I find his number stored under Not Drake.

I smile over the fact that I had stored him, previously, as Derek. Checking my smile, I frown and type.

I’m home. Satisfied?

For now.

Where are YOU?

Home. Getting some work done.

Oh really? Wow. Well so am I, I lie and get my laptop out, my competitive side stirred.

Such a hard little worker. Lucky boss.

He’s a bit of a hard one too, I text.

There’s a silence and my eyes widen when I realize what I said.

Yes.

He IS.

My tummy flutters.

Oh lord above, help me.

I drop my phone as if it singed me and then power it off. Olivia Roth? His antics cannot get to you. It is not allowed.

I try to quell what seeing him tonight did to me and blame it on the alcohol I imbibed.

Because that crush has been crushed. I’m no longer a naïve young girl needing her brother to bail her out when she gets in trouble, hell, I’m a full-time working girl and I can’t be Callan’s shiny new toy.

I’m worth more than that even though I’ve always battled with feelings of not being enough. Isn’t that why I’m so desperate to prove myself?

Too many people labeling me a blonde bimbo. Too many people underestimating me until I’ve almost believed they’re right.

In that sense only my brother believed in me—and no matter how much I’ve idolized my father’s old friend Daniel Radisson all this time, it was bad boy Callan Carmichael who gave me a chance.

I’m determined to use it and focus on what’s important to me.

Maybe if I stopped feeling prejudiced against Callan’s business ruthlessness, I could pull my head out of my ass and ask him to teach me.

Janine is now interning with Callan and lunches are proving difficult when I have to listen to her gush on how hot he is and how intensely she’s learning. She also mentions she picks up regular calls for him from a thousand and one girls, all asking if he’s in, for Janine to please ask him to call them, inquiring about whether he got this or that invitation, etcetera.

Etcetera.

Etcete-fucking-ra.

“I’m seriously learning so much just by the little glimpses I get into the conference room and phone calls. I won’t even say how I’ll feel if I manage to get a night with him in my pocket, too, oh god. Livvy, the size of his you-know-what is like . . . you can see the size through his pants. And he’s got big hands, obviously it’s huge, he has huge shoes too. And that mouth! He’s so wicked!” She’s flushed as she speaks.

I push the food around my plate, not hungry now. Conversation swirls around us, and all this time, I’m only aware of the low, dull throb inside me.

I came here to work, to learn. Did I let my own personal prejudices and confusing feelings keep me from learning all that I can, from the best man I could possibly learn it from?

I excuse myself and head up to Mr. Lincoln. He’s reviewing the research I submitted earlier today, and he looks distracted as he glances at me from across his desk and asks me to pull up the Alcore proposal again. “Callan requested an update.”

My heart kicks in excitement, and I nod and head to my desk. “Right away, sir.”

Later that evening, after a full day of work and trying not to dwell back on the two nights I’ve spent with the boss—because, really, it needs to stop! There will be no, no third!—I make a phone call to my grandma.

“Hey, Nana!”

“Who is this? Do I know you?”

“You don’t just know me, you adore me.” I curl up on the couch and glance at the steaming green tea I just set on my coffee table—I take it bitter without sweetener, just like my grandmother taught me. “I’m just checking in, Nana. How are you?”

“I’m well, but freaking missing my favorite granddaughter!”

“I’m your only granddaughter. I freaking miss you too.”

I hear her laugh, and then a creak, and I imagine her settling on the swing outside on her front porch. “Tell me about Chicago.”

I grin. “It’s good.” My smile fades a little and I draw an invisible pattern on my jeans. “I just felt a little homesick,” I say, then I ask her what she’s been up to, just wanting to hear the familiarity of home and the routine I know she follows by memory. Pruning the rosebushes, adding food to the birdhouse on the huge oak outside, baking something to give away, looking at old pictures and living by memories of her time when my dad was young, when my grandfather was alive.

It’s familiar, homey, and grounding.

I feel like I need that. Like I climbed a little too far up the Callan Carmichael tree house and I need my family to hold a ladder for me so I can climb back down.

I have a restless night. I dream I’m in the tree house, smoking on the ledge, when Jeremy Seinfield tries to kiss me. Except this time I don’t turn away. I lean closer and open my mouth, never so eager for him to kiss me before. I slip my hands into his hair and he tastes of coffee and cigarettes. I’m so surprised by how well he kisses, I ease back and stare at him in shock. But it’s not Jeremy looking back at me. I look into eyes that are a swirl of bronze, his voice a man’s voice, not a boy’s.

“I’m Callan.”

I wake up Friday morning to my alarm buzzing on my nightstand. I groan and turn around, squinting at the time to realize it’s already 7 a.m.

I hurry to start getting ready, moving through the apartment.

It’s already familiar, the view outside, my bed. I leave in less than two months, really. It’s only a summer internship.

I think of him in my bed and how my sheets still smell of him.

I think of the terrace. All those meetings I won’t have again. They’re branded in my memory, down to the shirts he wore and the way he smelled. It’s not like he’s the only good-smelling man out there, but there’s something special about his scent. It’s familiar, warm, and comforting. His eyes and the way we talk as if we’ve known each other forever.

No regrets, I remember.

I sigh and go shower and get ready for work. I slip into my Carma uniform and tuck my hair into a neat bun, then look at myself in the mirror. Blonde, blue-eyed, young, and determined—that’s what I want my boss to see.

Not naked, moaning, and writhing—that was only for my Hot Smoker Guy to see.

“Hold the elevator,” a familiar voice says when I arrive at Carma that morning. I jerk up straighter and my hand starts to tremble slightly as I press the open button.

Callan steps inside, typing something into his phone as he boards, stands beside me, selects his floor, and tucks his phone into his pocket.

He’s wearing a suit today and my knees wobble under my skirt.

I’m not sure he’s even realized it’s me who’s standing alone with him in the elevator until he speaks. “How are you?”

Well. Let’s see now. I came in this hot guy’s arms several times and I can’t quite get him off my mind, I think helplessly.

“Great,” I say instead. “You?”

“Good now.”

Through the corner of my eye I see that he’s smirking as he looks down at me, but I can’t bring myself to face him fully. Every time I do, I think that I kissed those lips. I seduced him. Ate up. Those amazing lips. And that wasn’t all. I’ve told him so many things about me. I always marvel at how easily this man makes me verbally vomit all over him.

“I got the Alcore updates. Good job.”

Oh god.

I don’t know what to do. I miss my family. I want my grandma’s advice. I can’t talk to my brother about this. Farrah and Veronica would say I should enjoy yielding to my infatuation of him, the first of my life. They wouldn’t understand that a part of me fears I’ll want more. The homesickness I’ve been battling threatens to reappear.

My floor comes up, and I glance at him with a smile and say, “Have a good day, Mr. Carmichael.”

His lips shape a thin smile that echoes his tone of voice. “Callan,” he corrects me.

“I’ll only call you Callan when we’re alone. Otherwise, it’s Mr. Carmichael.”

“Lucky for you, I respond to both.” He reaches out to hold the door as I step out. “Are you still up for sightseeing?”