“I’m scared of this business being too much for me,” I admit.

He reaches out and pushes a stray lock of hair behind my forehead, the touch so unexpected, I tense all over—from my temple to my throat, my chest, my tummy, my thighs, my toes.

“Hey, you’re doing good.” He nods, and suddenly his eyes grow warmer than usual, almost tender. “Sitting here, I see a girl with more gumption than I’ve seen in a long time. She’s sensitive. Smart. With a pretty good head on her shoulders, who won’t take my crap. She’s got a nice heart, not very common in Carma. She’s young and has a lot to learn. But she’s no coward.” He shakes his head sternly. “All she needs is a chance to see she’s more than one tiny, insignificant fear, and the world is hers.”

“You need glasses. Should I tell your temp to schedule an appointment? A doctor, too? Check your head maybe? You’re not as smart as they say you are.”

He laughs.

I feel my cheeks warm and a strange shyness flit through me. “Thank you,” I finally say.

“That’ll be six hundred an hour.” He opens his palm—his very big palm.

“Wow, really? A shopping spree does just as much good for me and at least I get to keep the shoes!”

He laughs, and when a silence falls, I know it’s time to go.

I swallow and I stand quietly and start gathering my things, slipping my feet into my shoes, aware of Callan watching me. He picks up the files again—and it almost feels as if we’re both trying very hard to pretend we don’t enjoy our conversations so much. As if we’re both trying to pretend we don’t enjoy sex together too much.

“Well . . . good night, Mr. Carmichael.”

For a moment, Callan just stares at me. I almost think he’s going to ask me to stay—and not to review papers. But then he says, quietly, “Good night, Miss Roth.”

The rest of the week flies by in a flurry of activity as Mr. Lincoln meets with Callan upstairs on Friday. He heads up the elevator at 9 a.m. with a stack of thick files and paperwork, comes back down an hour and a half later, absently asks me for coffee, copies, more research, corrections, and hours later, he’s heading back to meet the boss.

I wonder what they talk about. I wonder what’s happening. I’m a cat like that, too curious for my own good, but I can’t help it.

I stay late that day, even after Mr. Lincoln leaves, busy organizing the files he’s been updating. I’m engrossed in all the details as I type the corrections on the computer, when the phone rings and I absently lift the receiver and recite the usual greeting. “Carma Inc. Henry Lincoln’s office.”

“Livvy.”

I start when I recognize the male voice on the other end of the line.

It’s puzzling, really, that a mere voice can affect me this much.

What does he want? I ask myself as I nod stupidly with the telephone clutched tightly in my hand.

“I bumped into Lincoln on his way down. I wanted to see if you were still in.”

I swallow. “I am.”

He makes a noncommittal sound like “hmm” or “huh,” then hangs up.

I’m busy typing again when the back of my neck prickles pleasurably.

I glance up from my computer to spot Callan heading over to me. I’m having trouble finding my voice. “Hi,” I say.

He leans over my desk, an intent look in his eyes. “I’m going to have a cigarette upstairs. Do you want one?”

“I’ve got so much to do—”

He levels his gaze with mine and phrases it differently. “Come upstairs with me, Olivia.”

There’s something a little hot in his eyes, and very bossy.

I swallow and lock up my drawers, powering off my computer, my heart pounding as I follow him.

We take the elevators upstairs.

Is it wrong? That I’m waiting for him to make a move? This is scandalous. This little secret thing between us. A little bit dangerous. I know it’s a little bit dangerous. I don’t know what it is that we’ve started, but I’m waiting for it.

My temperature is rising.

I’m silent—expectant—as we head outside to the terrace and settle on one of the lounges.

“I didn’t sleep much last night.”

“I slept like a baby,” I lie.

He laughs in disbelief.

The space between us, it’s too large.

He drags a hand over his face, then drops it as he looks at me. “I want more of you, Livvy.” His eyebrows are low over his eyes, telling me he’s just as frustrated. “I’m trying to do the right thing, but I’m not a good guy.”

“Yes you are.”

He seems both amused and surprised by my emphatic tone, warning me, “I’m the guy who leaves before you wake up and never says goodbye.”

“Well, because goodbyes are terrible,” I admit, then when he says nothing, I add, “You’re a pretty decent guy. I’ve wanted to know you since I first saw you. I wondered and wondered. But after what’s happened between us, it seems less like a good idea and more like trouble.”

“Fuck trouble. Jesus. Just fucking go out with me, Livvy.” He studies my features.

I don’t even know what to reply, I’m simply digesting what he said while my stomach turns hot.

He eyes me in silence. “The night you woke up in my place after falling asleep on my couch . . . you looked stunning,” he says.

“Oh god, don’t even mention it. I woke up with my hair all crazy and just . . . No. I can’t even think it. And then you won’t even let me strut my good stuff, with this demure little uniform.”

He shakes his head, his eyes shining. “Livvy, you’re fascinating to look at. Even in the same clothes everyone else is wearing.”

“Is that why you asked me out, because you like how I look?” The girly part of me, the vain part, wants that to be the reason, but the girl who went to college and studied every weekend wants his attraction to be based on more than that.

“No.” He smiles in amusement as if he can read my mind.

I remember when I met him, the very first day, my Hot Smoker Guy.

What would I do if he were still just that guy? Removed of any preconceived notions of whether he could be someone I am allowed to openly like.

His features are completely unreadable as he looks at me, pulling out his pack of cigarettes and lighting one up. Soon, he’s taking a slow, very long hit from his cigarette, and then releasing a slow exhale, his lips pushing the smoke out in the sexiest way imaginable.

Damn him. He looks so gorgeous. I don’t want to look at his hands, but I do, and they are big . . . big and manly.

I remember our sex positions when we had those amazing nights.

He hands me the cigarette as he exhales, and I take a hit. “I want us to see each other out of the office. Monogamously.”

I inhale so much smoke I start coughing, my eyes wide.

“Have you been seeing anyone else?” He frowns darkly and lightly pats my back to help me recover.

“No.”

“Do you want to?” he asks, raising a brow.

“No.”

“Neither do I. That’s the problem.”

“Why is that a problem?”

“Well, Olivia. I’m staring at a woman who’s got me in the throes of lust twenty-four/seven almost—and I’ve got work to do. Physically, I’ve never felt this deprived. Keeping my hands off you is testing my willpower to an extent beyond my limits.” He slips his hand on my thigh, squeezing it. “I want you nightly.”

“Haha. Really.”

“Really.” He touches my face. “I want you. Again. And again and again.”

“I want you too. Except let’s not forget I’m leaving.”

“I know full well you’re leaving,” he takes a drag, frowns, exhales and passes the cigarette to me, “that you’re T’s sister, that you work for me. I’m also fully aware that we can’t keep our hands off each other. That you distract the shit out of me. That you’re irresistible on every level. And that I don’t want you to see anyone else, period.”

“Even if I wanted to, I’m too busy working. You’re a slave-driver. No offense.”