“It’s not your business,” I said, practically ripping the paper from his hands and looking it over. It was obviously Max in the photo, but with only the back of my head and part of my arm and hand visible, my identity would be almost impossible to discern by anyone who didn’t already know me.

“It’s your allergy bracelet and your adorable hair,” George crowed. “How long?”

“Not your business.”

“Is he amazing in bed? He is, isn’t he? Oh God, don’t tell me yet, let me work up a good mental lather first.” He squeezed his eyes shut and hummed.

“Not your business,” I repeated, a hand to my forehead. Holy hell. Bennett and Chloe were going to see this. My coworkers. Someone could send this to my parents. “Oh God.”

“Are you guys, like, a thing?” he asked, exasperated and slapping his hand to my desk.

“Oh my God! Not your business! Get out of my office, Skippy.”

He stood, then gave me a dirty look that was about as genuine as a politician’s smile. He looked more excited than anything else. Maybe even a little turned on.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “But you’d better spill every detail after you’ve had a chance to calm down.”

“Not happening. Go.”

“This really is great, by the way,” he said, serious now. “You deserve a hot guy.”

I stopped freaking out for a beat, looking up at him. He wasn’t freaking. He wasn’t assuming the worst. He was being a total pervert and enjoying every minute of my torment, but he was also assuming that I was happy, and having fun, and being a single woman in my twenties, doing what we do. He was mirroring my thoughts on Saturday night—this man is good for you, Sara—the same thoughts I’d tried so hard to hold on to.

But somehow, in the light of day on a Monday, it was harder than I expected to be young, and wild, and confident that I wasn’t setting myself up for another disaster.

“Thanks, George.”

“You’re welcome. But Chloe is coming down the hall so get your big-girl panties on.”

In fact, she was closer than I expected and shoved my assistant playfully out of the way before walking into my office and slamming my door in his face.

“Max?”

“I know.”

“The mystery guy is Max?”

“Chloe, I’m sorry I didn’t—”

She stopped me, holding up a hand. “I asked you if it was Max. You lied to me, very convincingly, and said no. I’m not sure whether I should be impressed or pissed.”

“Impressed?” I offered, giving her a winning smile.

“Oh my God, don’t be cute.” She walked over to my couch near the window and sat down. “Walk me through it.”

I crossed the room and sat with her, taking a deep breath before telling her everything: about meeting Max at the club, how we hooked up. I told her about the Chinese restaurant and how I’d tried to tell him not to come looking for me again but ended up letting him get me off. I admitted he was the man I’d been with at the fund-raiser, and how she was the one who made me realize it could be a good distraction to explore this new adventurous side of myself with a man who was practically a world expert on casual flings.