes.”

“Yes what?” I whisper.

He glances down at me, his expression unreadable. “Yes, perfectly ridiculous.”

I can’t help the smile.

Georgie

FRIDAY, LUNCHTIME

“See, isn’t this lovely?” I say as I flutter the cloth napkin to my lap and give a happy sigh.

Andrew rolls his eyes, mimicking my gesture with the napkin, except way more impatient. “I don’t have time for this.”

“You made time for it with Liv Dotson,” I say casually, studying the lunch menu.

“You already know she’s a client, although I’d appreciate it if you could go against your natural tendencies and keep that fact quiet.”

I sigh. “I just can’t believe she and Chris are getting divorced.”

We both look up as the server comes over to take our drink order.

“Champagne, please,” I say with a smile.

“Iced tea for me,” Andrew says. No smile.

“He’ll have a glass of the champagne as well. We’re celebrating,” I say with such friendly self-assuredness that the waitress writes it down and walks away without confirming with Andrew.

He’s giving me the half-amused, half-exasperated look that I’m getting to know quite well. “What are we celebrating?”

“My victory.”

“Do I even want to know what you’re talking about?”

I lean across the table with a triumphant smile. “You thought I wouldn’t last a day in your world. I’d say I’m flourishing.”

He leans forward as well. “In case you haven’t noticed, we quit being in my world the second you got me to leave the office for lunch and gave my assistant the rest of the day off.”

I smile. “Like I said. My victory.”

The waitress reappears with two champagne flutes, and I lift one toward Andrew. “Cheers?”

He rolls his eyes, but he clinks his glass against mine.

“Shelley says you have an older brother,” I say, setting my glass aside.

He shrugs. “You say that like you discovered some big secret.”

“News flash: everything with you seems like it’s one big secret.”

He frowns. “That’s not true.”

“Um, yeah,” I say. “I know nothing about you.”

His brown gaze is a little wary. “What do you want to know?”

“Your brother. How much older?”

“Six years.”

“Name?”

“Peter.”

“Where does he live?”

“Jersey.”

“Is he married? Do you have any nieces or nephews?”

“Yes, to Pam. They haven’t been able to conceive.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Do you see them often?”

“Christmas or Thanksgiving. Birthdays.”

“What’s Peter do?”

Andrew sighs. “He’s a mechanic. Should I get you his social security number?”

I take a sip of my champagne and consider what I’ve just learned. Unusual that one brother is a high-powered attorney in Manhattan and the other is decidedly blue-collar in New Jersey. I wonder if that explains why they only see each other on the occasional holiday when they live within easy driving distance.

“Your turn,” he surprises me by asking. “Siblings?”

I shake my head. “Only child.”

“Shocker. Boyfriend?”

I narrow my eyes. “I told you the other night I wasn’t seeing anyone.”

His eyes glint with something. “Where were you yesterday morning?”

“Sleeping.”

“Alone?”

I lean forward once more. “What is it you really want to know?”

He doesn’t break eye contact. “I want to know whether my rather embarrassing gaffe the other day drove you into the arms of Brady.”

“Brody.”

His gaze sharpens, and I feel a little thrill of excitement at the thought that it might be jealousy.

“You really can’t go around calling girls brainless, Andrew,” I say, keeping my voice gentle.

“I didn’t—” He inhales. “It’s truly not what I meant to say.”

“Have you even seen The Wizard of Oz? It’s sort of what the Scarecrow’s known for.”

Before he can reply, the waitress reappears to take our order. I opt for a burger with caramelized onions and cheese; he gets a steak salad, dressing on the side.

“Do you ever let loose?” I ask. “Order french fries? Unbutton a button? Have a one-night stand?”

“That an invitation?”

“Of course I’ll share my fries,” I say, reaching across the table and giving his hand a little pat, deliberately misunderstanding his question.

I start to pull my hand away, but he grabs it before I can retreat, and I suck in a startled breath at the feel of his warm fingers against my palm.

“Georgiana.”

I swallow. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry. About the other day. I’m not . . . I’m not good at this.”

“At what?”

He looks away. “Talking with women. I mean, I’m great with clients, I can hold my own with cocktail party small talk, but this thing with us . . . it’s different. I don’t know what to do with you. I can’t decide. . . .”

I look down to where our hands are still joined, a shiver running up my arm as his fingers move just slightly against my palm. Then I glance up to meet his gaze. “If you even like me?” I guess.

He blows out a breath and releases my hand. “You’re trying to bait me into saying something tactless again.”

“You do a pretty good job of doing that all by yourself,” I say. My palm is still tingling, and I drop my hand into my lap and make a fist. I notice that he does the same.

A muscle twitches in his jaw. “Never mind,” he mutters.

I can’t decide if we just had a moment, or if I somehow dodged a moment, or . . .

Well, let’s just say he’s not the only one who’s off balance.

“So,” I say, forcing brightness into my tone. “Tell me about the rest of your family. Parents?”

“What about them?”

I roll my eyes. “Really?”

Instead of answering the question, he shrugs. “They’re parents. Regular. Not like your parents, where everybody knows them.”

“Too true.” I extend my wrist. “Cut me here, the blood runs blue.”

“They’re how you can afford to live in our building?”

I laugh a little at his bluntness. “I come from money, yes. Although actually the down payment for the apartment came from my grandmother. The money she left me when she passed was specifically allocated for real estate. She was old-fashioned in her way. Thought a woman’s place in the world was making a home for herself and her family.”

“What do you think a woman’s place is?”

I purse my lips. “Annoying you?”

“Ah, yes.” He takes a sip of his champagne. “Well, you’re quite accomplished at it.”

“And yet here we are.”

“Indeed.”

The waitress appears once more, placing our respective lunches in front of us.

I hold up a deliciously hot french fry to Andrew. He counters by lifting a forkful of lettuce toward me, raising his eyebrows in question.

Then his attention shifts, and he reaches into his suit jacket, pulling out his phone and glancing at the screen. His face goes immediately tense, then perfectly blank.

“Everything okay?” I ask as he puts it away.

“Fine. A client needs my attention, though. I need to head downtown after lunch, and it’s highly confidential. I can’t have you tagging along to this one.”

I sigh and eat my fry, knowing exactly what he’s up to. Building his walls to keep me from getting too close.

One step forward. Two steps back.

Georgie

SUNDAY MORNING, BRUNCH

“I didn’t hear you come in, sweetie. You’re early.” My dad kisses the top of my head before going to the sideboard and pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Used to be we couldn’t get you here before noon.”

“Been getting up earlier these days,” I say, forcing a smile as I roll my champagne flute back and forth between my palms.

“Oh yeah? Any particular reason?” My dad sits in his usual spot at the head of the table and studies me.

Yup. A grumpy lawyer gets up at the crack of dawn every morning, and it seems to be the only way I can see him, though I’m not even sure why I want to.

I haven’t seen or heard from Andrew since we parted ways on Friday after lunch. On one hand, I’m not that surprised, because although my schedule doesn’t change much from weekdays to weekends, he’s never shown up for the usual five A.M. showdown on Saturdays or Sundays.

I guess somehow I thought yesterday might be different, though. I’m a little embarrassed to say that after staying up way too late watching Outlander at Marley’s place, I dragged myself home at 4:45, then hung out in the lobby way too long hoping he might make an appearance.

He didn’t.

And you know, I wish I could tell you that I got the hint. That I just quietly decided to bide my time until our inevitable Monday morning meeting. But nope.

Remember how he left me his phone number on the flower card?

Yeah, well, I texted him.

I texted him!

I never text guys first, not unless I have something witty and clever, and this was not one of those texts.

I said, and I quote: Hi.

I groan out loud, just thinking about it, and my dad gives me a weird look. “Want to talk about it?”

I take a sip of the mimosa. “Not so much.”

He shrugs and opens his paper.

“Where’s Mom?”

“On the phone with the London manager,” he says, not glancing up. “Or maybe Paris. Tokyo. I forget.”

Forget, or don’t care?

“So how are things with you guys?” I blurt out.

That has him looking up. “Meaning, like, is my blood pressure back down, and did she finally schedule the mammogram you’ve been bugging her about?”

“No. I mean, well, yeah, that. But, like . . . how are you guys? Together?”

My dad precisely folds his paper before setting it aside and studying me over the cup of his coffee. “What’s going on, sweetie?”

“Nothing. I just . . . I don’t know, I feel like you guys are so disconnected. I feel like I’m only ever talking to each of you individually, never as a couple.”

“Yes, well, we’re both busy. Our schedules don’t always overlap.”

There’s a touch of defensiveness there that has me even more worried. My dad has always been one of those completely confident guys who never gives a crap about other people’s criticism. He only defends himself when he knows there’s a sliver of vulnerability.

“But you guys are happy, right?”

“Sure, of course.”

He holds my eyes, but it feels deliberate, like he’s trying too hard to convince me. Or convince himself.

“Besides, I don’t think it’s your parents’ romantic life that has you holding that champagne in a death grip,” he says, lifting his eyebrows.

I smile wanly. “Nice deflection.”

“Talk to me, Georgiekins. Who’s the boy?”

My smile is real this time. The boy. Such a dad thing to say.

And maybe a little advice can’t hurt. I decide to go for it. “Okay, you’re a smart guy,” I say.

He smiles. “Thank you, daughter.”

“You’re welcome, Father. And as a smart guy, and someone who’s coming up on his thirtieth wedding anniversary . . . do you think it’s possible that opposites really can attract, or are opposites just . . . opposites?”

“Well.” He sips his coffee. “I know for your mother and me, it was our similarities that attracted us. We were both driven. Focused. Both wanted a darling daughter named Georgie—”

“Naturally,” I say, miming a sitting curtsey.

“As for whether opposites can attract, certainly they can. But whether they can last . . .”

His gaze goes kind of far away, an expression I’ve never seen, and I lean forward, eyes wide. “Dad,” I whisper. “Are you thinking about an ex-girlfriend right now?”

He laughs, but it’s too quick, and it’s nervous.

I gasp in mock horror. “You are.”

His eyes dart toward the door, but my mom’s still in her home office talking to Europe or Asia or wherever.

“Spill,” I say. “I won’t tell Mom.”

“Oh, she already knows. I was dating someone else when I met her.”

“Scandalous!” I say. “Who!”

“Nobody you know.”

“Well, I should hope not—that would be weird. But come on, details. I had no idea you were a ladies’ man.”

I swear to God, he blushes, just a little. Adorable. “Her name was Heidi. We dated, just for a year or so. And then I met your mother and decided she was a better long-term match.”

My heart twists a little as I realize his voice goes just a touch flatter when he talks about my mother than when he talks about this Heidi.

“What was she like?” I ask, after looking guiltily over my shoulder at the still-empty doorway. I feel dreadfully disloyal to my mother, yet wildly curious.

“She was colorful and . . . delicate,” he says, looking uncomfortable with the word.

“Like a rainbow,” I say.

“Uh, I guess. Heidi was a dreamer, always talking about the things she wanted to do and the places she wanted to go, but no one dream ever lasted for more than a day before it was replaced by another. It was exhausting, and yet . . .”

“Enchanting?” I say, putting my chin on my hand and batting my eyelashes.

He laughs. “I suppose. Anyway, we weren’t really suited. My place was here in the city, taking over the family business. She wanted to see Bali and Paris and Reykjavik—”

“Iceland?” I ask, surprised.

He shrugs and takes another sip of coffee. “Like I said, she was colorful.”

“What about the delicate part?” I ask, not really sure why I’m so interested in this woman.

My dad stands and refills his cup, taking just a bit too long to do so, as though gathering his thoughts. “Perhaps that wasn’t the right word,” he says finally. “But I always got the sense that she needed me, just a little bit. Like a little part of her happiness would always be wrapped up in me.”

He shakes his head and turns, his expression closed. “Anyway. It was a long time ago.”

I force a smile and take a sip of my mimosa even though I’m dying to ask more questions. I want to ask if my mom ever needed him, but I suspect I know the answer.

“So who’s your opposite?” Dad asks.

“Hmm?”

His smile is a touch smug as he turns the tables. “I told you mine. Now you tell me why you asked about the opposites-attract thing.”

I run my red nail along the seam of the two leaves in the table. “It’s that guy. The one in my building I mentioned last week.”

“The divorce lawyer?”

I nod.

“Can’t say I ever saw you being interested in an attorney.”

“I don’t know that I am interested. I’m just . . . intrigued. He’s so different from any other guy I know. He’s so different from me.”

“Does he like you?”

I snort. “No. Not even a little bit.”

He thinks I’m perfectly ridiculous. And I’m starting to think I misinterpreted that card. That it really was a dismissal, not an endearment.

“Do you think maybe that’s part of the appeal?” my dad asks gently.

I give him a look. “You’re implying that I want what I can’t have?”

He shrugs. “Human nature.”

“I suppose that’s part of the allure,” I admit. “It’s not like I want to have him eating out of my hand or anything. I just . . .”

My dad leans back in his chair and studies me. “You want my advice?”

“Sure.”

“Forget him,” my dad says. “You’re smart, you’re beautiful, and you’re fun. If he doesn’t see that—doesn’t appreciate that about you—from the very beginning, he’s not the one.”

I blink. It’s good advice. Solid. Smart. Logically sound.

And yet it leaves me feeling a little . . . I don’t know.

Sad.

My dad’s right, though. Do I really want to win over a guy who thinks I’m brainless and then can’t utter a proper apology for it? Or a guy who eats only salad for lunch and power shakes for breakfast, and who can’t even acknowledge receiving a text message, no matter how lame?

Andrew Mulroney may have been right to drag me along during his daily routine in an attempt to show me I don’t belong.

And I don’t have to drag him along for a day in my world to know he wouldn’t fit any better there than I do in his.

“Surely there’s someone in your life who does appreciate you,” he says. “If not, Joseph’s son just moved back from San Diego, and you guys always got along so well—”

I laugh and hold up a hand. “Please. Do not set me up with Caleb Myers. He used to try to wipe boogers in my ponytail.”

“Well, I see I’ve missed some riveting conversation,” my mom says, striding into the dining room. “Georgie, hon, love the silk blouse. Michael Kors?”

I look down and shrug. “How’d the call go?”

“Hmm?” She gives me a sharp look.

“Your call? Dad said you were on the phone?”

“Oh, right.” She waves her hand. “Paris didn’t get their swatches on time, and I had to assure Celeste it was simply a shipping hiccup.”

My dad’s attention is already back on his newspaper, and I study my mom as she fixes herself a mimosa. I hear a faint strain of off-key music, and—

“Mom, are you humming?” I ask.

She stills, and my dad peers at her over the top of his newspaper.

Her laugh is nervous. “Just in a good mood, I guess.”

My dad and I exchange a glance, and he shrugs, turning his attention back to his paper.

Mom joins me at the table, suspiciously free of her iPhone and laptop. I know I should be glad that she’s in such a good mood, but I can’t shake the feeling that something seems off. I’d asked her about that during our chat last week, but she said nothing’s up.

She’s lying, but maybe I can’t blame her.

I keep thinking about what my dad said about that Heidi woman.

How she needed him, just a little.

Did my mom ever need my dad? Did he ever need her?

I mean, I’m a modern woman and all—I know I’m supposed to subscribe to the notion that a woman can be complete without a man and vice versa, and I do. I really do.

And yet, sitting here with two people who somehow share the same air, the same life, but barely seem aware of the other person’s presence, I can’t shake the sense that while maybe I don’t need someone to need me, I really, really wouldn’t mind spending time with someone who at least wants me.

Georgie

MONDAY, 4:59 A.M.

What am I doing? What the hell am I doing?

It’s a question I’ve repeated about a hundred times to myself on the cab ride home.

Not a solo cab ride. Nope. For reasons I can’t quite seem to wrap my head around, I’m in a cab with Brody Nash, and we’re headed back to my place.

It all started when I let him kiss me, sometime around three A.M. The rest of the crew was on the dance floor, and I’d switched over to my usual early morning round of sparkling water. He joined me in the San Pellegrino party, and it was a nice change. Usually I’m the only one sobering up while the rest of my friends are still pounding shots.

He was sitting close, his attention all on me. He laughed at my jokes and asked me about my day, and I just kept thinking about what my dad had talked about. About how I deserved someone who wanted me. Someone I didn’t have to convince of my worth.

And then Brody leaned over, pausing, giving me plenty of time to move away. Instead, I’d closed my eyes and let his mouth meet mine.

It had been, well . . .

Underwhelming. Wildly so.

But, but . . . I’ve learned something in the past few years: first kisses are never like they are in the movies. There’s never fireworks and foot lifting and butterflies. It takes a while for two people to get used to each other, to learn what the other one likes.

So I’m giving Brody a chance.

I mean, don’t freak out on me—I’m not going to sleep with him. But I don’t feel like sleeping at all, don’t feel like being alone with my thoughts, so when he suggested coming back to my place and having some coffee . . .

Why the hell not? Maybe a cup of coffee with a nice guy is precisely what I need to make me forget the time I’m not spending with a not-so-nice guy.

The cab pulls up in front of my building, and I feel a knot in my stomach as I watch Brody pay the cab driver before grabbing the pink donut box I made us stop for.

I resist the urge to snatch the box back. My donuts. For me to share. For me to provoke Andrew with.

Instead they’re in Brody Nash’s hands, and his hands are . . . well, his fingers are a little stubby, now that I think about it. How did I miss that?

Knock it off, Georgie.

I step out onto the sidewalk, careful not to jerk back when he puts a supporting hand under my elbow. Instead I smile in thanks, and it feels brittle.

He doesn’t let go as he leads me inside, and even without looking at my phone, even before we’re all the way through the revolving doors, I know what time it is.

I know I’m late.

And then I’m inside the building and it’s confirmed. Andrew Mulroney is already there, elbows resting on the counter, looking uncharacteristically relaxed as he talks with Ramon.

Damn it.

My high heels click against the marble floor, he turns around, and for one heart-stopping moment, I swear there’s gladness on his face.

Only it vanishes altogether when he sees Brody.

Andrew slowly straightens, his eyes going cold and flat.

“Hey, man!” an oblivious Brody says as he pulls Andrew in for a one-sided man-hug thing, made extra awkward because of the donut box. “Adam, right?”

“Andrew.”

“Right! I’m Brody. We met at Georgie’s dinner party last week.”

Andrew’s eyes are ice cold when they flick to me. “Sure. Good to see you again.”

Desperate for something to do, I yank the donut box out of Brody’s grip and shove it awkwardly across the counter at Ramon. “Ramon! How are you?”

Yikes. Is that my voice? It sounds manically chipper, even for me.

Ramon gives me a startled, slightly concerned look, but he never loses his professional smile. “Ms. Watkins. Welcome home.”

“This is Brody,” I say. “He’s my friend.”

All three men give me a look at that, although I suspect none of them believes that Brody’s coming back to my apartment at five A.M. as a friend.

Andrew certainly doesn’t believe it; that’s clear from the stony expression.

I force myself to meet his eyes. “Red shoes, Dorothy!” I say, desperate to get back to our usual place of caustic banter.

He merely inclines his head backward, in the bare minimum of acknowledgment. He doesn’t have his travel mug today, and for some reason it bothers me. I mean, maybe he just wasn’t hungry, but I don’t like when he’s out of his routine.

No—I don’t like when we’re out of our routine.

But I’m also almost glad. It proves my point that he is not the right guy for me, that I shouldn’t have to fall all over myself just in order to get a man to be polite.

“See you tomorrow, Mr. Ramirez,” Andrew says. “Brody.”

Brody’s already opening the donut box, his stubby fingers reaching for the maple bacon donut I bought specifically for Ramon, but he lifts a hand in farewell.

Not that Andrew even sees. He’s already striding away without so much as a backward glance.

Let him go.

It’s excellent advice I give myself, except my body doesn’t listen. Without a word to Ramon or Brody, I dash after Andrew, pushing through the revolving doors into the chilly October morning.

“Andrew!”

He’s already several steps away from the building, but he halts when he hears me say his name. His body is tense, as though he’s willing himself to keep walking, but like me, maybe he’s not entirely in control of his body, because he turns around.

“What the hell?” I snap, striding toward him with as much purpose as I can in strappy Saint Laurent platforms. I’m grateful for the extra height when we come nearly toe-to-toe. It allows me to endure his scowl at least a little closer to eye level than usual, given our height difference.

“What?” he snaps back.

“What was that?” I ask, gesturing with my head toward the building. “You can’t even be civil?”

“We’re never civil,” he counters. His eyes are angry, and that pisses me off. He doesn’t get to be angry. I’ve been nothing but nice to him, and I’m sick to death of being treated like trash.

“I don’t need a hug, but I at least deserve to have my presence acknowledged,” I say, lifting my chin.

His gaze rakes over me, taking in the shorter-than-usual blue dress. “What, Brady’s slobbering attention isn’t enough for you? You need the entire male population to kiss the ground you flounce on, is that it? Because you can count me out.”

“Quit being an ass,” I hiss, placing a hand on his chest and shoving. He doesn’t so much as rock backward. “What is with you? I thought we were making progress on Friday. I thought we were on the verge of . . .”

His eyes narrow. “On the verge of what?”

“Of being friends!”

“I don’t need friends, Georgiana. Not friends like you.”

It’s so mean, so cruelly dismissive, that I lift my hand to slap him, even though I’ve never struck a soul in my life.

His fingers close on my wrist, his eyes furious. “Don’t even think about it.”

I try to yank my hand free, but he holds fast, his grip like a vise even as he bends slightly to set his briefcase on the ground. “What do you want from me, Georgiana? Why are you chasing me outside in the cold instead of taking him to your warm bed?”

“Excellent question. Let me go so I can do exactly that,” I say angrily, wiggling my wrist in a helpless attempt to get free and go back to Brody.

Instead he tightens his fingers, tugging me close. I stumble a little on my sky-high heels and his other arm comes around me, steadying me.

“I know,” he says, his voice quiet and menacing.

“You know what?” I challenge.

His eyes bore into mine, angry and . . . something else. “I know why you’re out here with me instead of inside with him,” he says quietly.

“You don’t know crap,” I say, lifting my hands and pushing against his shoulders. “Let me go so I can go be with a guy who actually likes me.”

“Not a fucking chance,” he growls.

His fingers spread wide on my back, pulling me all the way to him as he lowers his head. And Andrew Mulroney kisses me.

My eyes go wide with shock, but only for half a second, because then they’re fluttering closed as his lips nudge mine open, his tongue taking mine in hot, sweet possession.

I was wrong, I realize. First kisses aren’t always a disappointment.

Sometimes they’re perfect from the very start.

A second ago my hands were shoving him away, and now they’re greedily pulling him to me, my fingers on his lapel, needing his mouth against mine, harder, hotter. More.

He makes a low growling noise, and I realize that kissing Andrew Mulroney is nothing like it’s supposed to be.

Apparently the man is fastidious and uptight in all things except this, because his kiss is unapologetic and carnal, disregarding the fact that we’re in the middle of a sidewalk at the crack of dawn and that we don’t even like each other.

Maybe it’s that last part that makes the kiss so good, each of us just trying to best the other, tongues tangling, teeth nipping, even as we struggle the entire time to get closer.

My hands tangle in his hair, his hands find my waist, and the kiss gentles slightly as we try to catch our breath without breaking contact.

It’s the snap of a camera that finally disrupts our obsession with each other’s mouths.

I pull back, my eyes blinking in confusion before turning toward the sound of the camera, just as I hear another fast series of clicks, followed by a “Holy shit!” from the photographer when he sees Andrew’s face.

“What the fuck?” Andrew snarls, taking a step toward the photog. “Who the hell are you?”

The short, portly man, who smells like coffee and sports greasy hair, gives a self-satisfied laugh. “Doesn’t matter who I am, man. What matters is that you’re not Brody Nash.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask, smoothing a hand over my mussed hair. It’s not the first time I’ve had my picture taken by desperate paparazzi on a slow celeb news day, but it’s definitely the first time I’ve warranted someone outside my apartment building.

“Someone saw you and Brody Nash leave together,” he told me.

“So?” I ask.

“So I thought maybe his fiancée would find it interesting,” the smarmy man says with an indifferent shrug. “Guess I got it wrong. At least I got his, though.” He holds up the camera and looks Andrew over. “You have any idea how hard it is to get the Divorce King on camera?”

Andrew’s face is murderous, and his eyes look too bright. Not at all like himself. I step between the men before Andrew can do something that will result in the pig pap pressing charges.

“Let him go,” I murmur, placing a placating hand on Andrew’s chest.

He glances down at my hand and takes a deep breath. “Is it always like this around you?”

I wince, knowing that the paparazzo following me home from the club has done nothing to elevate Andrew’s opinion of my lifestyle.

“Not really.”

“Print those pictures and you’re dead,” Andrew says over my shoulder to the retreating photographer.

The man shrugs. “I won’t print shit. But you can bet I’m gonna sell ’em to someone else who will print them.”

The man darts across Park Avenue, well out of Andrew’s angry reach.

Andrew swears vehemently under his breath, running his hands through his hair, and I reach out a hand to calm him, but he steps back. “Just . . . give me a minute, Georgiana.”

Georgiana. Even now, after he’s just had his tongue down my throat, I’m Georgiana. It makes me want to smile, even in spite of everything.

Then Brody’s striding out onto the sidewalk. He comes up short when he sees the murderous look Andrew and I both shoot him.

He laughs and holds up both hands. “What’d I do?”

“You’re engaged?” I ask.

His eyes go wide, and for the first time since I’ve known him, he looks a little unsure of himself. “Look, Georgie babe, it’s just—”

“I let you kiss me,” I say angrily.

It’s not until Andrew’s head whips around to look at me that I realize my mistake. “I mean—I—Andrew, wait—”

He takes another step back, his eyes shuttering as his face resumes its usual impenetrable icy mask. He lifts his hand to a temple as though warding off pain, then drops it. “I’m late,” he says curtly, turning away.

And because I know there’s nothing more disastrous in Andrew Mulroney’s life than being late, I let him go, watching helplessly as the distance between us increases with his determined steps.

Brody whistles. “Damn. What was that about?”

“Shut up, Brody. Who are you engaged to, anyw—Actually, you know what?” I hold up both hands. “I don’t even care. Just leave.”

“Georgie—”

“Leave,” I say, my tone sharper than I’ve ever heard it. Maybe Andrew Mulroney is rubbing off on me.

Brody gives a tired sigh like I’m the troublesome one, and bends down to kiss my cheek. “Call you later?”

I give him a look.

He laughs. “Or I’ll let you cool down first. See ya, babe.”

Unbelievable.

I don’t even register whether Brody walks away, hails a cab, or what. I’m too busy watching Andrew’s retreating figure get smaller and smaller until he disappears.

Well . . .

Damn it.

Now what?

Andrew

MONDAY AFTERNOON

Andrew tried mightily to pay attention to his phone conversation, to listen to what Liv Dotson was telling him, even as he rummaged through each and every one of his desk drawers in search of aspirin he knew wouldn’t be there.

There was a reason he took such good care of himself, and it was so he could avoid feeling the way he did right this moment: like absolute shit.

Damn Georgiana Watkins. Damn Brody what’s-his-name. He had half a mind to blame them both for the headache that was currently crushing his skull.

That slimy paparazzo too.

As for the kiss . . . he wasn’t thinking about that. At least, he wasn’t letting his brain think about it. His body, though—he wasn’t sure it would ever forget what it had felt like to finally, finally give in to his want for her.

He’d been fantasizing about the moment for weeks.

It had exceeded expectations.

“Anyway, I’m really just so sorry about how this worked out,” Liv said as Andrew gave up and closed the last drawer. “I feel like you wasted your time.”

“Absolutely do not apologize,” he said, giving in to the rare urge to slump back against his chair and close his eyes. “Believe it or not, I wish more of my cases worked out this way.”

Liv laughed softly. “I have to doubt that. You wouldn’t make a living!”

“There will always be divorces,” he said, lifting a hand and pinching the bridge of his nose to ward off a surge of pain and dizziness. “I’m just glad you and Chris won’t be one of them.”

And though he wasn’t thinking entirely straight, he meant it. Liv was sweet, if a little self-indulgent, and though he hadn’t met Chris, he was too much of a Yankees fan to not root for the center fielder.

Sure, their deciding to patch things up wouldn’t mean the fat check the firm had been expecting, but he’d gotten his retainer, been paid for the work he had done on Liv’s case.

And there were more than enough high-profile clients banging at the door to make up for it.

“Look, I know this might be a little bit odd,” Liv was saying, “or a lot odd, but I really enjoyed working with you, despite the circumstances, and I actually think you and Chris would get along really well. . . .”

Andrew opened one eye. Surely she wasn’t . . .

“And you can absolutely say no, but Chris and I would really love to have you and Georgie come over for dinner some time.”

Andrew wasn’t sure which part of her statement was harder to absorb: the fact that one of his clients wanted him to talk baseball with the man he’d helped her almost divorce or . . .

“Georgie?” he managed.

“Just so you know, I’m totally taking the credit for introducing you guys that day at Del Frisco,” she said. “I had no idea you guys hit it off after. You’re so different, but I guess that’s the way it works sometimes.”

His eyes closed again. “Did she—did Georgiana tell you that we were—”

“Making out on sidewalks?” Liv said in a teasing voice. “Nope, she’s not answering anyone’s phone calls, but it’s all over TMZ. Georgie’s hardly ever attached to a guy, and you, well . . . you’re never connected with anyone.”

This was it, Andrew thought as nausea and pain rolled over him. The part where he died, with the world thinking he was dating a fluff ball named Georgiana Watkins, all while she was bringing engaged men home from the nightclubs.

“Anyway, talk to her, let me know!” Liv said. “Talk soon!”

Andrew didn’t even remember hanging up, and he had no idea how much time passed before he registered an insistent knocking on his door.

“Yeah,” he managed, pulling himself upright.

Shelley was standing in the doorway watching him with alarm. “Are you okay? I tried buzzing you, but you didn’t pick up, and—”

“Fine,” he said, running a hand over his face. “What’s up?”

“Your three o’clock’s called twice and is on hold. I told her she needed to wait until her scheduled time, but she said it was urgent.”

He sighed heavily. Might as well get it over with. The sooner he ended his meetings, the sooner he could go home and crawl into bed.

“I’ll take it,” he said, reaching for the phone. Then paused. “Actually, Shelley . . .”

She turned.

“Got any painkillers? Tylenol, Advil . . . morphine?”

She gave him a sympathetic look. “Absolutely. And after this call, I’m clearing your schedule for the rest of the day. You’re sick as a dog.”

He tried to tell his suddenly bossy assistant that he was just fine. That he didn’t get sick. But he couldn’t muster the energy.

Instead he managed to prop his forehead up on his right fist while he reached for the phone with his left. “This is Mulroney.”

Georgie

WEDNESDAY, 5:20 A.M.

In all the months we’ve been playing our early morning game of cat and mouse, I’ve skipped plenty of times, but never Andrew. Not on a weekday.

But he didn’t show yesterday morning.

I figured he was pissed, and since he had a right to be, I let it go. Gave him a day.

Today is Wednesday, though, two days after we made out on the sidewalk and then broke the Manhattan gossip circuit, and he’s still not at the front desk.

I was willing to give him one day to lick his wounds and come to grips with what was going on with us, but two?

Not a chance.

I’ve been waiting here in adorably matching workout clothes for twenty minutes, and there’s no sign of his red shoes or his boring travel mug.

“You know, Charles, I just realized I forgot something,” I say.

He gives me a slightly puzzled smile, probably wondering why it took me twenty minutes of making small talk to realize that.

I give him a little finger waggle and head back to the elevators. Charles has already hit the eighty-sixth floor for me, but I hope he’s not watching the elevators too closely, because I take out my key fob and swipe it so that I can access the seventy-ninth floor.

A few moments later, I’m stepping onto a floor that looks exactly like mine. I scan the discreet numbers until I find the one I’m looking for: 79B.

Home of Andrew Mulroney, Esquire.

I knock.

No answer.

I knock louder.

Nothing.

I give in to the immature urge to put my thumb on the doorbell and press it over and over and over and—

The door swings open, and I barely have a chance to register what I’m seeing before I hear an exhausted groan. The second he sees me, the door starts to swing shut again.

“Wait—” I press my palm to the door, a little surprised by how easily I’m able to push it back open considering the man works out like a Viking and definitely doesn’t want to see me.

I push the door wider, and let out a little sound of dismay as I absorb the reality of what I’m looking at.

The man looks terrible.

“Oh, Andrew,” I murmur, stepping into his apartment uninvited and dropping my bag on the floor.

His hand is gripping the door, and he rests his forehead tiredly against it, eyes closing. “Is there any chance that you’ll go away now?”

“Absolutely none,” I say, prying his fingers away from the door and feeling his forehead with the other. “How long have you looked like this?”

“Like what?”

“Regurgitated death.”

He lets out a noise that’s half laugh, half groan. “Go away. I can’t spar with you today.”

It’s too late. I’ve already shut the door and am preparing a plan of action.

He really does look awful. His hair’s a curling mess, he obviously hasn’t shaved in a couple of days, his eyes are red-rimmed and glassy, and I’m not even sure what he’s wearing. Sweatpants, but he seems to have paired them with a godawful, vaguely holiday-looking sweater.

“I was cold,” he said, apparently reading my thoughts even through his illness. “Or at least I was. Now I’m hot.”

“Well, that’s because you’ve got a fever,” I say, gently placing my hand on his back and guiding him toward his bedroom. I figure I’ll have plenty of time to snoop later, so I just take in the basics, confirming that his apartment’s basically exactly like mine, except reversed, bedroom on the right instead of the left, et cetera.

The second we enter his bedroom, I know it’s where the poor guy’s spent the better part of the past two days. His apartment’s otherwise as tidy and anal as I’d expect, but his bedroom smells like a stuffy sick ward.

It says a lot about how just un-Andrew-like he is right now that he doesn’t seem to register how wrinkled and uninviting the bed looks.

“Hold up there, sickie,” I say, grabbing the back of his sweater and pulling him back with more ease than I should. “Let’s just take a pause, sit in this nice chair here for a second.”

I help him toward the black leather chair in the corner, pulling a blanket off the arm and tucking it around him.

“Want to sleep,” he says, leaning his head against the wall.

“I know you do,” I say, feeling a wave of tenderness as his lashes sweep down onto the dark shadows beneath his eyes. I let my fingers touch his hair, just for a moment, before I spring into action. “One minute, ’kay?”

Acting fast, I open the window. It’s in the low forties outside, but the room desperately needs fresh air, and with that hideous sweater and the blanket, he’ll be fine.

His linen closet’s in the same place as mine, right across from the bathroom. His spare set of sheets is dark gray and impressively folded, right down to the fitted sheet.

I rush back to the bedroom, but he hasn’t moved; he’s fast asleep, upright in the chair. Poor guy.

I hurriedly strip the bed of the wrinkled old sheets and replace them with the fresh, clean ones. I fold back one corner to make it easy for him to get in, and return to his side.

“Andrew.” I kneel beside him, touch his arm. “Andrew?”

His eyes flutter open, and he looks surprised to see me there. “Georgiana.”

“Still with that?” I ask with a smile.

“Always,” he murmurs.

I laugh softly. “All right, then. Let’s get you into bed, okay?”

He gives me a sleepy nod, letting me help him out of the chair and shuffle him the few steps toward the bed.

Andrew gives me a startled look, apparently not too sick to register that the sheets have been changed. “You did this?”

“Yup, the Scarecrow figured it out,” I say without heat as I half shove him into bed. I wait until he slowly hauls his legs onto the mattress, which seems to take an eternity in his current state, and then pull the covers up to his chin.

I tuck them around his shoulders, the way my mom always did for me when I was little, and maybe I let my fingers brush against the stubble of his jawline, just a little.

His eyes are closed again, and I think he’s asleep already, but when I start to pull away, he reaches up, grabs my wrist.

It’s like the other day when he was angry, and yet . . . different.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

“You’re welcome.” I bite my lip. “I can leave if you want, or I’m happy to stay—”

“Stay.” His eyes close again, and his next words are a sleep-filled murmur, but they stop my heart for a second anyway. “Need you,” he says, his voice low and exhausted.

Need you.

Andrew Mulroney needs me. And go ahead, call me a sissy, but my eyes water, just a little.

It’s sort of nice to be needed.

Especially by him.

Georgie

WEDNESDAY, EARLY EVENING

The poor guy sleeps all day. I mean, like, all day.

When I finally hear his bedroom door open, it’s four-thirty in the afternoon, and I’m standing at his stove with a wooden spoon in one hand, a glass of buttery Chardonnay in the other.

He shuffles into the kitchen and then freezes when he sees me.

Oh my heart. Rumpled, sleepy Andrew Mulroney is . . . well, he’ll kill me for thinking this, but he’s sort of adorable.

His eyes are sleepy, his hair’s even messier than it was this morning, and he looks like he wants to rub his eyes and see if I’m really there.

I give a little wave with the spoon before I resume stirring the soup. “Morning, sunshine.” I take a sip of the wine.

He blinks. Blinks again.

Then without a word, he turns and walks into the bathroom, muttering something that sounds like shower.

A moment later I hear the sound of water running, and I go back to my wine. Now that he’s up, I turn on some music on my phone, opting for Norah Jones’s old-school debut album, because really, nobody can complain about that goodness.

I’m pouring myself a second glass of wine when I hear the water shut off.

When Andrew appears a few minutes later he still doesn’t look like himself, but at least death doesn’t seem to be knocking on his door anymore.

His hair’s damp, making it look darker than it usually does, but already it’s starting to curl a little. He’s wearing another pair of gray sweatpants, the loose cotton kind, not the ones he wears to the gym, and a formfitting white T-shirt that strains a little bit over his chest, as though he usually wears it under something. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if this guy didn’t have an arsenal of comfy shirts like regular people, and had to settle for an undershirt. It beats the holiday sweater.

“You didn’t shave,” I say as he lowers himself to the bar stool at his kitchen counter.

“Too tired,” he mutters.

I lean back against the counter opposite from him and cross my legs at the ankles.

“I sort of like the stubble,” I say. “It makes you look friendlier.”

He glances up and meets my gaze, as though looking for sarcasm, before his eyes narrow on the glass. “I know that’s my glass. Is it also my wine?”

“Yes, and it’s delicious,” I say with a smile. “Are you hungry?”

“I’m not sure,” he says tentatively, as though he really doesn’t know.

“When was the last time you ate?”

Andrew rubs his palm over his stubbly cheek. “Monday?”

Monday. As in the day he kissed me.

As in the day on which Page Six pronounced us the city’s new “It Couple.”

I don’t go there. Not yet. For all I know, he got sick before hearing the “news.”

I’ve already snooped through all of his cabinets, so I know exactly where he keeps his bowls, and I pull one down before ladling some soup into it.

“A few bites,” I say, setting it and a spoon and napkin in front of him. “Even if your appetite’s off, you need something so you don’t get shaky.”

He stares down at the steaming bowl. “What is this?”

“A cheeseburger.”

He looks up, and I roll my eyes. “It’s soup, Andy. Chicken noodle. Homemade. Eat it.”

He slowly picks up his spoon and studies me. “I don’t know what’s more surprising—that you shopped or that you cooked.”

“Only half right,” I say, leaning forward on my elbows, regretting a little bit that this particular V-neck shows off my cleavage in quite the perky fashion, and that he’s too sick to notice.

Or not, I amend, noticing that his eyes are most definitely not on the soup.

“Half right?” he asks, the question coming a heartbeat later than it should. I won’t tease him, not when he’s feeling down. But the second his strength is back . . .

“I cooked, but I didn’t shop. Got the groceries delivered to my place so the doorbell wouldn’t wake you up, then brought what I needed down here.”

“Georgiana Watkins cooks,” he says, thoughtfully spooning in a mouthful of broth and noodles.

“You sound surprised.”

“I thought Park Avenue princesses had personal chefs.”

“We did. But my grandmother insisted on teaching me some basics.”

“Same grandmother who left you the money to buy a place here?”

I nod. “I’m named after her. Even though she was elderly, in some ways I feel like she did more mothering than my own mom.”

He glances up. “You’re not close to your mom?”

“No, we are,” I tell him, keeping my eyes on the glass as I gently swirl my wine. “But she embraced the whole career woman thing right at the time when I really needed someone to talk to.”

“And your grandmother was there.”

“She was.”

He studies my face for a second before turning his attention back to the soup, and I hide a smile as he devours the entire thing in big, methodical gulps.

Finally he sits back and wipes his mouth with the napkin.

“More?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No. Thank you. It was good.”

“Yeah, well, I kept it easy,” I say, reaching for his empty bowl and turning toward the sink to rinse it. “Figured even you would have a hard time criticizing chicken noodle soup.”

I look over my shoulder when he doesn’t say anything. He’s frowning. “That’s what you think? That you’d come in here, take care of me, cook for me, and I’d criticize?”

I lift my shoulders as though to say Par for the course, then turn away and put the bowl in the dishwasher, which I’d emptied earlier.

When I turn back, he’s watching me with a troubled expression, but that could be because he’s just feeling crappy.

“So what now?” I ask gently. “Back to bed?”

“God, no. I feel like I’ve been sleeping for days. Hell, I have been sleeping for days.”

“True, but respectfully, you’re not looking yourself.”

“No, and I don’t feel it either,” he says irritably, running a palm along his scratchy cheek, looking thoroughly put out.

“We could watch a movie,” I suggest.

His attention snaps back to me in surprise.

I hold up my hands in laughing surrender. “Or I can leave.”

“No, that’s not—” Andrew flexes his fingers before reaching up and running both hands over his hair in a quick, frustrated gesture that’s so unexpectedly spontaneous I laugh. I think I like sick Andrew. His guard’s down, and it’s . . . endearing?

“I don’t want you to leave,” he says with a scowl.

My heart gives a happy leap. “Are you sure?” I can’t help but ask. “Because I’m sort of aware that I barged my way in here, and that maybe your mortal enemy isn’t exactly the person you want by your side when you’re at your worst.”

His lips twitch. “At my worst, huh?”

“Well, the shower was an improvement,” I say with a smile, gesturing with the base of my wineglass in his direction. “When I got here this morning, though—”

“And yet you stayed.”

“Yeah, well.” I shrug and take a sip of my wine. “We are dating, after all.”

Andrew goes perfectly still. “What?”

I wince. “Okay, so at what point did you become dead to the world? Did you miss the fact that—”

“The paparazzo sold his tawdry photo of us? Unfortunately, no. Got the message loud and clear.”

I reach across and pat his hand. “Poor thing. Is that what made you sick?”

He lets out a startled laugh. “No. Although, speaking of getting sick, I’m feeling like I should prep you for getting sick.”

I wave this away. “I washed my hands after handling your cootie-infested sheets and door handles.”

“I wasn’t referring to your exposure today.”

I frown. “But what—Oh. Ohhhh. The kiss.”

He nods once. “I wasn’t feeling myself that morning, but I chalked it up to not sleeping well. Had I known that within a few hours I’d come down with a fever—”

“You wouldn’t have kissed me?” I finish for him.

He blows out a breath. “Hell, I don’t know. It’s not like I planned it. Whether or not I was coming down with the flu was the last thing on my mind.”

“What was on your mind?”

“Great question,” he mutters. “I apologize for it. I’m sure the last thing you want is for all your party people to think you’re shacking up with a stodgy attorney.”

My heart sinks a little. His calm dismissal of the kiss as a mistake isn’t really what I was hoping for.

But then I remember what he whispered when he was at his absolute worst: Need you.

Hell yes, he does need me. He just hasn’t accepted it all the way yet.

“It’s no big deal,” I say. “Besides, I’m sure the consequences are worse for you than they are for me.”

His gaze sharpens. “Meaning?”

I shrug and take a sip of wine. “I’m not one of your people, any more than you’re one of mine. I mean, I’ve never even seen a pocket protector.”

He doesn’t dignify my lame comeback with a response. “Did you ever learn if your boy Brody’s actually engaged?”

“Not my boy,” I say, lifting my glass. “But yeah, rumor has it he knocked up some midwestern tourist who was in town a couple of months ago. She’s Catholic, her dad’s pissed and owns a gun, and Brody’s telling people he put a ring on it until he can talk her into an abortion.”

Andrew swears under his breath. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “I suppose I should thank you for saving me from hooking up with him.”

“I confess, my motives were a bit more selfish than that.”

My gaze snaps to his. “Meaning . . .?”

Instead of answering, he places both palms on the counter and scoots the bar stool back. Conversation over, apparently.

I sigh. “So we’re really not going to talk about the kiss anymore? Or about the fact that everyone thinks we’re dating?”

“What’s the point? People will believe what they want to believe regardless. It’ll pass. As for the kiss . . .” He shrugs. “Not like it’s going to happen again.” He watches me. “Right?”

My eyes drop to his mouth, and even though I know he’s sick, my body remembers all too well what it felt like to have him pressed against me, remembers how hot and possessive his mouth was.

How I didn’t want the kiss to end . . .

“Georgiana?”

My eyes go back to his. “Right. No repeats.”

Something flickers across his face, and I can’t figure out if it’s disappointment or relief. I’ve never had any trouble reading guys, but for the life of me, Andrew Mulroney remains a mystery.

I try to tell myself that’s why I’m still sticking around when we’re so obviously incompatible. Because I want to solve him.

“So, movie?” I ask brightly.

“Why are you pushing it? Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

I let out a tired laugh and close my eyes. “Fine. Fine. You win, Mulroney. I’ll get out of your hair. You’re welcome for the damn soup.”

I turn on my heel and take my glass to the sink, dashing the last few sips down the drain before flipping the water on to rinse it out. “Just let me put the leftover soup in a Tupperware container and I’ll—”

Because of the running water, I don’t hear him approach, and I jump when I feel a touch on my shoulder.

I spin around, the soapy water from the glass dripping on the floor, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care.

His hand drops from my shoulder, and he starts to cross his arms defensively, but instead lets his hands fall to his side as he exhales. “You always do that,” he says.

“Do what?”

“Assume the worst of me.”

I drop my mouth open. “I assume the worst of you? Says the guy who told me I have no brain? The one who says kissing me was a mistake? The one who can barely muster a thank-you after I just played Florence Nightingale all day for a guy who doesn’t even like me?”

His jaw tightens. “Georgiana.”

“Andrew.” I refuse to make this easy for him. I’m not sure what we’re doing here, but I’m a little tired of putting myself out there over and over without getting even a little something in return.

We stare at each other in stubborn silence, and finally he does cross his arms, at the exact moment when he says, “I don’t dislike you.”

I throw my hands up in the air. “Seriously? Okay, I’m done. I’m out. I hope the Wicked Witch’s flying monkeys carry you away and I never have to see you again.”

I sidestep, but he steps with me, his arm finding my elbow. “You can pick the movie.”

I clap my hands together in fake excitement. “Oh, can I? That will make everything better.”

“You can drink more of my wine.”

“I have a headache,” I snap, realizing that it’s true. Dealing with this man is basically the mother of all migraines.

I pull my arm free and head toward the door, feeling just . . . done.

“Don’t leave,” he calls, raising his voice, and then lowering it. “Please.”

I turn back. “Why should I stay? Just because you don’t dislike me? Because—news flash, Andy—I’m starting to think I really do dislike you.”

He flinches but doesn’t look away. “Please.”

Need you.

His voice is wooden, but his eyes are sincere, maybe even a little pleading, and . . . oh, damn. Damn.

I feel myself relenting. “I can pick the movie?”

“Any movie. My TV’s connected to iTunes, and they have nearly everything.”

I give a slow smile, and his eyes narrow. “Am I going to regret this?” he mutters.

“Have you ever seen Enchanted?” I ask breezily as I stroll toward his living room.

“What do you think?”

“Oh, you’ll love it,” I gush, plopping onto the couch and kicking off my cheetah-print flats, making myself at home with a throw blanket that was sitting on the arm. “It’s about a divorce attorney.”

“And?” he asks hesitantly. “What else is it about?”

“You’ll see.” I pat the cushion next to me as an invitation for him to join me, then reach for the remote, pushing buttons until I come up with the screen I want.

“Hold on,” he says, settling on the couch beside me, scowling at the TV. “Did it just say this movie is PG? Are we watching a kids’ movie?”

“Figured it’d be a safe bet, what with you being such a fan of The Wizard of Oz and all.”

The animated credits of Enchanted and Disney’s singsongy soundtrack start coming through his impressive sound system, and he groans.

“Oh, did I mention?” I ask sweetly, curling onto his couch and giving him a happy smile. “It’s also a princess movie.”

He leans his head back, giving me a bland look. “A divorce attorney and a princess.”

I nod. “You’ll like her. She wears poofy dresses and talks to pigeons.”

He lifts his eyebrows. “She sounds ridiculous.”

“As I said, you’ll like her. Or should I say, you won’t dislike her.”

He rolls his eyes, and we both turn back toward the TV, where a cartoon prince is chasing a troll, and out of the corner of my eye, I swear I see him smile.

Georgie

THURSDAY MORNING, REALLY EARLY

Last night I blamed the onset of my headache on two glasses of white wine.

Which, honestly, is probably a little silly. Two glasses doesn’t usually give me a headache unless it’s really crappy wine, and we all know Andrew Mulroney is so not the type of guy to have crappy wine on hand.

But you know what he has had on hand lately?

The freaking flu.

Sometime around three A.M., when I woke up with body-racking chills and my headache had gotten about ten times worse, I realized what had happened.

Andrew had been right.

That sidewalk kiss had consequences more dire than tabloid rumors. Andrew Mulroney had passed his sick-bomb my way.

I should have known when I’d fallen asleep during Enchanted. I never miss Giselle and Robert’s happy ending.

I halfheartedly extend my arm toward the nightstand, where my cellphone sits, wondering if I can talk Marley into coming over and bringing medicine and Gatorade. But my arm drops well before it reaches the phone. It would take way too much energy.

I wonder how Andrew’s feeling this morning. He fell asleep on the couch even before me, but not before I’d forced him to down three of the flavored sparkling waters I’d bought for him. I’d tried for the Gatorade, but he’d grumbled something about artificial flavors and coloring. Typical.

What I wouldn’t give for some of that Gatorade right now. Or the sparkling water.

The soup, on the other hand, sounds nasty. All food does. I don’t think I’ll ever eat again. I’m not even sure I’ll live.

I pull the covers over my head and wait for death.

I’m not certain how much time passes after I brace myself to start seeing the white light, but somewhere through my head-pounding, fever-induced misery, I think I hear a knock.

Yeah, no chance. I can’t even bring myself to lift my head, much less somehow maneuver my body out of my bed.

But my self-protective flight-or-fight instincts are stronger than the flu, because when I hear my front door open, I somehow manage to sit upright in bed, my heart pounding in fear.

A second later, a six-foot-two silhouette appears in my doorway. “You really should lock the deadbolt, Georgiana.”

I groan and flop back down onto the bed. “You.”

“Me,” Andrew says.

“How’d you get in?”

“Convinced Charles you’d asked me to feed your cat.”

“And he believed that I’d let you feed my cat?” I ask. “Everyone who works here knows we hate each other.”

“I love that that’s what you’re incredulous about, and not the fact that I made up a cat you don’t have.” He pauses. “Do you?”

“Allergic,” I mutter.

Andrew’s all the way in my bedroom now, standing beside my bed. It’s mostly pitch-black, but he’s turned on a light from the kitchen, and I can tell he’s wearing a suit, clearly on his way to work.

“No gym clothes,” I say on a croak.

“Not feeling a hundred percent yet,” he says, bending down to set his briefcase against the nightstand, “so I’m not up to bench pressing today. But I’m well enough to catch up on some things at the office.”

“You got your wish,” I say, shivering violently as I roll onto my side.

“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, pulling the sheet and then the comforter up over my shoulder, tucking them under my chin before gingerly sitting on the edge of the bed. “What wish is that?”

“Killing me,” I say. “You said the other day you were going to kill me, and you have. Death by flu, transmitted by kiss.”

“I’m sorry about that,” he says, his tone amused. “Truly. But . . . pretty good kiss, though.”

I sigh and rub my cheek against the pillow. “Pretty good kiss.”

My head still hurts, my body’s still cold, but somehow I don’t feel quite as bad as I did just a couple minutes ago, and my eyes close. For the first time in hours I feel like I might actually be able to fall asleep.

“Have you taken any medicine?” he asks.

“Hmm?” I pry my eyes back open.

“Something to reduce the fever? Help with the head?”

I try to shake my head, but I’m not really sure I move at all. “Ran out of Tylenol a couple weeks ago. Forgot to replace.”

“Okay, then. I’ll be right back. You need anything else besides pills and that godawful neon-blue liquid you stocked my fridge with?”

“Be grateful. Was trying to take care of you,” I mumble.

“And now it’s my turn to take care of you,” he says, standing.

“You don’t have to.” It comes out like Yu doh haf to.

I feel a brush of warm fingertips against my temple, the touch all too fleeting. “I know.”

I don’t think any time passes, but it must, because when I open my eyes again, Andrew’s back and holding a cup of blue Gatorade on ice.

“You need help sitting up?” he asks.

I shake my head, heaving myself into a somewhat seated position. I brace myself on one arm and reach for the Gatorade with the other. It feels like heaven in my dry throat, and I gulp it.

“Hold on, save some to wash down the pills,” he says, holding out his hand. I try to maneuver my free hand to take them, but I’m too unsteady. Instead I open my mouth and tilt my head back like a baby bird.

I see him shake his head. “Ridiculous,” he says as he gently drops two pills onto my tongue.

I swallow them with the Gatorade and hand the empty glass back to him before letting myself fall back onto the pillows.

“You changed,” I say, watching him through half-closed eyes, struggling to stay awake.

He glances down at his jeans and sweater. “Didn’t have a candy-striper outfit, but I figured this was better than the suit for playing nurse.”

“Nurse Ratched,” I mutter, feeling pretty pleased that I can still banter despite having only two functioning brain cells. “You’re not going to work?”

I see him shrug. “I can catch up on most things from your living room.”

My heart flutters. “You’re staying?”

“Looks like. Any requests, patient?” he asks as he pulls the sheets and comforter back to my chin. I think I feel the pad of his thumb brush unnecessarily along my cheek, but that could be the delirium.

“Yes,” I say.

“Soup?” he asks. “I know a girl who just whipped up some pretty decent homemade stuff.”

“She sounds nice.”

“Nicer than I deserve,” he says quietly.

I smile sleepily. “That’s true. But no, soup wasn’t my request.”

“Tell me.”

I reach out my hand, fumbling around for his. He’s not as emotionally stunted as I thought, because he senses what I want and reaches for my floundering hand.

I squeeze his fingers. “Stay?”

“Sure.” He squeezes back. “Call if you need anything. I’ll be in the living room.”

“No, stay here,” I say, tugging his hand.

He’s silent for a moment. “In your bedroom?”

“Hate being sick,” I whisper. “It’s so lonely.”

“Georgiana—”

“Please. You won’t get sick, you’ve already had this plague.”

“Surely there’s someone I can call. Someone you actually like.”

“Lots of people.”

He winces, and I squeeze his hand harder, deciding to go for broke. “Need you.”

I wonder if that phrase does the same thing for him that it did for me yesterday. It must, because a second later I hear him kick off his shoes and ease his hand away, only to come around to the other side of the bed.

It’s been a long time since someone’s been in this bed beside me, and I immediately roll toward him, curling into him for warmth.

I feel his chest extend under my cheek as he sighs. Then, very slowly, his arms go around me, pulling me close, and I realize that somehow, even sick as I am, this is the happiest I’ve felt in a long, long time.

Georgie

FRIDAY EVENING

My sickness has more or less the same timeline as Andrew’s, and after two days of getting out of bed only to pee and groggily take a very necessary shower, I finally emerge from my death cave sometime around six o’clock on Friday night feeling human again.

There’s no sign of Andrew, but I don’t really expect there to be.

I don’t remember much about yesterday, but I know he stayed with me the whole day. Ordered me to drink fluids, have a couple of spoonfuls of soup.

I refused to move long enough for him to change my sheets, but he did come in throughout the day, opening the window for a few minutes at a time to get some much-needed fresh air into the bedroom.

Around three yesterday I was cranky as all heck, tired of being sick but also too tired to be anything else. He turned on the TV in my bedroom and, without asking, put on Enchanted.

I don’t know how he knew it was the only movie I could watch two days in a row without ever getting sick of it, but he knew. Plus I got to see the ending this time. I went to sleep the second the credits started rolling, and when I woke, the TV was off and Andrew was gone.

The loneliness and disappointment were almost . . . crippling.

So when he stopped by this morning wearing a suit, clearly on his way to work, it had been almost a relief. A reminder that the last thing my life needs is to start relying on a workaholic.

He regretfully told me he needed to check in at the office, at least for a couple of hours, after being gone all week, and I breezily told him I’d be fine.

I take a long-ass shower, and though I’m feeling almost back to almost normal, I don’t feel like blow-drying my hair. I towel-dry it and then pull it into a messy bun on top of my head. My skin looks atrocious, so I put on a facial mask and head into the kitchen, a little surprised and relieved to realize that I’m famished.

The fridge is stocked with plenty of the leftover soup I made for Andrew, and I heat some in the microwave as I scroll through the phone Andrew plugged in for me. I’ve got about a million text messages, and it occurs to me that I missed a lot and yet . . . nothing at all.

Plenty of people have been checking in. Marley wants to know if I’m dead, my mom tells me she wants to chat and to call her back, my dad unsubtly tells me about a job available at the company that I’d be a great fit for, and everyone wants to know if I’m really dating Andrew or if it’s just tabloid nonsense.

Most curious of all seems to be Hailey. Of all my friends, she’s possibly the nicest, and if I’m reading the tone of these messages right, she seems really hopeful that the Andrew rumors aren’t true. Her last message is especially telling: Would you please call me when you get this? It’s driving me crazy that I may have been flirting with YOUR guy at the party last week!

What should I say to her? Well, yes, you were flirting, but he’s not my guy. Sure, Andrew returned the favor and took care of me when I was sick, but I’d hardly call it romantic. Because kissing me was a mistake.

I decide to rip the Band-Aid off and have the hard conversation with my friend. I pull my soup out of the microwave and stir it halfheartedly to cool it down while I wait for Hailey to pick up, which she does.

“Georgie! Oh my gosh, you’re alive!”

“Barely,” I say, scooping up some soup and blowing. “Sorry for the radio silence, I came down with some nasty bug.”

“Oh, ick. Are you feeling better?”

“Much, thanks.”

“So you’re coming out tonight?!”

“Not that much better. Count me out until next week.”

“Ugh, that sucks. We miss you. Did you hear about Brody and his baby mama?”

“Yup.”

“Ugh, such a pig. You’re lucky you hooked up with one of the nice ones.”

There it is.

I take a slurpy sip of my soup. “Hon, you of all people know not to believe what you read in the tabloids.”

There’s a pause. A hopeful pause, I’m guessing. “Really? But you and Andrew were kissing.”

“That was . . .” I wave my spoon, trying to think of the right word, and failing. “I’d had too much to drink, and he was annoying me. I was trying to prove a point, he was trying to prove a point—”

“What point, how many molars you have?” she asks teasingly.

“It was more of a battle of wills. And if anyone asks, I totally won. But the point is, we’re not together.”

Another pause. “Okay. Honestly, I’m kind of relieved. I thought maybe you guys were in, like, a secret relationship, and I’d been hitting on him that night and you were mad.”

“Not mad,” I say, taking another spoonful of soup and wishing that this conversation could be over already.

“And you don’t like him?”

I feel a little twinge. If it were Marley, I might tell her the truth: that I like him too much. But though I consider Hailey a good friend, we’re not quite on the spill-your-darkest-secrets level, so instead I deflect.

“Look. You gave him your phone number, right? Has he ever used it? Texted, called, whatever?”

“Well . . . yeah, he texted, but—”

My heart sinks hard. Like, boulder-in-the-ocean hard. “See?” I say brightly, wincing at how fake I sound. “There you go. He’s never texted me. Never called me.”

She doesn’t pick up on the false brightness of my voice the way Marley would—doesn’t seem to realize that my soul is dying a little.

“Really?” Hailey sounds genuinely surprised. “There’s really nothing there? So if I ask him to be my date at that literacy fundraiser next week . . .?”

“Go for it,” I say, making a mental note to change my RSVP on that particular fundraiser to hell no.

“Okay, well . . . thanks, I guess. I mean, it’s a little weird to ask out the guy who was just making out with my friend, but—”

“Hailey,” I interrupt, “I’ve got another call coming in. But seriously, if you like Andrew, I think you guys would be good together.”

The crappy thing is, it’s sort of true. Of the people in my friend group, Hailey’s the most subdued. She parties with the rest of us, but she’s more eager than the rest of us to give up those parties for a life of white wine, early nights, and parent-teacher conferences at the ritziest prep school. She’s friendly, but also a tiny bit shy compared to the rest of us. Pretty, but classy. Funny, but not terribly snarky.

There’s nothing ridiculous about her.

In other words, she’s the dream woman for Andrew Mulroney, Esquire.

“Okay, talk soon!” Hailey says.

I chirp goodbye, and then because I really do have another call coming in . . .

“Hi, Mom.”

“There you are,” my mother says on the other end of the phone, her tone clearly exasperated. “You’ve been avoiding my calls for two days.”

“I’ve been avoiding everyone’s calls. I’ve had the flu.”

“Oh, dear,” she says, making a tsking sound. “You should have called me.”

Why, so you could tell me which of your latest bronzers would be the most flattering on sallow skin, and remind me of the game-changing powers of your under-eye concealer?

It’s an unfair thought, though. I love that my mom’s got her own thing going on. I just sometimes wish she knew when to turn off the CEO and when to turn on the mom.

“I’m better now,” I say, pushing aside the soup. It’s all I’ve had for two days and I’m sick of it.

“Good! You want to meet me for dinner?”

I wrinkle my nose. Two dinner invitations from her in as many weeks. It’s not unwelcome, just . . . odd.

“I think I need one more day of sweatpants and reruns,” I say, “But tomorrow sounds great. What kind of food are you and Dad thinking?”

“Oh. I was thinking dinner, just us girls.”

Uh-oh.

Second time in a row, no Dad. I ignore the warning bells.

“Why, what’s Dad up to?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’d love the time to himself to watch the game or whatever.”

Uh-huh. Or whatever is right. I have to bite my tongue to keep from asking which game. I guarantee she has no idea how bummed Dad is that the Yankees got knocked out of the playoffs last week or that he’s vowed to boycott all sports until spring training.

“Are you guys okay?” I ask. “You’ve seemed sort of distant lately.”

There’s a delay in her response, and when it does come, it’s vaguely impatient. “We’re fine, Georgie. If you don’t want to have dinner with your mother, you can just say so.”

Ah, the old guilt trip deflection. Classic.

“I’d love to have dinner, Mom. Let me just see how I’m feeling tomorrow after a good night’s sleep, ’kay?”

“All right,” she says, her voice still a bit stiff. “I hope you start to feel better.”

“Thanks.”

When we hang up, I grab a bottle of water out of the fridge and sink onto the bar stool, resting my head in my hands.

I don’t have a headache anymore, but I still feel like I’m trying to operate through a fog. I just don’t know if the fog’s a lingering effect of the sickness or the fact that my personal life’s a super-fat mess.

On top of it all, I feel weak. Hungry for real food, not soup. But I know without looking that the fridge is mostly empty. I heave a sigh and am just reaching for my phone to order something for delivery when I hear a quiet knock at the door.

I start to stand, but before I can move, it opens, and I give a little screech of terror until I see the familiar form of a suit-wearing Andrew.

“Gawd,” I say, slumping back down and putting a hand over my chest. “You scared me. How do you still have a key?”

He stands in the doorway, looking unsure. “I thought you’d still be asleep, I didn’t want you to have to get out of bed to answer the knock. I’ll return it immediately.”

“Return it later,” I say, gesturing him in. “I smell cheese.”

“Thought you might be wanting some real food,” he says, coming into the kitchen and letting my front door shut behind him. “Brought some lasagna for later.”

I’m already diving for the paper bag.

“Or for now,” he amends, watching as I rip it open.

I pull out the foil container and tear off the lid, but I pause when I see him locate both my napkins and silverware in the right drawer on the first try.

“You know your way around my kitchen,” I say.

“Turnabout’s fair play,” he says, handing me a fork and a napkin. “You wasted no time locating everything from my wineglasses to my laundry detergent.”

“Yeah, well, laundry detergent was a real stumper, what with it being on top of the washing machine and all.”

“You’re feeling better, I see,” he says as I dig a fork into the crusty cheese topping of the lasagna. “I may need to reheat that.”

“Nah, is good,” I say around a bite. “Want some?” I push the container toward him, knowing there’s zero chance that Andrew Mulroney will lower himself enough to eat directly out of a disposable foil container of takeout.

But he shocks the hell out of me by digging a fork into the other side and taking a bite.

He sets the fork down as he chews, then goes over to my cute gold bar cart that has a small wine rack built in. He pulls out a bottle and examines the label. “You mind?”

“Take your pick,” I say, still shoveling in the lasagna, pausing only long enough to rip open a bag of garlic bread and take a too-big bite of that as well. “Wine opener’s in the second drawer, glasses to the left of the fridge,” I say.

“You want a glass, or are you sticking to nonalcoholic fluids?” he says.

“The latter,” I say, taking a gulp of water. “You have extra wine, and I’ll live vicariously.”

“Your color’s better,” he says, taking a sip of the wine, then returning to the counter and picking up his fork.

“Yes, I’m sure I look beautiful,” I say, patting my wet bun and gesturing at the oversized T-shirt that an old boyfriend left behind. I barely remember the guy, but the shirt’s the comfiest thing I own.

I take another bite of lasagna and, as I wipe at a string of cheese on my chin, it occurs to me how dang comfortable I am sitting across from Andrew Mulroney, looking my absolute worst while shoving cheese and carbs into my mouth at an alarming rate.

“How was work?” I ask, changing my mind about the wine and reaching for his glass. I can’t quite reach it, and he nudges it nearer.

“Fine. Mostly a lot of catch-up, but Shelley and my partners did a good job of keeping things running while I was out.”

“That’s good.” I take another bite of garlic bread, but my chewing slows when I see him studying me.

“What?” I wipe my mouth with my hand.

“I’m sorry I left today,” he says quietly.

His apology catches me off guard, and I try to brush it away with a carefree smile. “No need to apologize. I wasn’t expecting you to stay.” Andrew blinks, his expression so unexpectedly hurt that I reach out a hand. “Wait, no. I didn’t mean it like that.”

He reaches again for his fork. “Sure.”

“I just meant I took care of you for one day, you took care of me yesterday. We’re even.”

“Is that what we’re doing here? Just tit for tat?”

“No, I’m just saying . . . I get it. You had to work today. And let’s not forget you spooned me when I wanted to die. I’d say you went above and beyond the call of duty for a frenemy. Actually, yeah. Let’s forget that.”

He takes a sip of wine watching me. “Frenemy.”

“Fitting, right?” I say, offering him a piece of cheesy garlic bread, because it’s the least sexy food on the planet and I’m hoping it’ll defuse some of this tension.

He doesn’t accept it, and I scramble for something to keep the easy mood between us. For some reason, the thought of us retreating to that place of being acrimonious strangers fills me with dread.

I like us being friendly, I like him talking to me, I like . . . him.

Crap.

“So, I talked to Hailey this afternoon,” I blurt out.

Andrew blinks. “So?”

The lasagna churns a little in my stomach when I realize that he doesn’t ask me to clarify who Hailey is.

I drop the garlic bread and fix a smile on my face. “She was calling to see if that whole kiss disaster was for real.”

He slowly sets his wineglass back down. “And what did you tell her?”

“The truth.” I lift my shoulders and let them drop. “That it was nothing. Just a misplaced attempt to best each other.”

Andrew crosses his arms. “Why would she care?”

I roll my eyes. “For someone who was a boy genius, you can kind of be a dolt sometimes. She likes you.”

Andrew leans forward, elbows on the counter, studying me. “And how do you feel about that?”

I swallow. It’s the most direct he’s ever been, the first opening he’s ever given me to take the first step. To say that maybe we could be more than frenemies.

I open my mouth to tell him that I feel wretched about the thought of him with Hailey. That the thought of them holding hands and kissing and him taking care of her when she’s sick makes me want to barf up all the delicious lasagna.

But then I picture how he’d react if I said that. I picture that unsmiling, sometimes unfriendly face not responding even the tiniest bit to my announcement . . . so I take the safe route.

“I think she’d be the perfect girl for you,” I say quietly.

The worst thing is, some part of me means it, even as the other part wants to tell him that he needs someone messy and ridiculous to help him not take everything so seriously.

“You do?” he says.

I smile and nod. “Yup. She’s going to ask you to go to a fundraiser next week, and for the love of God, don’t be a stiff about it.”

Andrew stands up straight, starts to pick up his wineglass, then instead shoves his hands into his pockets. He’s always hard to read, but he’s an especially blank slate right now.

“Or you could ask her out sooner,” I say, my voice sounding manic and crazy. “I bet she’s free tomorrow.”

What are you doing, Georgie?

I ignore my subconscious, charging ahead in a futile hope that maybe the sooner I see him with someone else, the sooner I’ll banish the futile hope that he might want to be with me.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I continue. “She told me you’ve already texted her, so it won’t be that hard to keep doing it.”

I hold my breath just a little, wanting him to deny it. To tell me that he hasn’t been texting Hailey while I’ve never gotten a single text or call from him.

No, you moron. No text, just flowers, and soup, and a cuddle, and lasagna, and . . .

“All right,” he says, interrupting my thoughts before my still-slow brain can put all the pieces together.

“All right what?”

He shrugs. “I’ll ask her out.”

My face feels like it cracks when I smile. Not unlike what it feels like my heart is doing.

“Awesome,” I say, shoveling another bite of lasagna into my mouth, even though I’m borderline queasy. “Want any help figuring out what to say?”

“Believe it or not, I’ve asked a woman on a date before.”

I lift my eyebrows in challenge, and his gaze goes angry. He pulls his phone out of his pocket.

Before I can regret my impulse to call his bluff, his fingers move quickly across the screen before holding it up. “There. I asked out your friend. Happy?”

No. So not happy. Not even close.

I lean forward and whisper, “Can I be your best woman at the wedding?”

He shakes his head in disgust and takes a big sip of his wine, nearly draining the glass before leaning down and picking up his briefcase. “You need anything else? I’m still behind on work—I should get back to my place and get started.”

“Wow, working on a Friday night,” I say. “You sure know how to live it up. At least take the wine with you.”

It’s the sort of dialogue that’s practically second nature to us, but the words feel false and hollow once they’re out there.

“I’m sorry I opened it,” he says. “I thought—”

Andrew clears his throat, and I jump on his hesitation. “You thought what?”

“Nothing. Never mind. I’ll return the key downstairs,” he says, heading toward the door. “No more unexpected visits.”

I’ve got no quippy comebacks for that, so I simply nod and smile. Or at least I think I smile. Mostly I feel like a lump of nothingness.

I know. You’re frustrated with me right now. I’m frustrated with me too, because I’m usually honest to a fault, and here I am not telling this guy that I . . . like him. Really like him.

I’ve never had a problem telling a guy how I felt.

But I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way before. Ever.

Georgie

SATURDAY NIGHT

Some days you do all the things and still worry you’re not doing crap with your life.

Some days you manage to wash and dry your hair and put on mascara and feel like a freaking boss.

Today’s the latter.

I’m feeling a hundred times better than I did yesterday, a million times better than I did on Thursday, although I’m still not in the mood to put myself out there in the world.

I take a rain check on dinner with my mom. I’ll see her tomorrow at brunch.

And I definitely don’t feel like going out with the group for my friend Jackie’s birthday shindig tonight, and duck out of that one as well.

You sure? Marley texts when I tell her. I haven’t seen you in forever—you were being a hermit even before you got sick. You okay?

What I want to say is, No, not okay. Not okay because the stupid lawyer in my building is asking out our friend. And because I was stupid enough to tell him to do it.

But what I really text back is, Totally. I’ll be better next week, just in a homebody mood lately.

She replies, I can stop by for drinks before I meet up with the group, if you want.

I’m tempted to take her up on it. Maybe I’ll feel better if I have a shoulder to cry on.

Then again, sometimes talking about things only makes them worse. You know how when you want to cry but you hold it together right up until the second some kind soul asks if you’re okay, and it’s like those simple words are all it takes to summon the tears?

I’m good. Go have fun. I’ve got a hot date with HBO.

Fine, be a turd. We’ll miss you anyway, Marley texts.

I have to set my phone aside to keep from asking who we includes—if Hailey’s going with the group tonight.

Jackie and Hailey are pretty close, right? Surely Hailey wouldn’t ditch her friend on her birthday just because a guy asked her out.

I glance at the clock. It’s a few minutes after six. I’m annoyed with myself for not snatching Andrew’s stupid phone out of his stupid hand and finding out exactly what he texted Hailey—if he’d asked her out for tonight or for next week. I thought I didn’t want to know, but not knowing is way more hideous.

I plow my fingers into my hair before dropping my arms, shaking my hands, and taking a deep breath. Get it together, Georgie. You are not the girl who turns into a hot mess because of a guy.

I go to the cabinet, pull out a wineglass, and pour a small glass of the wine Andrew opened last night, refusing to think about how right it felt to share a spontaneous meal with the jerk.

I take my wine into the living room and turn on the TV, flipping around blindly for something to watch. Nothing catches my interest, and I wonder if I shouldn’t take Marley up on her offer after all.

I’ve just turned off the TV and taken a sip of wine when there’s a knock at the door.

My head swings toward the door as my heart begins to pound in, well . . . yeah, hope.

I set my wine on the counter and look through the peephole. The hope blooms from seed to flower at the irritated scowl on the other side of the door.

I carefully wipe the smile from my face and swing the door open. “Good evening, Andy.”

His hands are on his hips, and it takes me a second to register that I’ve never seen this version of him. He’s wearing dark jeans and a black shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

I’ve seen Sick Andrew, Work Andrew, and Gym Andrew, but this is new. This is Date Andrew. He looks amazing, but it’s hard to get too excited about this, knowing that his reason for looking both casual and delicious is that he’s about to take some other woman out to dinner.

“You forget something?” I ask.

Andrew reaches out one hand, bracing it on the door frame, the other still at his waist, the picture of a pissed-off man.

“You want to know why I texted Hailey?” he asks, leaning forward.

“Um, to ask her out?” I ask, instinctively taking a step back from the anger in his gaze.

“I mean before yesterday.”

I shrug.

“It’s because I wanted to know what sort of fucking flowers you liked. Only she didn’t know what kind you liked, so I texted her for nothing, and then you made me pay for it.”

“I . . . what? I’m confused.”

“Yeah, me too,” he snaps. “How’d you even know that I texted her?”

“She told me,” I say.

“Why?” he says, lifting his other hand so it too is braced on the door frame, almost as though he’s deliberately disallowing me from leaving this apartment or this conversation.

I look away, and he reaches out and grabs my chin between his thumb and forefinger, drawing my gaze back around. “Why, Georgiana? Why would you care if I texted your friend?”

“Because you’ve never texted me!”

“So?”

“So I texted you the other day, and you never texted back.”

“Let me get this straight,” he says, his voice a low growl as his thumb runs lightly along my jaw. “I didn’t reply to your one text, which said hi, and you take that to mean I want to date your friend?”

“Well, it sounds a little ridiculous when you put it that way, but—”

“No, it sounds a lot ridiculous,” he says, stepping toward me, forcing me to step back.

His hand lifts. Slides into my hair to cup the back of my head as his other hand reaches behind him to slam my front door.

My heart is pounding in hopeful exhilaration.

“You know why I didn’t reply to your text, Georgiana?” His fingers press against the back of my head, a gentle, insistent pressure.

I shake my head.

“Because when it comes to you, I seem to make a mess of everything. Because saying nothing at all seemed better than saying the wrong thing. And forgive me if I’m wrong here, but the one and only text you sent me wasn’t exactly earth-shattering, am I right?”

I lick my lips nervously. “I may have made a mountain out of a molehill on the whole texting thing.”

His eyebrows lift. “You think?”

“But last night you texted Hailey to ask her out. I saw you,” I say, trying to wriggle away.

His other arm slips around me, his palm settling against my back, holding me still.

“I was pissed,” he says. “I acted rashly.”

I meet his eyes. “Is that a first?”

“Acting rashly? Perhaps. Being annoyed at you? Definitely not.”

“So are you going out with her?” I ask softly.

“I meant to,” he says. “I made reservations. Dressed for it.”

“To punish me.”

He sighs tiredly and rests his forehead against mine. “To move on from you.”

A few minutes ago I was very determined that my sadness wouldn’t kill me, but the happiness I feel right now? That might kill me. I feel like I’m bursting with it.

I lift my hands, settling them against his chest, my eyes locked on the button of his shirt I’ve started fiddling with because I’m also feeling unexpectedly shy. A definite first.

“And have you?” I ask tentatively, not so sure I want to hear the answer.

“Have I what?”

I gather my courage and lift my eyes to find him watching me. “Moved on from me?”

“Funny thing about that,” he says softly. “Seems I found myself canceling on her, and seconds later I was knocking on your door.”

“Probably because you were annoyed with me,” I say, just a tad grumpily.

“Probably,” he replies with a slight smile. Then he adds huskily, “I may have misled you about something.”

“Hmm?” I say, still basking in the warmth of his closeness.

“When I kissed you the other day”—his fingers spread wide over my back, coaxing me even closer—“that wasn’t a mistake. Not even fucking close. Or if it was, it’s one I intend to make all over again.”

I’m anticipating the kiss, so the touch of his lips to mine shouldn’t be a shock, but the way the warm pleasure consumes my entire body, lips to toes, is a bit unexpected. Maybe even a bit scary, given how much I’ve been wanting this moment.

Wanting him to want me.

Andrew tilts his head, nudging my lips open with his, and I sigh in pleasure as he deepens the kiss.

If the kiss on the sidewalk was the culmination of sexual frustration, this feels like the culmination of something more important, even though I’m not sure I have a name for it.

I give myself over to the kiss, lifting my hands to his face, loving the slight scratch of his five o’clock shadow against my palm, the silky waves of his hair between my fingers.

He continues to hold my head still as he explores my mouth, the kiss slow, thorough, and completely him.

His other hand is everywhere, drifting restlessly over my back, butt, hips . . .

He slides his hand up my side, and we both gasp as the heel of his palm brushes the outside of my breast. Since I was planning on staying home and watching TV, I’m not wearing a bra.

Andrew pulls back, gazing down at me. We’re both breathing hard, and he looks as unbalanced as I feel at how quickly we went from simple kiss to blistering want.

He lifts his hands so that my face is framed in both palms. “Georgiana—”

Terrified that he’s about to say something logical that will make all the kissing stop, I go on my toes and press my lips to his.

“Please don’t put some sort of esquire spin on this,” I whisper against his mouth.

He lets out a quiet laugh, pulling back just slightly. “Esquire’s not an adjective.”

“Sure it is,” I say, trailing my lips over his jawline, since it’s all I can reach. “Synonym: stodgy. Definition: prone to overthinking.”

Andrew slides his hands from my face down my shoulders to my hips, where his fingers curl possessively over my butt. “Stodgy, huh?”

I nip his chin. “A little. Sometimes.”

His head dips as he brushes his lips against mine, teasing, refusing to deepen the kiss. “Perhaps. But not all the time.”

My lips part to tell him to prove it, but he’s one step ahead of me, and the only thing that comes out is a surprised gasp as he guides me backward before easily hoisting me onto the kitchen counter.

He sets his mouth against my throat and my head falls to the side.

“I didn’t ask,” he says, planting warm kisses along my neck. “How are you feeling?”

“Right now? Never been better,” I whisper, pulling his mouth back to mine.

Andrew slips his hands under my sweater as we kiss, his palms roaming over my back, warm skin on warm skin. His breath shudders just a little, and I smile against his mouth, loving all these little chinks I’m finding in Andrew Mulroney’s armor.

He pulls back, raising his eyebrows in challenge at my amusement. He holds my gaze as his hands slide around to my front, fingers tracing the outer slope of my breasts lightly before withdrawing contact.

I whimper, and he watches me knowingly as he takes his time returning his hands to me. Then his thumbs are hovering over my nipples, a torturous non-touch that has me arching my back with a helpless plea.

There’s nothing stodgy about the way he teases me, cupping my breasts in his palms before pulling back to pluck at the sensitive tips.

I wiggle closer, tugging frantically at my bulky sweater, sighing in relief as he helps me lift it over my head and toss it aside.

The look on his face when he sees my bare chest is flattering, but I like even better the greedy way his mouth goes to my breasts. His tongue flicks across a nipple before drawing it warmly into his mouth, hungry for me.

But I’m hungry for him too, and I endure the sweet ecstasy for only a minute before my legs wrap around his waist, my hands tearing at the buttons of his shirt.

I hate that he put this on for Hailey, hate that he was thinking of spending tonight with anyone but me, and I make him pay for it. My nails rake his skin as I take in the upper body that’s every bit as impressive as I expected it to be given his gym-rat habits.

“Not bad, lawyer,” I say, my fingers touching every perfect ridge of his six-pack. His eyes close as I explore his skin, his breath hitching in and out with need, and though I don’t think I’ve ever wanted a sexual encounter as badly as I want this one, I’m struck with an unprecedented wave of tenderness.

I lean forward and set my mouth on the warm hollow at the base of his throat, a gentle kiss that conveys things I don’t know how to say any other way.

I feel his palm against my face, his fingers brushing the hair at my temple in an answering caress.

His lips find mine, and our eager hands explore downward. I’m wearing yoga pants, so he’s got the advantage, easily pulling them down over my legs before I have a chance to undo his belt buckle.

Lucky for me, he’s feeling helpful, and moments later we’re down to the last barrier: my thong, his black briefs. (Of course he would be a briefs guy, and it’s hot.)

I lick my lips as I trail my fingers over the impressive length of his erection. His eyes narrow, his breathing harsh and uneven as he flicks a finger over the pink bow at the top of my black lace panties, his gaze dropping to follow the back-and-forth motion of his finger.

“A bow,” he whispers. “How perfectly ridiculous.”

Then his fingers are slipping beneath the elastic, pulling my underwear to the side as he bends down, lowering his head and tasting me.

I cry out in surprise at his unexpected boldness, my hands dropping to his head, fingers in his hair at the gentle but confident swipe of his tongue.

He presses even closer, the flat of his tongue licking me in unapologetically carnal strokes as his hands spread my legs wide.

I don’t know what I’m feeling—something like ecstasy and torture and maybe a little bit of shock about how wrong I am about Andrew Mulroney.

The man whose head moves insistently between my legs is nothing like the buttoned-up lawyer who has spent the past few months ignoring me. This man is raw and primal, his touch sure and possessive, as though every part of me is his and he’s always known it.

I’m desperate now, my fingers clutching at his hair, wanting, needing everything that he’s offering.

A long finger eases inside me as his tongue begins circling in perfect rhythm to my every cry.

A second finger joins the first, the pressure of his tongue increasing, quickening, and I shatter like crystal in his mouth, the pleasure so savagely intense I’m not entirely sure how to survive it alone.

Except I’m not alone.

It’s like he knows the exact moment I’m too sensitive to take any more, and he straightens, drawing me to him, holding my face against his shoulder, stroking my back through the rest of the tremors, letting me catch my breath.

When I finally come back to reality, he presses his lips to my ear. “Stodgy, huh?”

I laugh, a short, exhausted sound. “I may have been wrong about that.”

“Perhaps I should convince you once and for all.”

His hands go to my waist, tugging me forward, supporting me as he pulls me off the counter, lowering me to my feet.

I start to move to the right, thinking he means for us to go to the bedroom, but his fingers close around my wrist, lifting my hand to his face.

The kiss on my palm is gentle, but the way he spins me around, pressing my belly against the kitchen counter, is anything but.

I gasp at the feel of cold marble on warm skin, but the contrast is unexpectedly arousing, as is the way he shoves my underwear down until it’s in a tiny pile at my feet.

I kick the fabric aside and then gasp in delighted pleasure as I feel the undisguised evidence of his arousal against me.

Andrew’s hand moves to the right side of my face, gathering my hair in one hand and pushing it over my left shoulder.

He presses a kiss to the nape of my neck. “Do I need a condom?”

I tilt my hips back in invitation to hurry the hell up. “Birth control and religious about my doctor’s appointments. And I’m going to guess that’s just one more thing you’re anal about.”

“Well then, Georgiana,” he says huskily as his hands find mine, flattening my palms to the edge of the counter and pushing me forward slightly, “better hold on.”

I catch my breath, wanting—needing—the thrust. Instead I feel the velvety tip of him, teasing among the wet folds. Making me wait. Making us both wait.

Then his hips rock forward and I cry out, my body welcoming the hard invasion like it’s meant for this, meant for him.

Andrew’s fingers grip my hips as he pulls out, slowly, tauntingly, only to thrust forward hard, pressing me to the counter. I meet him thrust for thrust, bracing myself on the counter as I arch my back, angling my hips to take all of him.

His fingers tangle in my hair, his other hand palming my breast, pinching my nipple as he pulls my back to his chest, his hips moving ever faster.

I tilt my head back and to the side, begging for a kiss. He gives it to me, his tongue sliding into my mouth as a hand slides down over my belly, two fingers pressing against my clit.

Once more my body is utterly his, and his mouth swallows every cry, his body absorbs every shudder. And while Andrew Mulroney might not be stodgy, he is a gentleman. He waits until I’ve had my pleasure for a second time before he takes his own, his arm wrapping low on my waist as he thrusts into me a final time, his release coming with a helpless, savage growl.

I enjoy his pleasure almost as much as my own, knowing from his gasps for air, from the way his hands seem to grab at me involuntarily, that whatever’s between us eclipses anything that’s come before it.

At last he rests his damp forehead on my shoulder, and somehow I find the energy to lift my hand to his head, my fingers tangling gently in his hair.

I hear him swallow, then speak. “Believe it or not, I had intended to take you on a date.”

I laugh. “I think I liked this better. We needed to get it out of our system.”

I feel his smile. “Don’t be ridiculous, Georgiana. I am far from done with you.”

Andrew

SATURDAY NIGHT (OR MAYBE SUNDAY MORNING—NOBODY’S LOOKING AT THE CLOCK)

The soft, feminine sigh woke him up. It took his brain a few seconds to register that Georgiana Watkins was curled against him. It took his body far less than that.

He didn’t know what time it was, only that at some point, after trying every sexual position they could think of, they’d fallen asleep, sweaty and sated.

And now . . .

He still wasn’t fully awake, but the lower half of him definitely was. Unable to resist, he opened his mouth against Georgiana’s warm neck, his thumb and forefinger closing around her nipple.

He smiled wickedly at her moan.

Now they were both awake.

His other hand slid over her ass, dipping between her legs. It was his turn to moan when he found her already wet and ready for him.

Andrew nudged her knees up toward her chest, so that she opened for him. He fully intended to slide into her from behind, ride her with her back pressed to his chest, but something stopped him. A need, not just for her body, but for her.

Instead, he dipped his head, brushing his lips against her shoulder before rolling her onto her back, easing her soft, warm body beneath his.

Andrew’s fingers brushed her hair from her face as he lowered his body atop hers, watching her face as he slid inside. Georgie sighed again, this time the sound sexy instead of sleepy.

They were as close as two people could be.

Neither said a word as he thrust in and out in slow, deliberate strokes, her arching to meet his body in perfect rhythm.

It shouldn’t be this good this soon. She shouldn’t feel both so familiar and so new. They shouldn’t know each other as well as they did.

It was too much. Too much, and yet not enough, and . . .

Her orgasm was fierce but silent, and he came seconds later, also silent, as though they were both terrified at what might be revealed by even the slightest noise.

Finally their bodies stilled, and he eased out of her before rolling them to their sides, pulling her against him, his arm heavy on her waist once more.

He fell back asleep, but he didn’t dream. No need. He was already living the dream.

Georgie

SUNDAY MORNING, PRE-BRUNCH

“I’ve got to say, Georgiana, I didn’t picture you as an early riser on weekends.”

I pause in the process of rifling through my panty drawer and turn to face him, hand holding the towel firmly around my chest so he doesn’t derail me from the getting-ready process again.

“That reminds me,” I say. “What do you do on weekends?”

He squints his eyes. “Could you be a bit more specific with the question? That’s sixty hours to cover.”

“Don’t be such a lawyer. You know what I mean. Monday through Friday, you’re always downstairs at five A.M. Always. But weekends you’re not. Do you sleep in?”

His eyebrows lift. “Have you been missing me on Saturdays and Sundays, Georgiana?”

I purse my lips. “Answering the question with a question. More lawyer tricks.”

He’s lounging naked in my bed, looking far more put together than he has any right to, considering how many times we ahemed. Andrew pulls himself up against the headboard, but unfortunately one hand keeps the sheet at a decent level and prevents any interesting views.

“I relax my schedule a bit on weekends. I don’t go to the gym until at least six-thirty. Sometimes even seven.”

I stare at him, looking for the increasingly familiar signs that he’s joking. Then I crack up when I see none.

The man’s dead serious.

“Not until six-thirty, huh?” I say. “Appalling. The day’s practically wasted by then.”

“For a party girl, you’re quick to mock. I thought you’d be asleep till noon.”

I lift a shoulder. “On Saturdays, yes. Sundays, though . . . Sundays are brunch.”

“With Marley?” he asks.

I turn back, matching pink bra and panties in hand. “You remember my best friend’s name?”

He shrugs, looping both arms around upraised knees, the wrist of one hand held casually by the grip of the other. He looks so damn at home in my bed, it makes my knees a little weak with yearning. “I pay attention.”

“Speaking of my friends,” I say with a wince, remembering the circumstances of last night, “how upset was Hailey when you canceled the date?”

“Not. Didn’t seem that surprised either. Said to tell you hi.”

I smile. Sounds like Hailey. Although I should probably call her, make sure we’re okay.

I step into my underwear and do the awkward dance of trying to pull the panties up while still keeping the towel under my armpits. Sure, the guy’s seen it all, but not in the daylight, and a girl’s got to save some mystery.

“So where’s brunch?” he calls as I slip into the bathroom to hang up the towel and put on my bra.

“Seventy-second and Madison,” I call back.

“Would have thought you girls would be down at some trendy hot spot in the Village.”

I smile, because he knows me well. “I’m sure the girls will be. I, on the other hand, will be where I always am on Sundays at noon,” I say, plugging in my hair dryer. “At my parents’ house.”

If he replies, I don’t hear it, because I grab my round brush and turn the hair dryer on. Like I said, my hair’s my pride and joy; I can’t let it air-dry and go all frizzy on me.

Several—and I do mean several—minutes later, I use my fingers to add some extra body at the roots, then use a big curling iron to add a little more curl to the style.

I step back into the bedroom just as he walks in wearing only his briefs, with two mugs of coffee in hand. “Made some with your French press,” he says. “Hope that’s okay.”

“More than okay,” I say, reaching eagerly for the coffee.

He’s watching me with a bemused expression. “You drink it black.”

I blow some of the steam his way. “So?”

“Would have pictured you more as a flavored-creamer, extra-sprinkles kind of girl.”

“Used to be. Too many calories,” I say with a wink before turning and walking to my closet. “Gotta save room for the donuts.”

I survey my outfit options as I sip the hot coffee, settling on a burgundy tunic and dark gray leggings.

I turn back, unsurprised to see him unapologetically looking at my ass.

“What time do you have to leave for brunch?” he asks, his voice so hopeful, his motives so purely guy, that I laugh.

“Too soon to make time for what you have in mind,” I say, setting my coffee on the dresser and stepping into the leggings. “Besides, I’m a tiny bit sore.”

“Sorry about that.”

I snort and pull the top over my head. “See, your words say sorry, but your tone is just the tiniest bit self-satisfied.”

He takes a sip of coffee. “I can neither confirm nor deny.”

I reach out and pick up a gold hoop earring from the dresser. “Is this what it’s going to be like da—sleeping with a lawyer?”

I hope he doesn’t know I almost used the word dating. Baby steps with this one.

But he’s more evolved than I think, cupping his big hands around the mug and leaning his forearms on his knees as he watches me continue the primping routine. “Sleeping with. That’s what this is?”

“Well, unless you prefer the Page Six version that we’re involved,” I say with an easy smile, trying not to hold my breath.

“It is considerate of them to shortcut this whole thing for us, let us know where we stand.”

I watch him for a second, trying to figure out just how sarcastic he’s being right now. I can’t tell.

My tongue touches the center of my top lip as I consider the wisdom of what I’m about to do.

Ah, what the hell. I go for it.

“You should come to brunch.”

Andrew slowly straightens. “With your parents?”

The look on his face is so comically horrified that I can’t help laughing. I hold up my hands. “Okay. That reaction right there was my worst-case scenario, but at least I know where we stand. Too soon. Way too soon.”

He scratches his cheek and avoids my gaze. “It’s just . . .”

“Andrew.” I wait until he meets my eyes, then walk to him, cupping his face in my hands, liking the way his eyes go warm at my touch. “Don’t freak out on me, ’kay? I meant it in a no-pressure way. There are mimosas to be consumed and Wall Street Journals to be read, and I’m pretty sure that’s your jam, but it’s also a meet-the-parents scenario, and I could see how that might not be your jam, and I’m totally fine with that. We’re good?”

He nods slowly, but his expression is still troubled. My fault. Rookie move, dropping brunch and parents a mere twelve hours after hooking up with a guy. At least I try to tell myself that’s all it is—that I’m moving too quickly. I don’t want to consider the other possibility: that despite our bodies being made for each other, out of bed we don’t know how to fit into each other’s lives.

“I’ve got to put on my face and be out the door in twenty,” I say, gesturing toward the bathroom. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want, drink all the coffee. Although I’m betting you’re getting antsy not being at the gym yet.”

He doesn’t crack a smile, but I don’t expect one.

“Georgiana—”

I pause and turn toward him. He blows out a breath, looking endearingly nervous. “Have dinner with me tonight?”

I smile, my heart giving a happy leap that last night wasn’t a one-and-done deal in his book.

And definitely not in mine.

“I’d like that,” I say, keeping my smile bright, my voice light.

He gives me the slightest of smiles, but his eyes are guarded, and I can’t help but think that the dinner invitation was a cop-out substitute for what he really wanted to say.

Andrew

SUNDAY NIGHT, DINNER

Andrew took a sip of his wine, watching in bemusement as Georgiana chatted animatedly with the server.

Not about the specials, not about the wine list, but about the man’s new Yorkie-Poo, which, based on the description, Andrew could only assume resembled a fancy rat.

Just when he thought the other man would do something crazy like take their food order, Georgiana demanded pictures.

Andrew sat back in his chair in resignation as the server pulled an iPhone out of his back pocket and proceeded to show Georgiana an endless slide show of a small dog named Macaroon, who apparently had just been gifted a brand-new sweater. Ridiculous. No wonder Georgiana was enthralled.

But whereas just a few weeks ago Andrew would have been irritated by such frivolousness, tonight he found he was . . . charmed.

The woman was just so damn vivacious, drawing people to her with every breath. Everyone liked Georgiana.

And she’d chosen him. Somehow, this gorgeous, compelling creature seemed to want to spend time with him.

But for how long? He knew there was a ticking time bomb, but she didn’t. At least, he didn’t think she did. He’d know more when he could actually speak with her, rather than have to listen to a discussion of gluten-free dog treats.

She caught his eye and winked, and instantly he felt a bit of the tension in his shoulders ease. Georgiana looked beautiful tonight, but then, he supposed she did every night.

Her long hair was pulled back and piled high on her head, with a few pieces falling to her shoulders—shoulders he knew were the perfect combination of sharp angles and soft skin and tasted like vanilla.

Andrew was suddenly glad that she was wearing a sweater. He didn’t want any other man knowing those shoulders the way he did. He didn’t want to share any part of her, even with a flamboyant waiter who Andrew was reasonably sure had no interest in any of Georgiana’s body parts.

Shit. He was screwed. How had this woman gone from being the aggravating menace of his early mornings to the center of everything?

Since the second she’d walked out the door for brunch this morning, he’d been painfully conscious of the clock, obnoxiously aware of how many hours it would be until he’d see her again.

Finally the server moved away. He’d forgotten to take their order, but that suited Andrew just fine. He didn’t mind prolonging their dinner.

Then Georgiana’s tongue flicked out, catching a drop of wine, and suddenly Andrew minded the delay very much. He wanted her in his bed, her hair on his pillow, her soft curves beneath him.

She was watching him. “You’re scowling, Andy.”

“Perhaps because you’re calling me Andy?”

“I can’t help it. Punishment for you still calling me Georgiana, even after we—”

He lifted his eyebrows. “After we . . .?” Then he blinked, stunned by what he was seeing. “Georgiana. Are you blushing?”

She took a sip of water. “No. It’s just hot in here.”

He leaned forward. “Bet we could make it a lot hotter if we left here.”

“Don’t even try. You promised to feed me. No handsy stuff until I get fed. Did you see the fish and chips go by? Glorious.”

“Sure, if you enjoy food fried in trans fats,” he said.

“Um, everyone enjoys those foods,” she said, opening the menu.

Andrew took another sip of his wine. “Do your weekly brunches with your parents include similarly caloric nightmares?”

“Depends—it changes every week. Used to be my mom was pretty health-conscious, always worried about my dad’s cholesterol, but she’s loosened up in recent years. Maybe she decided life’s too short to not indulge in a croissant from time to time.”

“You enjoy these . . . brunches?”

She looked up and smiled. “You sound a little like someone who’s trying to understand a foreign culture but can’t figure out the weird customs.”

“I don’t deny that nearly everything about you is a bit foreign to me, Georgiana.”

“Well, no longer calling me by my formal, full name might be a step in the right direction. Speaking of names, what’s your middle name?”

“Michael. Why?”

She shut the menu. “Because I like to know these kinds of details about the men I’m sleeping with. Favorite color?”

“Don’t have one. I’m not a child.” He felt a sharp nudge against his shin. “Did you just kick me?”

She smiled serenely. “Favorite color?”

“Red.”

“Interesting. Why?” She picked up her wine and tilted her head.

Andrew sighed. “Is this what it’s going to be like, then?”

“Is this what what’s going to be like?”

Dating you. He almost said the words, but bit them back just in time. He didn’t like the way the thought made him feel vulnerable. He hadn’t felt this unsure of himself in a very long time, and he didn’t enjoy it.

He was, however, enjoying her. And therein lay the problem.

“What’s your middle name?” he asked, to distract her.

“Frances.”

He resisted the urge to smile. “Georgiana Frances? Surely your parents were expecting a different sort of child.”

“I know, right? I was named after both grandmothers, and I have to assume everyone thought I’d be very tidy and studious.”

“Bet you weren’t,” he said, enjoying the mental image of what she must have been as a wildly charming handful of a little girl.

“Not even a little bit. I was most definitely the one who wanted princess parties and asked for a pink pony eight years in a row.”

“So pink’s your favorite color, then?”

“No, red,” she said, sitting forward and looking delighted. “Do you know what this means?”

“You have a temper?”

“No, it means we have something in common. Can you even conceive of it?”

“Honestly?” He sipped his wine. “Not really.”

“You know what I like best about this whole situation?” she said with a smile. “I like that you haven’t changed even a little. I like that you’ve seen all my bits, and you’re still crusty.”

He stifled a laugh. “I’m not sure which is more disturbing: the word bits, the word crusty, or the fact you used them in the same sentence.”

“So, I talked to Hailey,” she announced, without any conversational segue whatsoever. Typical.

“Oh yeah?” he asked, tensing a bit. He didn’t particularly like that he’d been very close to using a perfectly nice woman in order to get the upper hand on the woman he’d really wanted.

“Yep, we met up for coffee after brunch, and I explained everything. I didn’t want her to find out from another Page Six post.”

“When you say you explained everything . . .?”

For the first time since he’d known her, something that looked like uncertainty flashed across her face.

“I mean, I just—I told her that you and I . . .” She floundered.

Andrew felt a little stab of relief to know that he wasn’t the only one out of his element here.

Georgiana blew out a breath. “Okay, so do you know who Ash Morrigan is?”

Andrew blinked. Not what he’d thought—hoped—she was going to say. “The actor?”

“The super-hot actor,” Georgiana amended.

What the . . .?

“Anyway,” Georgiana continued, “he was in New York a few months back, at the same club as me and the girls. And . . . he seemed interested in me.”

Andrew’s fingers tightened around his wineglass. Yeah, he definitely didn’t like where this was going.

“Your point?”

“My point is, I got his phone number,” she said. “He told me to call him, that he wanted to see me again, that he’d fly me to Los Angeles.”

Andrew took a big swallow of his wine, wishing it were something stronger. Ash Morrigan had starred in every action blockbuster in the past year, about half the romantic comedies, and even some period piece where there were whispers of an Oscar nomination going around. And this was who he was competing with? Ash fucking Morrigan?

“Okay, see, you’re getting this wrong,” Georgiana said urgently. “What I’m trying to tell you is that . . . I never called him. I could never figure out why. I thought maybe it was because I was nervous, but I don’t really get nervous. And lately I’ve been realizing—wondering—if, well, maybe I didn’t call him because of you.”

Andrew’s heart stopped beating, then started again.

“I liked Ash,” she said quietly. “He was fun and charming, and famous, of course . . . but every time I thought about calling him, trying to get excited about the prospect, I realized that what I was most excited about was those early morning run-ins in our building.”

Andrew didn’t know what to say.

“Wow, this is harder than I thought,” she muttered, taking a sip of her wine. “Okay, well, anyway. I gave Hailey Ash’s number. Thought it might help take the sting out of you breaking off your date last night, although honestly, I think she would have been super cool about it anyway. The end.”

Hardly. Hardly, Georgiana. They weren’t even close to the end of . . . whatever they were doing.

“You traded in one of the biggest names in Hollywood for me?” he asked, just to be sure. He had to be sure.

“Don’t make it weird—it was just his phone number. It’s not like Hailey and I put bags over your heads and then made the swap,” she muttered, her fingers fluttering a little nervously on the table.

He reached across and took her hand, waiting until she met his eyes. “What are you doing next Thursday?”

She stared at him. “Do I look like the sort of girl who plans four days in advance?”

“Make an exception. One of the senior partners at my firm is retiring. There’s a big, fancy party. It’s on a yacht or something, I can’t remember.”

“And?”

Of course she wasn’t going to make this easy for him. Of course.

“Come with me,” he said simply.

Her smile was slow and happy, and damned if that didn’t make him happy. “Andrew.”

“Yes?”

“Are we . . . dating?”

He gave her hand a brief squeeze before leaning back in his chair. He picked up the menu but didn’t look at it. “When you gave Hailey Ash’s number, did you simultaneously delete it from your phone?”

She snorted. “Um, no. It’s Ash Morrigan, Andy.”

“Georgiana.”

“Hmm?”

He smiled and held her gaze. “Lose that phone number.”

Her answering smile told him she knew what he was trying to say. You’re mine.

Georgie

WEDNESDAY, A LITTLE BEFORE 7:00 P.M.

Okay, this stuffed chicken saltimbocca looked a lot easier—and a lot prettier—on the Food Network.

I blow a bit of hair out of my face as I take a sip of wine and stare down at the mangled mass of chicken breast, prosciutto, sage, and cheese.

“Giada, you traitor,” I mutter, glancing at the recipe on Andrew’s iPad.

Yeah, you heard that right. Andrew’s iPad. As in, I’m in his kitchen. Drinking his wine. Cooking him dinner. Well, cooking us dinner.

I know. Domestic, right? I feel a little bit like I’m playing house, but also a little bit . . . happy.

No, a lot happy.

And lest you think I’ve given up my former life to play Suzy Homemaker for a workaholic, I’ll have you know that while I have spent the past few nights in with my new . . . boyfriend? . . . tonight I’m going out.

I miss the girls. I miss dancing.

I like both sides of myself: the party-girl Georgie and the cooks-dinner-and-watches-movies Georgie.

I’ve always thought that there’d be a switch—that I’d go from clubbing and champagne to wedding and babies overnight. Maybe for some women it happens that way, but for me it feels more like I’m just discovering a new part of myself.

The one that can’t figure out how to get cheese inside of chicken, apparently.

I take another sip of wine and prepare to start again, but a knock at the door distracts me.

I wrinkle my nose and look at the clock as I hurriedly wash my hands. Seven is right about the time Andrew usually gets home, and he wouldn’t knock at his own apartment door. Unless he forgot his keys . . .

I check the peephole, my heart stopping its overexcited thudding when I realize it’s not Andrew. And yet my curiosity is piqued, because there’s a woman on the other side of the door.

I tell myself not to open the door. That sleeping with him for all of four days doesn’t entitle me to open his front door.

I open it anyway.

“Hi!” I say with a wide smile.

The woman’s head snaps back a little in surprise, and her gaze flicks to the apartment number; apparently she’s thinking she knocked on the wrong door.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought this was the apartment of—”

“Andrew Mulroney?” I ask, quite pleased with myself for not adding the Esquire.

She smiles tentatively. “Is he here?”

“No, sorry.” Instinct tells me to let her in, but I can’t let a complete stranger into someone else’s apartment with no explanation.

“Ah. I told him I’d come by around seven. Perhaps he forgot?”

“You’re a friend?” I ask, mentally crossing my fingers that it’s not an ex-girlfriend. Although the woman’s got a wedding ring, and she doesn’t look to be Andrew’s type. She’s got a soft friendliness about her, and I can’t help but think Andrew would just cut her to shreds with his glare. Plus she looks to be older than him by several years.

“I’m Pam Mulroney,” she says. “Andrew’s sister-in-law. The guys down at the front desk have my name on the approval list, so they sent me up. . . .”

“Oh!” I say. Okay, well, I can’t leave family standing out in the hall. “Come on in. He should be back any minute.”

Pam smiles as she steps inside.

“Can I take your coat?” I ask, just as a cellphone begins to ring.

“Oh, I wonder if that’s him,” she says, digging through her purse and coming up with an iPhone that’s a couple of generations old.

“Hi, Andrew,” she says, her widening smile telling me that they must have at least a somewhat decent relationship. “No, it’s no problem! I don’t mind waiting—and actually, a very nice girl let me into your apartment.”

I beam. I am very nice. I can practically hear Andrew’s eye roll through the phone.

I move into the kitchen to give Pam a bit more privacy, but she hangs up a second later.

“He said he’ll be here in ten minutes or so—he got held up with a client phone call,” Pam says, her eyes scanning the kitchen.

I suddenly realize my error. I meant to surprise him with a home-cooked meal when he got home, but it didn’t even occur to me that just as I also want to maintain my former life, he still has other commitments in his. Things I know nothing about.

“I’m so sorry to intrude,” I say, starting to clean up. “I meant to surprise him. I didn’t know he had plans—”

Pam interrupts. “Saltimbocca?”

I glance down at the mess on the cutting board. “Trying to be.”

She points at my glass. “Pour me one of those.”

I do as she asks, and when I turn around, she’s taken my place behind the cutting board. It’s obvious from the confidence of her movements that she’s better in the kitchen than I am.

“You really don’t have to save me,” I say. “I can clean it up—he’ll never know about the massacre.”

Her hands never stop moving as she pulls out a piece of plastic wrap, placing it over the chicken so she can pound it out a bit more, but she watches me the entire time. “Never known him to have a woman cook for him.”

I give a tiny shrug, feeling self-conscious and out of place knowing that this is a member of his family and I’m his . . . I don’t know what. Girlfriend, I guess. That thought makes me happy.

“Sit,” she says, nodding at the bar stool.

I do as instructed, while she beats the crap out of the chicken.

“It needs to be thinner so you have more surface area to work with,” she says, holding up the now very flat piece of chicken. “Easier to roll, see?”

She does indeed make it look easy, and I watch and learn, even as my mind races, considering what question to ask first.

I really should leave and let Andrew tell me about himself in his own time, but that will probably take centuries, so . . .

“You’re married to Andrew’s brother?” I ask.

She nods. “Peter. We live in New Jersey.”

“Do you two make it into the city often?” I ask, sort of asking why his brother didn’t tag along without actually asking it.

“Not so much. Peter hates Manhattan. The honking, the sirens, the people . . .”

“But you don’t mind it?”

“No, I do,” she says with a friendly smile. “But I have something to discuss with Andrew in person. A favor.”

I nod and say nothing, since there’s really nothing to follow up with that wouldn’t seem prying.

“He said your name is Georgiana?” Pam asks, putting a nicely rolled piece of chicken onto the baking sheet I already lined with foil.

“Georgie,” I say. “I live in the building, and we . . .” She lifts her eyebrows, and I feel myself blush. “We’re friends.”

“Awfully nice of you to attempt chicken saltimbocca for a friend,” she says, winking as she uses the back of her hand to push blond hair off her forehead.

Pam’s easy to like. Her brown eyes are friendly, and her appearance is friendly without being flashy. But she seems a little bit sad too.

“How long have you and Peter been married?”

“Oh, forever,” she says with a laugh. “We were high school sweethearts, got married when we were nineteen. We’re six years older than Andrew, so I’ve known him since he was a kid.”

“What was he like?” I can’t help asking, leaning forward.

She’s quiet for a moment. “About like you’d think. Quiet. Serious. Deadly smart.”

“Deadly smart,” I say, surprised by the strange word combination. “Like . . . a savant?” Good Lord, am I falling for some sort of genius?

Pam gives a little shake of her head as she sets the fourth piece of chicken on the baking sheet and goes to the sink to wash her hands. “He hates all those labels, but yeah, I suspect his IQ’s off the charts. Parents didn’t know what to do with him. He was lucky to have a couple of good teachers who recognized that his brain moved faster than was the case with the rest of the kids, but sometimes I think . . .”

I wait for her to dry her hands and gather her thoughts.

“Sometimes I wonder if it was the best thing,” she says, turning back. “He’s kind and considerate as they come, but being put in with older kids didn’t do him any favors. They didn’t know how to relate to someone two years younger, and he didn’t know how to relate to them.”

My heart hurts at the thought of little Andrew feeling ostracized by his bigger classmates.

“Were he and Peter close?”

“Not particularly. The six-year age gap was a lot to overcome, even with Andrew’s advanced intellect. They cared for each other, got along well enough when they weren’t fighting, but were never friends in the way of siblings that are closer in age.”

I sip my wine, and she does the same. “Did he have any friends?” I ask quietly. “Andrew, I mean.”

“Sure. Some. He tried hard, but . . .”

She doesn’t finish her sentence, but that tells me all I need to know. No wonder he seems so heartbreakingly alone. The poor guy never learned how to make a friend.

“Please tell me he has some friends now,” I say, keeping my voice light. “You’re killing me here.”

She tilts her head. “You don’t know?”

“He and I are sort of . . . new to each other’s lives.”

“Ah. Well. Yes, he’s got a couple of close friends. Things were rough in high school, but they got better in college. His best friend is from law school. Paul. He lives in Boston. And I get the impression he gets along quite well with some of his colleagues.”

I relax slightly. Andrew doesn’t know it, but he just got saved from a very aggressive Georgie Watkins friend-matchmaking campaign.

Oh, who are we kidding? I’m going to launch one of those anyway. Everyone needs new friends.

Pam starts to clean up the cutting board, and I jump out of my chair. “Don’t you dare,” I say. “You sit.”

“I’m saying yes, mainly because you’re young and springy and have more energy than me,” she says with a wink.

“Okay, one more question,” I say, keeping my voice casual as I squirt some dish soap onto the kitchen knife.

She sighs. “Andrew’s going to kill me, huh?”

“He’ll never know. Girlfriends? Anyone serious?”

“Wow, you really don’t know each other, huh?”

I give her a look over my shoulder. “You’ve known him a couple of decades. How easy do you think he is to get to know?”

“Good point,” she says, pursing her lips. “So, girlfriends . . . oh yes.”

I spin around, sudsy water dripping all over the floor. “You don’t have to say it like that!”

She laughs. “You asked!”

“Because I thought you were going to tell me he was a nerd! Practically celibate!”

She laughs harder. “Your face right now, sweetie . . . Okay, it was like this. High school, not so much with the ladies. As I said, he was two years younger, and sixteen-year-old girls aren’t so much into the fourteen-year-old boy who aces every single test.”

“But?” I ask, my teeth clenched.

“In college, though,” she continues, “things changed. Suddenly that two-year difference didn’t bug the girls quite so much. Suddenly smart was sexy. Didn’t hurt that he had a late growth spurt and discovered the gym.”

I dry my hands on the towel. “I can’t believe this. I’m dating a playboy.”

“Yes and no. In college he was definitely . . . well, he didn’t tell me. I was an old married lady to him back then. But, putting the pieces together, I’d say there were a lot more nightly companions than there were serious girlfriends.”

“What about after college?” I ask, both dying to know and not wanting to know.

“He settled a bit in law school. Had one pretty serious girlfriend, although they split after graduation when she went back home to Texas, if I’m remembering correctly.”

“Pam. Do me a solid and tell me he’s been a monk since then?”

She merely smiles. “Like I said, he doesn’t tell me much.”

I sigh and turn back to the sink.

The sound of the front door opening prevents any more snooping into Andrew’s history. Just as well. I’m not sure I want to hear much more about his love life.

I tense a little as I glance toward him, worried how he’ll feel about seeing me, a homemade dinner, and his sister-in-law all in the same room.

Not to worry. He doesn’t even look at me. Andrew sets down his briefcase and duffel bag, then goes straight for Pam, pulling her close and kissing the side of her head. “Good to see you, Pammy.”

Pammy. I can’t get a Georgie, but she can get a Pammy? Oh well. At least I know there’s hope for him yet.

“Thanks for making the time to see me,” she says, giving his chest a sisterly little pat.

“Always. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to meet you.”

“Wasn’t a problem. I made friends with your girl Georgie here.”

I bite my lip a little, wondering how he feels about his family calling me his Georgie, and I brace for the chilly, back off eye contact.

His face is unsmiling when he looks at me—shocker—but his gaze is warm, and maybe a little . . . happy?

“Georgiana,” he says.

“Andy.”

He glances at the mess on the counter. “What did you do to my kitchen?”

“I was cooking, but it went badly. Should have stuck with soup. Pam had to rescue me. I didn’t realize you had plans, and now I’m intruding and leaving a mess.”

“Sounds like fairly typical Georgiana Watkins,” he says. But he’s smiling. Oh, how far we’ve come.

“I can clean up,” Pam tells me. “It’s the least I can do for spoiling your surprise. What I need to talk about won’t take long, and then you guys can get right back to your dinner.”

A clear dismissal, but an understandable one. If she came all the way into a city she doesn’t even like in order to talk with her brother-in-law, it’s got to be about something important. And perhaps not something she wants to talk about in front of a stranger.

“I’ll take you up on that,” I say, smiling to reassure her I’m not offended at being kicked out. “I’d tell you to leave the mess so I can get to it later, but I think our tidy Andrew might have a little heart attack.”

“How does this even happen?” Andrew says, gesturing toward a rogue piece of cheese that is nowhere near the cutting board or the package, and then running a finger through a coating of flour on the counter.

I reach up and pat his cheek. “You should probably accept now that being in my orbit can get messy.”

“News flash: I learned that months ago,” he mutters, swiping the flour-tipped finger down my nose. But his fingers close around my wrist before I can flit away, and he pulls me close and brushes a soft kiss over my lips. “Text you later?”

I nod, pressing my lips together and wishing I could kiss him again. All night, really.

He winks, as though reading my thoughts, and I have to step back, because I’m about two seconds away from jumping him.

“Nice to meet you, Pam,” I say, wiping off the flour on my nose. “Thanks again for your rescue mission with the chicken.”

“My pleasure, Georgie.”

“See?” I say, looking at Andrew and pointing at Pam as I walk backward to the front door. “Georgie. Your sister-in-law got it right on the first try. By the way, Pam, did you know Andrew and I both like the color red? Don’t you think that means we’re soul mates?”

“Goodbye, Georgiana,” Andrew says, his voice exasperated, as he pulls a wineglass for himself down from the cabinet.

I open the door to his apartment and blow him a kiss. Which he neither catches nor returns, but he’s smiling.

And I’m starting to freak out—just a little—that I like being a part of his life. I like it way too much.

Georgie

THURSDAY, EARLY, EARLY MORNING

“Georgie Francie Watkins, where the hell have you been?”

I’m just stepping into the VIP lounge area, plucking my dress away from my damp skin and breathing hard, when my best friend slams into me with a tipsy hug.

“Don’t be mad,” I coo, petting Marley’s head. “You know you’re the only one allowed to call me Georgie Francie, so that’s something.”

She releases me from the bear hug and plants a smacking kiss on my cheek before pulling back to study me. “Oh, damn,” she says with a mock sigh.

“What?”

“You look happy,” she says, a little petulantly. “Like glowy and satisfied and . . . happy.”

I laugh, lifting my hands to my cheeks. “I’m happy to be here.”

“Maybe,” she says with pursed lips. “But it’s something else. You’re in loooooove.” She drags out the last word like she’s eleven.

“I’m not!” I protest. “I’ve only been seeing the guy for a week.”

“Sure, but with months’ worth of foreplay, you’re on an accelerated timeline.” Marley puts her arm around my shoulder and drags me to our table, where we both plop into the booth. It’s early in the night, so most of our group’s either not here or on the dance floor, energy still high.

“I nearly freaked when I got to the table and you weren’t here,” Marley says, smiling in thanks as one of our go-to servers races over to bring Marley a vodka tonic. “I thought you bailed.”

I point down toward the dance floor below. “DJ’s been on a Beyoncé kick. You know I can’t resist the Queen.”

“Speaking of Queen Bey, do you think this dress makes me look like her?” Marley asks, spreading her arms out to the side and doing a little boob wiggle.

I give my petite, flat-chested blond best friend a once-over. “Absolutely.”

She nods in approval, gesturing down at the strapless, sparkly gold dress. “I spotted it last week at Intermix and thought, ‘There’s my New Year’s Eve right there.’”

I pull a bottle of water out of the ice bucket. “Wait, how long have I been out of the circuit? Isn’t next week . . . Halloween?”

“Right, well, I decided the dress was too fab to bench it until January. But who cares about dresses when we can talk about boys?”

I can’t hide the smile.

Marley gives a delighted laugh. “I’ve always wondered what it’d look like on you.”

“What what would look like?”

“Being smitten,” she says smugly.

“I’ve been smitten before!” I say indignantly. “I’ve had lots of boyfriends.”

“Lots of boyfriends, yes. Smitten . . . nope. So be honest, do you think this gold shimmer’s going to be too tacky as a maid-of-honor frock? What season are you thinking for the wedding? Because I could really make this work for fall and winter.”

Oh, man. I wasn’t planning on having another drink, but if this keeps up, it’ll be vodka city.

Not because the wedding talk is freaking me out. But because it’s not freaking me out. And because for just a second there, I really did think about my wedding. Not so much about Marley’s bridesmaid dress as about the groom, and, well . . .

Yikes, is my smile getting bigger?

“So is he why you didn’t join us for dinner?” Marley says, propping her chin on her hand.

I twirl a strand of hair, then realize I look like a smitten schoolgirl and drop it. “Sort of.”

“Where’d you guys go? I’m bored with my restaurant rotation, need recs.”

“We stayed in, actually.”

“Ordered in?”

“Eh. Cooked.”

Marley is staring at me. “You cooked?”

“It’s a thing. Pots, pans, stoves . . .”

She flicks my arm. “Sure, but since when do you do it? You’re a Manhattanite.”

“Well, to be fair, I didn’t really do it. I mean, I tried, and failed, and had to be rescued.”

“Ooh, he cooks?” Marley’s eyes light up.

“Not so much. His sister-in-law stopped by.”

Her jaw drops, and she sets her fingers over her eyes. “Just . . . give me a second. So much to process. You’ve already met his family? She’s not going to bump me out as maid of honor, is she?”

“I don’t know. Her chicken was really good. . . .”

“Did she join you for dinner? Did you pass the mashed potatoes around the table and eat off fussy china? Was there a tablecloth?”

“We ate at the kitchen counter, used paper towels as napkins, and no, she went home before we ate.”

Marley nods and sips her drink. “That’s a good sign for my maid-of-honor status.”

I don’t mention to Marley that Pam might be spending a bit more time in the city in the coming days. I don’t say anything to my friend because it’s fiercely private, but Pam’s reason for coming to see Andrew is both a little sweet and a little heartbreaking.

She wants to borrow money . . . for fertility treatments.

My heart squeezes just thinking about it. Apparently she and Peter have been trying to conceive for years, but there’s still no baby. The doctor has recommended a new treatment, one that’s terribly expensive. Peter is too proud to ask his brother for money, but Pam wants a baby more than her pride.

Andrew wrote her a blank check, no questions asked, and my heart . . .

I’m saved from getting weepy by the smell of familiar perfume and a wave of gorgeous red hair.

“Hello, darlings!” Liv Dotson says, plopping down into the booth across from us, her emerald green halter top a stunning contrast to her auburn waves.

Marley and I exchange a what the hell look without actually looking at each other. As best friends do.

This is . . . odd. We’re friendly with Liv, but hardly besties. Our respective groups overlap often enough that we frequently end up at the same club, but the same table? Not so much.

“So,” Liv says, leaning toward me and wrinkling her nose in playful confidence. “I’m dying to know. Did you get him here?” She looks around the VIP lounge, scanning for someone.

“Who?”

“Andrew,” Liv says, in an obviously voice.

“Oh, man, did everyone see that Page Six article?” I say, pressing my fingers against my forehead. I don’t really mind, but it doesn’t get much more private than kissing, and that was definitely a kissing moment. I resent, just a little, that I have to share it with the world.

“Pretty much,” Liv and Marley say at the same time.

“So is he here?” Liv asks.

I give her an oh please look. “You’ve met him. What do you think?”

Liv laughs. “Good point. But he doesn’t mind you being here?”

I shrug. “Nope. Told me to have fun.”

“That’s a good one right there,” Liv says with a little shake of her head, waggling her fingers in thanks as a server appears with a glass of champagne. “Gotta appreciate the ones who let you do what you want without getting all whiny and insecure about it. Did he pass along my message?”

“Um, no,” I say, nudging Marley under the table with my stiletto. She’s all but salivating, clearly loving that she’s on the verge of hearing Liv Dotson confirm outright that she’s hired a divorce attorney.

Liv waves. “I should have just asked you myself. I was saying that the four of us should totally do dinner some time. I think Chris and Andrew would get along great. They’re both a little shy but sarcastic.”

Understatement.

And also, wait, what? Liv wants her divorce attorney and soon-to-be ex to have a dinner party together?

Marley can’t help herself any longer. “So how do you and Andrew know each other?”

Liv glances at Marley, her expression cooling just a tiny bit. “I’m sure you ladies put the pieces together when you saw me with Andrew at Del Frisco that day. Chris and I were having . . . problems. I took the coward’s way out, thought divorce sounded easier than working through it.”

“You’re speaking in the past tense,” I say with a hopeful little smile.

Liv blinks. “Well, yeah. I called it off. Didn’t Andrew tell you?”

Both women are looking at me. I swallow. No, he didn’t tell me. Come to think of it, he doesn’t tell me much. We’ve come a long way since our early days of him talking to me not at all, but most of the time he seems to live in his head unless coaxed otherwise.

“He takes client confidentiality super seriously,” I say, rolling my eyes dramatically as though it’s no big deal.

Both women smile in understanding, but Liv’s expression is skeptical, and I can feel what she’s thinking: More seriously than your relationship?

I shake it off. I knew what I was getting into when I started dating a workaholic with a big old brain.

“Damn, you weren’t kidding, this DJ does love Beyoncé,” Marley says as the music shifts into a remixed version of “Single Ladies.” She nods at the dance floor. “Shall we? This is our jam! Or . . . used to be.” Marley nudges me with a wink.

I force a smile as I stand and do an abbreviated version of the “Single Ladies” dance.

Liv laughs. “Have fun. Let me know about dinner!”

Right. The dinner invitation. Another thing he didn’t mention.

It’s not a big deal. Is it?

Georgie

THURSDAY, 4:57 A.M.

Here we are again.

I tell myself the only reason I’m going through the familiar routine is for Ramon. Between Andrew’s sickness, my sickness, and then our, um, nighttime activities, poor Ramon’s been deprived of his early morning donuts!

I push through the revolving door of my building, pink donut box in hand, determined to pretend like I’m not still stinging a little from the embarrassing realization of how little I actually know the guy I’m falling for.

“Morning, Ramon,” I sing, my high heels clicking in the quiet reception area.

No sign of Andrew yet.

“Miss me?” I say with a wink, opening the lid and pushing the box toward him.

“I’ve missed this,” he says reverently, pulling out a maple bacon donut. “And it’s lovely to see you as well, Ms. Watkins.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m perfectly happy coming in second place behind the bacon-and-sugar combo. How have you been? How’s Marta?”

“Cranky,” he mutters. “And beautiful,” he amends quickly.

I laugh. “Remember, the pregnant woman is always right.”

“I’ll keep it in mind. How have you been? Mr. Mulroney mentioned you were feeling under the weather last week.”

“Ah . . .” I give a nervous laugh, suddenly aware how awkward it is to hook up with someone in your apartment building, where the staff knows every habit, every morning you’re not there, and quite often why you’re not there.

He gives me a bland I don’t suspect a thing look, then nudges the box toward me. “I see a cinnamon sugar one with your name on it.”

“Well, okay. Twist my arm.”

I take the still-warm donut out of the box, as well as a napkin from the pile Ramon pulls out from behind the desk.

The first delicious granules of sugar are rolling over my tongue when I feel the air in the lobby change.

When I turn toward him, it’s a strange combination of déjà vu and wonderfully new.

Black workout shirt? Check. Black workout pants? Check. Red sneakers? Check.

Same goes for the briefcase, the duffel and garment bags, the stupid mug full of what I now know is chocolate banana protein shake (barf).

But there’s a key difference today as he walks toward me.

Andrew is smiling.

“Morning,” he says, his voice low and intimate. His gaze flicks to Ramon. “Hey, Ramon.”

I blink. What is this? Did he just use Ramon’s first name? Am I . . . rubbing off on him?

He stands in front of me, and my heart pounds, as though I’m seeing him for the first time. His eyes roam my face. “You have sugar on your lip.”

His expression tells me that if we were alone, he’d lick it off himself, but apparently he’s not so reformed that he’ll indulge in a PDA.

I lick it off, deliberately slowly, and his eyes narrow.

“How was your night?” he asks, leaning against the counter and studying me.

Damn. Damn him for being so appealing. For not judging me for going out, for offering to clean up after dinner last night so I could go get ready. For not acting suspicious or jealous. For just being . . .

Likable.

Lovable.

“Pam told me you were a ladies’ man,” I blurt out.

He laughs. “What?”

Yeah, what? This is random, even for me. I blame the extra glass of champagne.

I take a big bite of donut and then set it on the napkin on the front desk, feeling embarrassed, not just by the telling proclamation but by the fact that Ramon’s right there. “Can we talk for a sec?”

Andrew nods and starts to guide me toward the seating area on the far side of the lobby.

“Wait, my donut,” I protest.

“Ridiculous,” he mutters. But he picks up the donut, along with a couple of extra napkins.

“Now,” he says as he sits beside me on an uncomfortable love seat, out of Ramon’s hearing, “what’s the matter?”

“I don’t know,” I mutter, fiddling with the napkin.

“Don’t know, or don’t want to tell me?”

“Are you really a genius?” I ask.

His head snaps back slightly. “I see you and Pam had quite the chat.”

I nod. “Quite. She said you were deadly smart.”

“She exaggerates.”

“But you skipped two grades. That’s a really high level of nerd-dom, Andy. Where do you rank next to Einstein?”

His eyes narrow on me slightly. “Is this really what’s bothering you? My IQ?”

“Does it bother you?”

Andrew shrugged. “I was a smart kid. Took me a while to grow into my brain, but I’d like to think I ditched at least some of the awkwardness.”

I give him a sympathetic look and pat his cheek.

He grabs my hand, kisses my palm. “Tell me what’s up. Really.”

Hmm. Perceptive. He really has grown out of his awkwardness. And yet . . .

“I saw Liv Dotson last night,” I say, glancing up and finding him studying me carefully.

He blinks. “All right.”

“You didn’t tell me she’d called off her divorce.”

He blinks again. “To be fair, I didn’t technically tell you she was getting a divorce in the first place.”

“Well, I figured that part out,” I say. “I mean, why else would you have been with her at lunch?”

“Because I’m a ladies’ man?” he says with the slightest of smiles.

“Really? Of all days, today you decide you have a sense of humor?” I reach out and take his mug, taking a sip even though it’s terrible.

“Look, Georgiana.” He takes my hand. “There will always be things about my job I can’t tell you. Do you understand?”

His gaze is strangely intense, as though my answer means everything, and I slowly nod. “I get that. I mean, it was a little embarrassing, because she acted like I knew, but yeah . . . I get it. Except . . .”

“Except?”

“She said you’d invited us to dinner. Surely you could have passed that part on? And now I keep wondering over and over why you didn’t.”

Andrew’s gaze goes just the slightest bit impatient. “It’s not a big deal, Georgiana. I just . . . dinner parties aren’t always where I need to focus my attention.”

I let out a little laugh. “Right. The fluffy nonsense is for people like me, right?”

He blows out a breath. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“I wouldn’t have to if you’d talk to me more often. Tell me what’s going on up there.” I tap his temple.

He slips his hand behind my neck. “What’s gotten into you? What’s going on?”

I avoid his eyes. “I’m just suddenly hyperaware that our worlds are so different. I mean, take the very fact that we’re meeting at five A.M., but you’re just up from bed and I’m just going to bed. And I hardly ever know what you’re thinking. And you like order and control, and you probably iron your underwear. And you’re drinking that terrible health sludge, and I’m eating a donut, and what are your thoughts on Beyoncé? Do you hate her? I worry you do, and then—”

“You’re ridiculous,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over my lip. “And besides, we don’t have nothing in common. We both like the color red, remember?”

I laugh. “So true. We must be soul mates, then.”

“There she is,” he says with a slight smile. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll be back here by five-thirty. We can have a drink at my place before heading out to the party.”

“Perfect,” I say, meaning it. Not only is my mood lifted by his warm, unexpected affection, but he’s just given me an idea of the perfect outfit to wear tonight.

Andrew

THURSDAY EVENING

“Damn, Mulroney. It’s not enough that you command some of the highest rates in the city, you’ve also got to show us up by hitting a home run in your personal life?”

Andrew turned away from where he’d been watching Georgiana coax smile after smile out of his normally stodgy senior partner and his shrew of a wife.

Katherine Hopkins was watching him with a knowing look. “She’s the one, huh?”

He took a sip of his gin martini and dodged the question, turning to face her. “Where did Jim run off to?”

She plucked a glass of red off a passing tray, trading it for her empty one. “He’s talking hockey with Marlene’s husband. But who cares? How’d you and Georgie meet? And don’t think I’ve forgotten that just a couple of weeks ago you were telling me how true love was for losers and all that.”

Andrew’s gaze flicked back to Georgiana. She seemed to sense him watching her and turned his way, giving him a subtle little wave without ever stopping whatever story she was telling, which involved plenty of facial animation and hand movements.

“She lives in my building,” he explained to Katherine.

“Ah. Well, if a girl like that lived in my building, I’d hit on her too. She’s hot,” Katherine said in a loud whisper.

Hot didn’t do Georgiana justice. Not tonight, he thought.

Her light brown hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, makeup was expertly applied so that her eyes looked huge, her mouth inviting, but it was the dress that did it. It was cut at an angle, held on one shoulder by a thin strap, falling from mid-thigh to her knee in an uneven hem that utterly suited her.

It was the color that really got him, though. Red. For him.

She was hot, yes, and everyone had noticed. But he saw beyond that to her sharp wit, huge heart, and quick-to-laugh humor.

She wasn’t just hot. She was enchanting.

And he was enchanted.

“Want to talk about it?” Katherine asked, nudging his shoulder playfully with hers.

“Shut up, Katherine,” he said with a slight smile.

She smiled back. “For real, though, it’s nice seeing you happy.”

“I’ve always been happy.”

“Mm.” She tilted her head from side to side, silently calling his bluff. “Not like this.”

No, he thought. He hadn’t been happy like this.

But instead of the thought lifting him, he felt a quick stab of depression. If his career had taught him anything, it was that while all relationships hit a pinnacle of joy, there was only ever one way to go.

Down.

And if anyone could coax him to think differently, to hope, it would be Georgiana Watkins, but . . .

She didn’t have all the information. Andrew did.

“Katherine,” he said, before he could stop himself, “can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” she said, looking pleased. “Are you kidding? I’ve been waiting for this moment forever. You have any idea what it’s like to try to mentor someone who’s thirteen years your junior only to find out he’s ahead of you in just about every way? Let me be your Yoda, just once.”

He dragged his eyes away from Georgiana and looked at his friend. “What do you do when you’ve got information that can and will hurt someone, but it’s not yours to tell?”

Her smile slipped a little. “Couldn’t have given me an easy one, huh?”

“Sorry.”

“Well.” She blew out a breath, tapping her nails on her wineglass. “You’re not going to like this, but there’s not much you can do, unfortunately. If you really, truly can’t warn them about what’s coming, the best you can do is situate yourself in their life to support them when the pain comes. And . . .” She broke off.

“And?” he prodded, his voice slightly desperate.

“You should probably prepare yourself,” she said quietly.

He swallowed. “For?”

“Women don’t like secrets, Mulroney,” she said kindly. “Even the ones that we logically know are necessary. They break our heart.”

“Well,” he muttered. “Shit.”

“Shit,” she repeated in solidarity.

Because really, that was just about all there was to say.

Georgie

THURSDAY NIGHT, AFTER THE PARTY

I sigh happily as I open my door and set my clutch on the counter before turning to face Andrew. “That was just about the perfect evening.”

“Just about?” he asks, shutting the door behind him.

“Ninety-eight percent perfect. And you didn’t tell me that Roy was such a sweetheart. And Bertha. Lovely.”

He rolls his eyes. “Roy’s a hard-ass troll who makes grown men cry, and Bertha calls me boy.”

“Well, they were lovely to me,” I say, pulling two glasses down from the cabinet and getting us each some water.

“What was the missing two percent?” he asks. “You said it was ninety-eight percent perfect.”

“Hmm? Oh. There was no dancing. Add in a good slow dance, maybe to ‘Lady in Red,’ and my little brain would have just exploded into a cloud of happy glitter.”

“Ridiculous.” He says it with a slight smile as he accepts the water, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You okay?” I ask, tilting my head. “You’ve been a little quiet.”

“Tired,” he says, setting the glass on the counter without taking a drink. “And maybe a bit anxious to have you to myself. Have I told you how much I like this dress?”

“A few times.” I smile, setting my own glass aside and running a hand down his black tie.

He steps closer, leaning in so that his hands can slide up the back of my thighs. “Have I mentioned I like what’s under it even better?”

I tilt my head up, kiss his chin. “You don’t know what’s under it.”

He palms my ass before his fingers explore, tracing the upper elastic of my underwear.

“Georgiana. Are you wearing impractical undergarments?”

“Yes. One might even call them . . . ridiculous.”

He pulls back, eyes gleaming. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

Then he sinks slowly to his knees, running his hands up the front of my thighs, pulling my dress up toward my waist so he can take in the tiny triangle of red lace.

He exhales and runs a finger over me. “Have I mentioned I’m a fan of red?”

I can’t respond. Not when his finger’s slipping under the lace and finding me hot and wet for him. Not when he pulls the lace aside and, without warning or preamble, presses his tongue to my clit.

I clutch his shoulders as he eats me, his tongue and fingers moving in slow, sensuous movements, utterly confident in his knowledge of my body. He has two fingers inside me, his mouth moving hungrily, and I’m too turned on to be embarrassed by my lightning-fast orgasm.

His other hand holds me steady as I come undone around him, against him.

I haven’t even caught my breath yet, and he’s already moving up my body, taking my dress with him until I’m standing there in strappy sandals and matching lingerie when he hasn’t so much as loosened his tie yet.

My fingers move to remedy that, but he’s faster, his hands sliding behind me once more, lifting me easily before turning and walking me toward the kitchen wall.

He slams me into it with so much force that I think I hear a picture frame fall, but I don’t care. Not when his mouth is on my breasts and he’s using his chin to nudge the fabric aside so he can suck a nipple into his mouth.

I gasp, my legs wrapping around his waist, my arms resting on his shoulders.

“What is going on with you?” I manage around a gasp as he moves to the other nipple, flicks it with his tongue.

Andrew’s always been a determined, passionate lover, but this feels different. It feels . . . urgent. Desperate.

I answer his desperation with some of my own, terrified that something this good, this perfect, can’t last. Forget his tie. My hands go straight for his belt, wrangling with his clothing, somehow managing to get his pants and briefs down over his hips as he continues to plant hot kisses all over my chest.

“Guide me,” he says in a low voice, his fingers flexing against my butt. “Take me in.”

His gaze locks on mine, his eyes darkening, as I close my fingers around him. With my other hand I pull my thong to the side.

But instead of guiding him in, I torture us both, slicking the velvety tip of him against the wetness between my legs, forcing him to feel what he does to me.

“Georgiana.”

“Georgie,” I correct, leaning forward to take his bottom lip between my teeth.

Then I position him at my opening, and he takes over, his hips thrusting forward, pushing me against the wall.

Again. Again. Again.

He kisses me as he fucks me, and our mouths are as greedy as our hands, demanding ever more from the other person. Demanding everything.

Andrew tears his mouth from mine with a gasp. “Come, Georgiana. Come now.”

His rough command undoes me, and my body clenches around him a half second before I cry out, shattering.

He captures my cry with his lips, his own harsh shout mingling with mine as he comes inside me, his shoulders heaving with the strain of holding me up, even as he shudders against me.

When my heartbeat stops feeling like it’s going to gallop out of my chest, I nip his shoulder and wiggle to be let down.

His grip gentles, and I slide down his body until my feet touch the floor.

I swallow. “So.”

Looking completely unembarrassed by what just transpired, he tugs his pants back up and fastens his belt, returning to his usual Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, perfection. “So.”

Feeling an unexpected—and unprecedented—wave of affection, I reach out and cup his cheek. “I like you.”

He reaches out a hand and gently tugs my bra strap back into place, his eyes watching the motion of his fingers as he repays the same gesture on the other side, tidying me up in a way that makes my heart melt. “I like you too.”

“Does this mean you’re going to start calling me by my real name?”

“Georgiana Frances? If you’d like.”

“One day, Andy. One day you will break and call me Georgie,” I say, patting his cheek and then pushing him aside, because this time I really do want the water.

I move to the counter, draining the entire glass in three swallows. He does the same.

“You staying over?” I ask.

“Would you like me to?”

So much. I nod.

His eyes flick toward the living room. “Any chance you’ll let me catch up on the ESPN recap? See the baseball highlights?”

“Depends. Can I cuddle next to you with a bowl of ice cream and talk over the announcer at all the pertinent parts?”

“Depends,” he counters as he heads into the living room, picking up my remote and turning on the TV.

“On?”

He glances back. “Do I get my own bowl of ice cream?”

I let out a mock gasp. “Is it possible? Have I found your junk food weakness?”

He winks, then sits on my couch, not slouching, because this is Andrew we’re talking about.

But the moment is so casual, so natural, so perfect . . .

I feel the breath knocked out of me, because there’s no more denying it, no more denying my heart.

This is it for me.

This is what I want, not just for as long as I can have it, but for always.

Georgie

SUNDAY MORNING, BRUNCH TIME

It’s official: I’m getting the hang of this relationship thing, and, um, I’m sort of good at it.

Andrew and I’ve somehow achieved the holy grail of getting our fix of each other without losing our prior lives. He still works like a maniac, exercises like Superman. I still have long lunches with Marley and the girls when it suits me. We’ve even taken another step forward in merging our worlds. There was his work party on Thursday, and then last night he came out to dinner with my friends.

He headed home before we went dancing, because . . . baby steps.

Still, I’m all but skipping as I drop my purse on the entryway table of my parents’ place, humming to myself.

Andrew opted to head for the gym instead of joining me. Something about being behind on workouts, as I was keeping him up all night. I didn’t apologize.

But I’m pretty sure it’ll only be a matter of time until I can coax him into the meet-the-parents phase.

I mean, three workaholics in the same room? They’d all be fast friends. I’m the one who should be worried. Although, on that note, I’ve kind of been considering asking my dad for a job.

I know. I know. You’re like, What? But as much as I love my life, really truly love it, this little part of me has accepted that I’m a tiny bit bored. There are only so many fundraisers, and it’s been bugging me lately that they seem more like a social status thing rather than caring about the actual cause.

I want something I can sink my teeth into.

For now, though, I want a mimosa and to sink my teeth into some bacon, and . . .

Thoughts of food and champagne scatter when I walk into the dining room as I have a million times before, only the scene is different.

Dad isn’t in his chair at one end of the table. Mom’s not in her chair at the other end of the table, phone glued to her ear.

Both parents are seated beside each other, their hands folded, their expressions frozen.

In other words? The type of scene nightmares are built on.

I’ve seen it once before: when they told me Grandma Georgie had passed.

So whatever they have to tell me now is not gonna be good news.

I feel a little jittery as I slowly sink into my usual chair, opposite both of them.

My eyes flick between the two of them, trying to get some inkling of the news before the bomb drops. Is one of them sick?

Of the two of them, my dad looks worse. He’s pale, and there’s no trace of his usual easy smile. My mom merely looks tense, but then, she’s always had a damn good poker face.

No clues on either side.

“Don’t make me ask,” I whisper, my voice only a little bit shaky.

My dad stares straight ahead, and my mom swallows. “Georgie. Honey. Your father and I have decided to get a divorce.”

My shoulders slump a little in relief. They’re not sick. Not dying. But the relief is short-lived as reality sinks in. Even though on some horrible, in-denial level I’ve known it was coming, it’s still a shock.

“No,” I say. “Why?” I clench my hands in my lap, embarrassed that my eyes are watering like I’m six instead of twenty-six.

My mom forces a smile, but it doesn’t even remotely reach her eyes. “Sometimes—”

I lift my hand. “Please. Please do not tell me that sometimes people just drift apart.”

Mom’s lips press together. “Jack,” she snaps. “A little help?”

My father clears his throat, finally looking at me, and I feel my chin wobble when I see that his eyes are brimming. “I don’t know, Georgie. I just . . .”

He lifts a hand, running it over his face, and his reaction tells me everything I need to know.

My gaze flicks back to my mother, and though she doesn’t look unaffected, she’s nowhere near as broken by this as he is. “Did you already file?”

She looks away, likely noticing that I’m directing the question to her. Knows that I know exactly who’s driving this divorce.

“So what happens next?” I ask. “This is just . . . the end of the family?”

“Georgie—”

“What?” I snap, pushing out of my chair and standing. I know I’m being immature, but I just . . . I want them to be in love like they used to be. At least I thought they were. Or did I just see it all through a child’s eyes?

“Did you even try?” I ask, my voice breaking.

There’s a long moment of silence, and then it’s my dad who speaks. “Georgie, I know this hurts, but you know that even if your mother and I have decided we’re better off without each other, neither of us is walking away from you.”

“Never,” my mom says emphatically.

I wipe at my eyes. I know it’s supposed to make me feel better, but all I can think is that there will be no more Sunday brunches with the three of us. No more family walks down Fifth Avenue at Christmas, or them hosting their epic Oscars party, or summer weekends in the Hamptons . . .

None of it. It’s all over.

“Sweetie, sit down, please. I ordered some cinnamon rolls. Your father and I thought maybe we could brainstorm some ways that you can get quality time with each of us, and—”

I shake my head, taking a step forward. “Too soon, Mom. Way too soon for that.”

“Georgie—”

“No,” I say, my voice sharp, as I look at my dad. “I don’t know how long you’ve had to adjust to this information, but I need a bit more time before I can talk about it like a rational adult. Just . . . some space. Okay?”

Neither of them says a word as I walk out of the dining room. I grab my purse and dash out of their apartment, my mood having done a complete one-eighty from what it was when I walked into the room just a few minutes earlier.

A few minutes, really? It feels like years.

Or maybe that’s just because I feel years older.

I wipe my nose on the back of my hand as I burst out onto the sidewalk. I immediately head for home, pulling out my cellphone, thinking that I’ll text Marley. But suddenly I stop.

Texting Marley is what I would have done a few weeks ago. Right now, though, I need someone else. My heart knows that being held by Andrew is the only thing that can possibly fix me.

I make it home, fueled by fury and heartache, and I skip my apartment altogether, going straight to his. Sometimes I stop at the front desk and request his guest key (he put me on his approved list, which is sort of romantic), but I’m too distracted to do that now, so instead I find myself pounding on the door with frantic, open-palmed slaps until he pulls it open.

“Georgiana, what—”

It’s then that I break. All my fear of the future, all the pain for my little family splintering apart, comes out as one keening sob.

He makes a choked sound, and without a word draws me to him, one arm wrapped protectively around my back, his other hand cupping my head, hugging me to his chest.

“I’m here,” he whispers.

It’s exactly what I need to hear, and that only makes me cry harder, my fingers digging into the soft fabric of his T-shirt, which is getting wetter by the minute, thanks to my tears.

I cry and cry, pulling back only long enough to dab at my smeared mascara. “You must think I’m ridiculous,” I whisper, my voice raspy from crying.

“Always,” he whispers, his lips brushing over my cheek. “Now tell me what’s wrong.”

“My parents,” I say with a sniffle. “They’re getting divorced.”

I’m not expecting him to say much, but at the very least I expect some sort of useless, guy-ish murmurings that he imagines will be soothing.

He says nothing.

I raise my eyes to his, and my heart stops for a full beat at what I see there.

He looks stricken but not surprised. Most damning of all, he looks . . . guilty?

I take a tiny step backward, my heart beating again, but in a pounding, panicked kind of way. “Andrew?”

“Georgiana.”

I know then. I know.

He reaches out a hand, but I step back with a slightly crazy laugh, staying out of reach. “You knew.”

He says nothing, and suddenly I lunge forward, shoving his shoulder. “Admit it! You knew!”

He inhales, his chest expanding, and then he nods. Just once. But it’s enough. “Yes. I knew.”

Andrew

SUNDAY AFTERNOON, AFTER BRUNCH

Andrew had known this moment was coming. He’d thought he was ready for it. But seeing the heartbreak written all over Georgiana’s face . . .

There was no preparing for something like this.

No way to brace for the fact that you’d just destroyed someone who’d somehow become everything to you in an alarmingly short period of time.

She shook her head. “How?” she said, her voice so small he wanted to punch himself. “How did you know?”

Then her eyes closed as she put the pieces together. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Did one of them hire you?”

He swallowed. “Your mother.”

Georgina’s laugh was mirthless and ripped at his soul. “Of course. Of course she did. And oh God—oh my God—I planted the seed in her head. I mentioned you, and . . . oh my God, I somehow did this, all because I was stupid enough to fall for a divorce attorney?”

His mind caught on that just for a second. She’d told her parents about him? She’d fallen for him? For a bittersweet moment he felt a surge of joy so profound it nearly sent him to his knees. But before they could get to any of that, they needed to get through this.

And they would get through it. They had to. He just needed to make her see logic.

“You need to know that I didn’t take the job,” he said, reaching for her. “I passed it off to one of the other partners.”

Her head whipped back around to him. She was hurt, and she was pissed.

“That’s supposed to make it better? You still could have told me! How long ago did she try to hire you?”

He lifted a hand to rub the back of his neck, knowing honesty was best, but dreading it all the same. “A couple of weeks ago.”

Her brown eyes went wide. “Weeks?”

“That day when you came to my office and we went to lunch. I got a phone call—”

“And had to leave,” she finished. “Good God, that was my mother?”

“No, it was one of the senior partners. All potential clients go through him first, and he assigns them as he sees fit.”

“But she requested you,” Georgiana said. “On that day.”

Andrew nodded.

“Of course,” she said, digging the heels of her hands into her eye sockets. “Because you’re the best, and she’d want the best when she decided to leave my dad.”

Her voice was raw, and he stepped toward her, wanting to hold her, but she batted his hand away. “Don’t.”

It was no less than he expected, but the rejection chafed all the same. “Georgiana, I understand why you’re angry. You have to know that I wanted to tell you, but client confidentiality—”

“It was my mom, Andrew! My family!” she yelled. “I get that you’re a robot sometimes, but do you understand that you were helping my parents get divorced? And that one of them didn’t even know?”

“I understand, but—”

“No but,” she said, exploding into a ball of fury. Her hands were hitting his shoulders now, the frantic gesture hurting his heart a lot more than his body. “To think that just as I was starting to believe in love, you were busy destroying it.”

He swallowed, the pain of her accusation blasting him like an arrow to the heart. “That’s not fair. I didn’t ask for this.”

“Maybe not,” she said, dropping her head so that her chin rested tiredly on her chest. “Maybe not. But it doesn’t change what you are.”

“Which is?” he asked through gritted teeth, knowing the answer would hurt.

Her eyes were clear. Accusing. “You’re the Tin Man. Isn’t that the character with no heart? You may have been right that day. I’m the Scarecrow, with no brain. I feel like today probably proves it, because I so did not see this coming. But I’d rather be a little flighty than cold. I’d rather be short on brains than short on heart.”

The hurt was sharp and unfamiliar, and it made him angry. “Georgiana. Stop. Just stop. I know you’re upset, but stop overreacting and think about this logically.”

He knew it was the wrong thing to say even before she went deadly still and stared at him. “Overreacting? My family is falling apart, you kept it a secret, and I’m overreacting? And you want logic? News flash, robot. Not everything can be logical. Some things are messy, and—”

“Only because you make them messy!” he shouted, furious that he couldn’t get control of the situation. “You want a news flash? Here’s one: not everything works out like your stupid movies. In fact, most things don’t. This is real life, Georgiana. Grow up.”

His voice was harsh, but not as harsh as the silence that followed his outburst.

She was crying, messy tears running down her face because she was messy. Messy and emotional and . . .

Georgiana swiped angrily at her tears, smearing her makeup in the process and not seeming to care in the least.

“So,” she said, her voice flat. “We’re done here?”

Done? Hell no, they weren’t done. Not now, not ever.

He inhaled to rein in his temper and frustration. “Why don’t we talk after you’ve calmed down?”

Again it was the wrong thing to say. She let out a short, mirthless laugh, her head falling back as she blinked up at the ceiling.

When she brought her gaze back to him once more, her beautiful eyes were cold and hard, and she looked nothing like the woman he knew. The woman he adored. “You know what, Andrew? If growing up and calming down mean I’ll end up more like you, I’ll take a pass on that.”

“Georgiana—”

She held up a hand. “You know, all this time I thought our biggest obstacle was our difference in schedules, and if we could just figure out how to fit into each other’s life, we’d be okay. But it’s so much more hopeless than that, isn’t it? Because I’m always going to be the girl who wants the fairy-tale ending, and you’re never going to be the guy to give it to me. Are you?”

Andrew’s chest tightened in panic. He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to respond to someone who dealt in emotions, not facts. And the facts were that people rarely rode off into the sunset. The sooner she accepted that, the happier she’d be. They’d be.

“We have a good thing,” he said quietly. “Let’s just keep taking it one day at a time, see where things go.”

She was already shaking her head and moving toward the door. “Not good enough, Andrew.”

“Well, what would be good enough?” he said, voice rising again in frustration. “What the hell do you want from me? From us?”

She spun back around, tears gone, face angry. “I want a man who doesn’t have to ask that. I want a man who knows how to use this”—she pointed at his chest—“as well as that,” she said, pointing at his head. “And that’s not you. We both know it’s not.”

Andrew wanted to contradict her. He wanted to drag her back, beg her to give him a chance.

Instead, he let her go. He did nothing and let Georgiana Watkins walk away, because she was right.

He was not that guy.

Georgie

TUESDAY EVENING

It takes me a couple of days before I’m ready to face the world, and when I’m finally ready, I start with baby steps.

I open my front door to Marley, who’s holding a box of pizza with two blocks of mozzarella on top.

“Um,” I say.

“Well,” she says, pushing into my apartment, “I ordered a pizza and asked for extra cheese. But then I was like, what if that’s not enough cheese, you know? So I stopped and got some extra, because . . . cheese.”

I nod approvingly. “This is why we’re best friends.”

She sets the box on the counter, drops her purse, and holds out her arms. “Come to Momma Marley. How are we?”

I gratefully accept the hug. “We’re a wreck.”

“About Mom and Dad, or the boy?”

“Both,” I admit. “Although with the divorce, I’ve more or less managed to pep-talk myself into handling it like an adult. It sucks, but I’ll handle it. Andrew, though . . .”

“He hurt you.”

I lift a shoulder. “Mostly I just feel like an idiot. That entire time I was falling so hard, practically planning our wedding, and he was busy helping other people figure out how to arrange their assets before they leave their spouse. It makes me a little queasy.”

“Sit,” Marley orders, opening my fridge and pulling out a bottle of wine, and then fetching two glasses. “Have you talked to him since the breakup?”

My stomach clenches at the word breakup, although I don’t know what else you could call it.

“No,” I mutter into the wineglass she sets in front of me.

“And it was a breakup, not just a fight?”

I look up miserably. “I don’t know. I think so. I just want more than he can give, I guess.”

Marley’s not listening to me. She moves toward my kitchen table, where there are three huge bouquets of flowers.

She glances at me, pointing from one arrangement to another as she sips her wine. “Explain.”

I sigh and reach across the counter, dragging the cards toward me. I’ve read them a million times and it shows. One has a splatter of red wine, and another looks like it was soaked by tears. Maybe it was; I can’t remember.

“‘Perfectly ridiculous,’” she reads. She holds it up. “Um, what?”

“Andrew,” I say, my voice glum. “It was an inside joke. Worked for him the first time. Not the second time.”

She looks at the second card. “‘Georgiana. Please. Can we discuss this like rational adults?’” Marley winces. “Ouch.”

I snort. “That’s nothing. You should have been there when he told me to grow up.”

She reads the third card. “‘Don’t do this.’”

I watch as her face softens as she sets the card aside. “He sounds desperate, George.”

“No. Just inconvenienced, I think. I’m not behaving logically and it’s pissing him off.”

“So you don’t miss him?”

My heart twists. Of course I miss him. I love the son of a bitch. The problem is, I can’t survive being all the way in love with someone who wants to take it one day at a time.

I look miserably at my best friend. “I want more than he can give.”

“But—”

“Marley?” I force a smile. “I kind of don’t want to talk about it. Not yet.”

She reaches out, squeezes my hand. “Say no more. We’ll have way too much wine, and eat too much pizza, and watch that Disney movie you love so much—”

“No,” I interrupt. “No Enchanted.”

“Really? You said it’s the one movie you could never get sick of.”

“I’m not sick of it, I just . . . it doesn’t have great memories right now.”

“Oh, sweetie, no. You let him ruin Enchanted?”

I rub my forehead. “I don’t remember letting him do anything. It’s just like all of a sudden he was there everywhere, all up in my business, invading every corner of my life.”

“And you loved it,” Marley says sympathetically.

I squeeze my eyes shut. “So much.”

“Did you love him?”

I nod, my eyes watering. It feels good to admit it to someone, even as it hurts.

Marley steps close and pulls me into a one-armed hug, leaving us both free to sip wine as needed, because she gets me.

“Okay, sweetie. I know it hurts so badly right now, but you have to promise me something,” she says.

“What?” I ask grumpily.

She kisses the side of my head. “Promise me you won’t give up on your lovey-dovey version of love. You’re the most optimistic, happily-ever-after person I know. If you can’t achieve that, none of us can.”

“But my parents—”

“Couldn’t make it work. But they’re not you, sweetie. Your happy ending is out there, I’m positive of it. Okay?”

I nod, because it’s what she wants me to do. And because I don’t want to say out loud what I’m thinking: that a happily-ever-after without Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, doesn’t seem happy at all.

Andrew

WEDNESDAY, 3:00 P.M.

“You’re acting like a piece of shit.”

Andrew looked up to where his brother was sitting in the waiting room. “I’m sorry. Is me trying to be here for you and your wife inconveniencing you?” he said acidly.

They’d been waiting for more than thirty minutes while Pam was with the doctor to find out if she was a match for a new fertility treatment. Andrew wasn’t quite sure he’d been invited when his brother had called to tell him about the appointment, but there was nowhere else he’d be. He’d rescheduled three meetings to be here.

Peter shrugged and folded his arms over the belly that wasn’t quite flat anymore. “Just sayin’.”

Andrew resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Such was conversation with Peter. He’d utter something vague at best, offensive at worst, and then you’d ask for clarification and he’d say, Just sayin’.

“So you and your ladybird broke up?”

Andrew had just lowered his head, but now he was forced to lift it again. “Ladybird?”

Another shrug. “Pam said you had a girl. A cute one. Cooked you dinner and fucked it up.”

Andrew smiled a little at the memory. It had felt so damn right to walk into his apartment and see her there. Even more so that she was talking to a member of his family. Loved that she’d disappeared to let him have his conversation, and that when he’d called her an hour later ready with an apology, he hadn’t needed one.

Because that’s who Georgie was. Good. Understanding. Easy to get along with. Forgiving.

But even she had her limits.

“What happened?” Peter asked. His tone sounded bored, but his eyes were on Andrew, and Andrew knew his older brother well enough to be sure that Peter cared about him; he was just emotionally stunted.

It ran in the family.

Andrew rubbed his hands over his face. “Short version? Her mother hired my firm to handle her divorce.”

“Ouch. Well, she’s just pissed because you had to deliver the bad news. She’ll come down. Realize it’s not your fault.”

“Ah . . .”

Peter grunted. “She didn’t find out from you?”

Andrew shook his head.

“How much time between her mom contacting you and the girl finding out?”

“Couple weeks.”

Peter sighed and shook his head. “That’s forever in chick time.”

“Well, what would you have done?” Andrew asked, glaring at his brother, but also oddly desperate to hear what Peter had to say. “It wasn’t my news to tell.”

In looks, the two were nothing alike. Peter was taller, a veritable giant of a man. Soft where Andrew was toned. His hair was more red, and more often than not he forgot to shave. Or maybe that was intentional; Andrew didn’t really know.

But on the inside, despite their age difference, despite the fact that Andrew was an attorney and Peter was a car mechanic, he’d always felt that they got each other on some level. And Peter had always been the one he turned to when he needed advice on the personal front.

“Maybe not,” his brother granted. “But I’m guessing you handled it like an asshole.”

“She’s impossible to talk to,” Andrew muttered. “Not thinking straight.”

“Like I said,” Peter said, picking up a magazine. “Asshole.”

Andrew couldn’t even argue. He was sort of an asshole. He just . . . didn’t know how to be anything else. He didn’t know what Georgie wanted from him.

He leaned forward, tangling his hands in his hair.

His brother threw the magazine back on the table without opening it. “I always knew this would happen.”

“What? Me dating a girl whose mother hired me for her divorce?”

“No. Your too-high IQ biting you in the ass.”

Andrew looked up. “Really? You haven’t given me shit about that in years.”

“That’s because your big-ass brain quit causing problems for you once you got out of school. Till now.”

Andrew rolled his eyes, but his brother leaned forward, waiting until Andrew met his gaze. “You’re smarter than me on most things,” Peter said quietly. “But you’ve got to trust me when I say I know better than you on stuff like this.”

“Stuff like what?” Andrew grumbled.

His brother grinned. “Love.”

Andrew went still, eyes narrowing on his brother, his mind automatically rejecting the word. Love was a fantasy—a culmination of the brain’s chemistry making you act crazy.

“See?” Peter pointed at him. “That right there. That’s where you’re fucking it all up. You’re thinking about it instead of simply feeling it.”

Andrew opened his mouth to argue, but he remembered Georgiana’s parting shot—that she wanted a man who could use his heart as well as his head.

He cracked his knuckles—a nervous habit he thought he’d grown out of in college.

“Can’t I do both? Think and feel?”

“You tell me.” Peter gave an indifferent shrug as he said it.

Andrew glared. “Really, big brother? This is the extent of your advice?”

“No. But you’re not going to listen to what you really need to hear.”

“Try me.”

“Fine,” Peter said, picking up the magazine once more. “You’re not clinging to logic because it’s better, you’re clinging because it’s safer. The problem isn’t that your girl’s not thinking straight, it’s that you’re scared.”

“Bullshit. Of what?”

Peter flipped a page. “Losing her. Your big brain is worried that if you let yourself care too much, it’ll hurt more if it doesn’t work out.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve already lost her, haven’t I? With or without my big brain.”

“True. And how do you feel about that?”

Andrew opened his mouth to reply just as Pam came back into the waiting area.

Peter leapt out of his chair with surprising agility for a man of his size and went to his wife, his hands reaching for hers.

“Pam?”

Andrew stood, but averted his eyes from the intimate moment. He wanted to be here no matter which way the news went, but if it was bad news, he was prepared to give them their space.

“I’m not eligible for the treatment,” Pam said in a tiny voice.

Andrew felt his shoulders slump, saw his brother’s do the same.

Peter reached for his wife and drew her close. “Then we’ll find something else, sweetie. Another solution.”

Pam took half a step back and reached up to frame Peter’s face with her palms, her eyes bright. “I’m not eligible . . . because I’m already pregnant.”

“What? What?” Peter asked, his whisper turning into a shout.

Pam nodded happily. “They were doing the preliminary exam, then did a blood test, and . . . oh my God. We’re having a baby, Pete!”

Andrew swallowed a lump in his throat as two of the most important people in his life held each other and wept.

They were so damned happy. Of course they were.

And that’s when he realized.

The happy moment unfolding in front of him wasn’t the result of playing it safe, of sticking to facts and logic. If they’d done that, they’d have listened to the dozens of doctors who’d told them that they couldn’t conceive. Instead they were happy because they’d been willing to put everything on the line to fight for what they wanted. Each other. A baby. A family.

And that sort of pursuit of joy was what Georgiana Watkins did every day. He’d been wrong. She wasn’t blindly waiting for some fairy tale; she was just smart enough to believe that she deserved it.

And she did deserve it. She deserved a happily-ever-after more than anyone else he’d ever known. But fuck, so did he. More important, he wanted it. He wanted the happily-ever-after. He wanted it with her.

Andrew had been wrong to imply that Georgiana didn’t have a brain, but she’d been wrong too. He was no Tin Man—he had a heart.

And it belonged to Georgiana Watkins.

Georgie

THURSDAY MORNING, OBSCENELY EARLY

Panting and thirsty as heck, I make my way to the bar. I could go up to the VIP section, where my crew has a table, but I want a club soda.

I’m also sick to death of having to fake a smile as though I’m having the time of my life. I’m not having a bad night, but honestly? It’s the first time I’ve been out with my friends since learning of my parents’ divorce plans and since my fight with Andrew, and I’m trying to get back to my happy place, I really am. But every smile feels plastic, every laugh hollow.

The bartender gives me attention immediately, probably courtesy of one of my more scandalous dresses, a V-neck black number that’s skintight and doesn’t provide much coverage up top or down below.

Marley told me to wear it. Called it a revenge dress.

And when I glance up and find a good-looking guy with brown hair and dark blue eyes making his way toward me, I realize what she means.

“Hey.”

I stifle a sigh. Such a great opening. “Hi there.”

“Jason. Dance?”

Seriously? I glance at the wall of the club, half expecting to find cave drawings etched into it. I would not at all be surprised if this guy’s next meal plan involved clubbing an animal and asking his female companion to pick berries.

But since I have no intention of being that female companion and, being perfectly sober, can stay true to that . . .

“Yeah, sure,” I say with a shrug. “I’ll dance.”

I let Jason lead me onto the dance floor, trying to ignore that his hands are both too big and too soft. Something I become even more aware of when he pulls me against him and . . . just sort of grinds.

I don’t even bother to sigh. What was I thinking, really?

Unfortunately, the song isn’t one I recognize, so I can’t gauge how much longer I have to endure the torture of his hands all over me.

I grit my teeth and run through my gamut of excuses, trying to find the one that seems the least rude.

Turns out I don’t need one.

Jason steps back so suddenly I nearly fall, but strong hands steady me.

Not Jason’s hands.

I freeze, because I know those hands. I know their strong confidence, know their tentative tenderness.

I take a breath and turn.

Because of those hands, I know who’s behind me, but it’s still a shock to see Andrew Mulroney here. In a club.

The strobe lights prevent me from seeing his face clearly, but he’s definitely not smiling.

“A moment, Georgiana?”

Jason steps forward. “Hey, man. I saw her first.”

Andrew cuts the bigger man with a glare. “No, man. You fucking didn’t.”

“Hey, guys—” I say uneasily.

“Shut up, Georgiana,” Andrew growls.

Then his fingers wrap around my wrist and he’s dragging me through the crowd with a masculine authority that, frankly, isn’t all that different from Jason’s caveman routine, but I like it a hell of a lot more.

The bouncer tries to stop us as we approach the side door. “If you go out, you don’t come back in.”

“Thank God,” Andrew mutters.

A moment later I’m blasted by cold air. It’s chillier than usual, even for early November, and my dress is, well, pretty much nothing.

Andrew releases my wrist and, glancing down at my dress, curses. “It looks even smaller out here,” he mutters. He shrugs out of his jacket and without preamble drapes it around me and pulls me close, wrapping his arms around me and holding me captive.

“How’d you find me?” I ask, squirming to get away. He doesn’t relax his grip.

“I tried Hailey, but she didn’t answer. So I’ve been going from club to godforsaken club for fucking hours trying to find you.”

“Andrew, that’s nuts, you could have just—”

“Shut up, Georgiana Frances Watkins. Just shut up for one damn minute, because I have a couple of things to tell you.”

“Let me guess,” I say, pulling away more forcefully. “You’re here to tell me that I’m ridiculous. That I’ve been childish for not picking up your phone calls so that you can lecture me. That I’m overly emotional, that if I’d just calm down and listen to reason—”

“That if you’d just calm down and listen to reason, you’d see that I’m trying to win you back!” he interrupts with a shout.

I blink in surprise at the outburst, and the conversations around us dwindle to a murmur as people start to catch a whiff of the scene playing out in front of them.

I cross my arms and look at him. “And you’re pissed about it, huh?” I say, refusing to make this easy for him. “You’re angry because I’ve forced you to mess up your schedule, that I’m not doing as I’m supposed to, that this isn’t tidy.”

“Yes, a bit,” he growls.

I scoff to hide the hurt and take a step back.

“No. Damn it. Damn it, just wait a minute while I—”

“While you think?” I ask gently. Because as mad as I am, as convinced as I am that we don’t have a future, I do understand this man. I understand that in his way he does care; he just doesn’t know how to process anything that can’t be, well . . . processed.

“Go home, Andrew,” I whisper, stepping toward him and brushing my lips to his cheek.

“Wait, Georgie—” His fingers find my shoulders. “Give me a sec, I have a speech.”

I smile up at him, even as my heart breaks for both of us. “You don’t get it, Andrew. I don’t want the guy with the pretty, planned-out speech. I want the guy who’s not afraid to be spontaneous when he needs to be, who’s not afraid to get messy, because love is messy.”

His eyes flare, and he captures my chin with his fingers. “Is that what this is? Do you love me?”

The question sends a spark of pain shooting through me, and I take a step back without answering.

“Georgiana—”

I turn away, my vision obscured with tears as I scan the crowd, hoping to see Marley or a familiar face. Wanting to find someone who can whisk me away from the pain of this moment. Someone who will stop me from giving in to the temptation to settle for a guy who doesn’t believe in fairy tales.

The crowd is still quieter than usual, so the familiar lyrics hit my ears loud and clear, if not exactly on key.

Someone is singing “That’s How You Know,” from Enchanted. I go perfectly still, eyes closed, as I wait to wake up from the dream.

When I open them again, the words are still coming, closer this time, the voice low and rough and masculine, and nothing like Amy Adams’s soprano, but infinitely more dear.

I slowly turn, unapologetically crying as I face a still-singing Andrew. It’s really only fair that with such a beautiful face, he has a semi-terrible singing voice.

“Really?” I say on a sob. “Really? Everyone’s staring.”

He only sings louder, lifting his hands and spinning in a circle to the whoops of the crowd before continuing toward me.

Only when his hands move to cup my face does he stop the song.

“That’s how you know, Georgiana,” he says, bending down so his lips are to my ear, his next words just for me, not the crowd. “That’s how you know I love you.”

I mean to tell him I love him too, but the only thing that comes out is a sob as I throw my arms around his neck and pull him close.

He still doesn’t relax, the press of his fingers urgent, demanding. “Love me back,” he whispers. “Please love me back.”

I press my face to his neck. “You’re ridiculous,” I whisper. “Of course I love you back.”

Andrew’s eyes close, his head going back in relief, before he looks down at me with a smile. “If you really love me, we’ll never speak of the singing episode again.”

I grin back. “If you really love me, you’ll do an encore whenever I demand it.”

His gaze goes just a touch more serious as his fingers brush my lips. “I truly do love you, Georgiana. I owe you so many apologies for the way I spoke to you that night.”

“I’d like to hear those,” I say, going to my toes and kissing him. “Maybe later? In bed? Naked?”

“But—”

“Please don’t make me beg you to take me home right now,” I say with a little laugh.

He kisses me slowly and thoroughly, but pulls back far too soon and checks his watch. “Not yet. It’s just past three.”

I lift eyebrows. “You say that mighty casually for a man who usually gets up in two hours.”

“Actually, I get up in one hour. I usually wake up at four; I just dawdled a little so I could see you every morning.”

“Four? I don’t know if that’s sweet or obscene.”

“Both. Now, what time does your donut shop open?” he asks, putting an arm around my shoulder and pulling me close as he lifts a hand to hail a cab.

“Not till five, but they let me in at a quarter to.”

“Of course they do,” he mutters. “So what do you usually do until then?”

I shrug. “Talk with friends. Go to a diner. There’s an all-night coffee shop that does Disney karaoke from midnight to four—”

“The diner it is,” he says, ushering me into the cab.

“Should I be offended you’re not dragging me home and into bed as soon as possible?” I ask.

He smiles but doesn’t answer as he gives the taxi driver the intersection of a diner near our apartment building.

A couple of hours later, happy on coffee, hash browns, and the love of my life, I realize why Andrew was stalling. It was so that he could slide a perfect solitaire on the fourth finger of my left hand in our apartment building’s lobby with Ramon and Charles and the rest of the staff waiting with mimosas.

And in case you’re wondering . . .

At five A.M. on the dot, I said yes to being Mrs. Andrew Mulroney, Esquire.

Epilogue

ONE YEAR LATER, SUNDAY EVENING, 6:00 P.M.

“What if she hates me?” I ask, bending slightly so I can check my reflection in the shiny oven door, fluffing my curls.

Andrew glances over as he opens the bottle of red wine. “Has anyone ever hated you?”

“You did,” I accuse, putting a hand on my hip. “From the very start.”

“Self-protection,” he says, pouring us each a glass of wine. “I’m smart, remember? I knew, even from the beginning, that you’d turn my life upside down.”

“And look how that worked out for you,” I murmur, taking the wineglass from him and tilting my face up for a kiss. He obliges, and what I meant to be a playful peck turns hot far too quickly considering that we have dinner guests arriving any minute.

“Don’t suppose we could cancel?” he says in a husky voice when I gently push him back.

“Absolutely not. I’m determined to make a good impression on Dad’s new girlfriend. Plus Peter will kill you if you make him come all the way into the city for nothing.”

“You know I see right through you, right?” he says, helping himself to a piece of cheese and a cracker. “Everyone knows that you just want to see the kid.”

“I can’t help it if I’m the best auntie in the world,” I say breezily.

He’s right, though. Pam gave birth to a healthy baby girl a few months ago, and I’ve fallen hard for my new niece. I also can’t wait to give Kim a cousin to play with someday soon, but for now I’m just enjoying being a wife to the man of my dreams.

Life is . . . well, quite honestly, life is amazing.

Andrew and I were married last month in the most perfect wedding ever. Marley was maid of honor, naturally, although I did talk her out of the gold glitter dress and into a gorgeous lavender gown instead.

My dress, to the surprise of absolutely nobody, was white, sparkly, and enormous. It took Andrew nearly ten minutes to get it off me at the end of the evening, but I made it worth his while.

As for my parents, they’re, well . . . fine. Mom’s embracing the single life like nobody’s business, and though it still hurts that they’re not together anymore, I have to admit she’s sort of thriving. And she’s happy. So I’m happy.

Dad’s happy too, even more so now that he’s started seeing the mysterious Melinda, who I’ll get to meet tonight.

Andrew and I have dinner with Liv Dotson and her hot Yankee center fielder at least once a month, and Marley’s dating a dentist who she’s over the moon for. And get this . . . Brody ended up marrying his midwestern baby mama after all. They live in Iowa, and last I heard, he’s never been happier.

So I guess what I’m trying to say is that they all lived happily ever after.

Especially me.

For everyone who believes in a Disney version of happily ever after . . .

Acknowledgments and Letter to Readers

Hi everyone, Lauren Layne here!

Thanks so much for taking the time to read Walk of Shame! I know from personal experience that there are so many more wonderful books to pass hours reading, so I’m truly grateful you picked Georgie and Andrew to spend time with.

While I can say without a doubt that I love every single book that I write, it’s also safe to say that some books are trickier than others. Some make me sweat to get them just right.

Others simply . . . are.

Walk of Shame was in the latter category—one of those stories where the biggest struggle was getting my fingers to type fast enough to get the story out of my head and onto the page. If you enjoyed reading it even half as well as I enjoyed writing it, I will be one happy author.

I’m sure it won’t come as a surprise that this book is very much a love letter to love. Aside from the most obvious shout-out to the movie Enchanted (which I’ve seen approximately two million times), there are several other nods to some of my favorite over-the-top love stories in this book. I don’t know that I set out to write a book that was a celebration of the HEA, but that’s what I ended up with, and I couldn’t be happier with the results.

Of course, as with all my books, it’s absolutely not a solo effort. There’s a whole LL team behind every book, starting with my husband, who’s always very kind to lend me to my fictional heroes as I’m in the writing zone, letting me fall in love with someone else, just for a short time.

From there, I put Walk of Shame in the oh-so-capable hands of Sue Grimshaw, my fabulous editor, who’s a genius at seeing how to take the messy first draft and turn it into an actual book. ☺

And thanks to Kristi Yanta, who reads (almost) all my books in their fugliest stage and always seems to understand my vision for the story and know what tweaks need to be made in order to make it sparkle.

A big thank-you to Janet Wygal and the rest of the production team who polished the book into reader-ready prettiness, and to my ladies Erika Seyfried and Madeleine Kenney for their amazing organization and marketing vision for getting my books discovered by readers.

To Gina Wachtel and Matt Schwartz for all the vision and support, and for taking care of all the “stuff” so I don’t have to.

A long, dramatic slow clap, please, for Lynn Andreozzi and her amazing design team, because this cover . . . it’s everything.

Hugs to my amazing agent for being ever patient with the fact that I go weeks ignoring her calls while in the writing cave, only to bombard her with a dozen calls on the two days when I come up for air.

Same goes for Lisa Filipe, who deserves all the chocolate on the planet for dealing with my shenanigans, and for holding down the fort while I disappear into my head for days (weeks? months?) at a time.

And, lastly, to my street team and all the loyal LL fans whose enthusiasm for books sustains me when I get overwhelmed or discouraged. I just . . . love you guys. (*awkward hug, because I’m bad at hugging*)

If you guys have gotten this far, THANK YOU. Thank you for reading Walk of Shame and for supporting all of us authors in our passion projects.

For the latest Lauren Layne news, and all Lauren Layne books, please be sure to check out my website!

Read on for an excerpt from

The next sexy novel in the Oxford series

Coming soon from

Prologue

ONE YEAR AGO

One thing nobody had warned Taylor Carr to be prepared for on her first day on a new job at the country’s top-selling men’s magazine?

The eye candy.

As in lots and lots of the hottest guys she’d ever seen, each one better dressed and more charming than the last.

Taylor liked to consider herself a no-nonsense kind of girl. Had probably been called a ballbuster behind her back once or twice.

But here amid the suit-wearing perfection that was the men of Oxford magazine, she felt a little . . .

Breathless.

Perhaps she should have been prepared. She’d interviewed for the job with Alex Cassidy, the editor in chief who would be her boss.

As far as male specimens went, it didn’t get much hotter than the green-eyed, dark-haired brand of tall dark and handsome that Alex Cassidy had going on.

But even if the title of boss hadn’t marked him off-limits already, the gold wedding band marked him as a look but don’t touch.

Little did she know that Cassidy was the rule, not the exception. So far on her tour of the office, she’d met at least a half dozen guys who qualified as perfect tens in her book.

Taylor wasn’t ashamed to admit she had a type. She liked her men polished, successful, and quick-witted, and so far the guys at Oxford ticked all her boxes.

She tried to remind herself that she was above this.

That she’d practically been raised in high heels, was professional enough to rise above ogling her colleagues, and that her aunt would be absolutely appalled if Taylor’s only impression of her first day was “cute boys” and not world domination.

But damn if Taylor wasn’t just a little disappointed by how many of them either had wedding rings or had given her the polite welcome of a man whose heart—and body—was otherwise engaged.

“I hate to do this on your first day, but okay if I hand off the rest of your tour? I’ve got a meeting in five that I tried to get out of, but—”

Taylor waved her hand at Alex Cassidy. “Please. Don’t worry about it. Just point me toward someone who can show me where the coffee is kept and give me a couple lunch recommendations, and I’ll have everything I need.”

The editor in chief had spent the past fifteen minutes taking her around the office, making introductions, doing the typical we’re like a family speech, although she had to admit that, based on what she’d seen, it did feel a bit like a family.

Cassidy smiled. “That I can do. And I know just the person.”

Taylor braced for another obnoxiously attractive man, but the small office Cassidy led her to belonged to a woman. A pretty twentysomething with blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a friendly smile.

“Brit, this is Taylor Carr. She’s starting today with the advertising team. Taylor, this is Brit Robbins, digital marketing extraordinaire.”

Brit smiled. “Welcome! Fab shoes,” she said with an approving look at Taylor’s Jimmy Choos.

“Annnnd, that’s my cue,” Cassidy joked, already backing out of the office. “You mind showing Taylor the rest of the office? Specifically, where she can find coffee.”

“Should I also tell her the coffee sucks because you won’t replace the machine?” Brit called after an already retreating Cassidy.

He didn’t respond, and Brit turned her attention back to Taylor, giving her a once-over that was unabashed but friendly. “So. Please don’t think me forward, but there’s a shocking lack of stylish women around this place. Any chance you want to be best friends and talk about boys?”

Taylor laughed in surprised pleasure.

She had never been much of a girls’ girl.

Growing up she’d been almost painfully shy in that way that other kids interpreted as standoffish. By high school, her aunt’s icy demeanor had rubbed off on Taylor enough that the other girls’ avoidance of her hadn’t hurt—much.

College had gotten better. She’d joined a sorority, learned how to play nice with the other girls, so to speak. She’d also learned that for every competitive, catty woman out there, there was another perfectly nice, loyal friend to be had.

Still, she could count her really good female friends on one hand, and none of them lived in New York. She was definitely due for a local BFF.

Taylor leaned forward and lowered her voice to a whisper. “So I’m not the only one who noticed.”

“That we live in the headquarters of hot guys? No, trust me. I spent the first six months trying to remember to wipe away the drool. I was basically HR’s worst nightmare.”

“No dating among colleagues?”

Brit shrugged as she picked up her cellphone and gestured for Taylor to follow her down the hallway. “As far as I know, it’s not an official rule, I just know I lack the emotional maturity to handle a workplace romance.”

“Not even a holiday-party hookup?”

“Nah, but trust me, if Lincoln Mathis looked my way twice, I’d break all my own rules.”

“Yeah, I met him. He’s . . .” Taylor broke off, trying to figure out how to describe the black-haired, blue-eyed journalist Cassidy had introduced her to earlier.

“There are no words,” Brit finished for Taylor. “No words for someone that good-looking.”

“He got a girlfriend?”

Brit shrugged. “Not sure. He’s got a reputation as a ladies’ man, but so did most of the guys in the editorial group before they settled down.”

“Is there a big division between the editorial group and the rest of us?” Taylor asked.

“Everyone’s friendly, but mostly it’s the columnists on one side of the building, the operations and strategy group on the other.”

“Any chance the guys on the operations and strategy side of things are more human-looking?” Taylor joked.

Brit lifted her finger and gestured to a door to their right. “Ladies’ room, in case Cassidy forgot to point it out. But no, we’ve got our fair share of hotties on our side too, although I’d rather die than admit it to Hunter.”

“Hunter Cross?” Taylor asked.

Brit glanced over. “My best guy friend. You know him?”

“Just by name. It was a big deal he left a VP role at his last marketing firm to take a lesser title here.”

“Please don’t tell him that,” Brit said in a joking tone. “He’s insufferable enough as it is.”

Good-looking too. Taylor had never met him in person, but based on his headshot, Hunter Cross likely blended in very nicely with the Oxford crew.

“There are two kitchen/break room areas,” Brit was saying. “You in an office or the bullpen?”

“Office,” Taylor said.

The bullpen was an affectionate term given to an “open office,” where instead of individual offices, employees worked alongside each other without doors separating them. Typically allotted to more junior employees, or groups whose functions require collaboration over privacy.

“Well, should you ever need to find anyone in the bullpen, welcome to the center of it all.” Brit stopped and lifted her hands in front of her, gesturing to the bustling scene in front of them.

Men still dominated the room, although there were more women on this side than over in the editorial group, which had been mostly hot guys in their private offices.

Plenty of them glanced up at her and Brit, their gazes friendly but curious. She gave a smile, refusing to feel shy even though she hated being the newcomer—hated feeling vulnerable in any way, for fear that someone would see right through her confident shield and call her out as a fraud. To expose her as what she really was on the inside: lonely. Maybe a little unlovable, if one wanted to get melodramatic about it.

To get ahead of it, Taylor lifted her chin and pasted a smile on her face, not quite haughty, just . . . distant. The kind of smile that kept people from getting too close before she could decide if she wanted them to get close.

“Okay, last stop, kitchen, then I’m taking you out for lunch and we’re ordering wine, and we’ll tell nobody,” Brit said, touching Taylor’s arm to get her attention.

This time Taylor’s smile was real. Either Brit didn’t buy Taylor’s keep your distance vibes, or she didn’t care and had already decided to make good on her best friend threat.

Taylor found she didn’t mind in the least. She liked the other woman, who was friendly without being sugary.

Taylor started to follow Brit when she felt a pair of eyes on her. As the new girl, she already knew there were lots of eyes on her, but this gaze was different—she could feel it.

She turned her head slightly, scanning the room until she found the source.

She knew the second her gaze collided with his.

The man watching her was everything the other guys at Oxford weren’t. His dark hair was a touch too long, his jawline apparently not fond of a razor. His white dress shirt could have been like the rest of the guys’, but instead of pairing it with a tie and suit jacket, the man had a button undone, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

If he stood, Taylor wouldn’t have been surprised in the least to see the shirt untucked.

None of that bothered her so much as the eyes. Not the color—she thought they were brown, although he was too far away to know for sure—no, what bugged her was the way he watched her.

Not quite smirking, but knowing. As though he was the one person in the room who got her, and wanted her to know it.

Taylor whipped her head away, but as she turned, she could have sworn she saw him laugh. At her.

Taylor lifted her chin and continued after Brit, telling herself it didn’t matter. The guy wasn’t even close to her type, and chances were their paths would never cross.

She strode away from the bullpen without giving in to the urge to turn around, see him one last time.

She didn’t.

But it bothered her that she wanted to.

FIND YOUR HEART’S DESIRE . . .

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