“Cool,” I say, checking my reflection in the elevator panel to make sure all the buttons are lined up on my shirt. You never know if you’ve misbuttoned something. Not that I did that in my senior year of high school before a speech. Not that I’ve ever forgotten that moment of embarrassment either. In my defense, buttons are hard.

“Cool? That’s more than cool. That’s amazing.”

“Right,” I say, nodding as I study the alignment. I bare my teeth next, making sure the choppers look sharp and lunch-free.

“I talked to the reporter too. The piece is going to pivot a bit from what I pitched them, but I think it’ll be even better. Get this—it’s going to be about you as one of the next generations of business visionaries.” She rattles off more details on the piece, telling me the reporter is Sabrina Granger, my assistant has scheduled a meeting, and tomorrow is our first interview.

I run a hand through my hair. Yup. Just the right amount of floppy mess.

“It’s going to be a fantastic piece,” Jennica adds.

“That’s great.”

The elevator goes silent.

Jennica clears her throat, catching my attention with the sound. I snap my gaze to her. Her hands are parked on her hips. “You’re barely paying attention.”

“Visionary, check. Tomorrow, check. Sabrina, check. Piece will be great, check.” I tap my temple. “I listened.”

“Hardly. You were distracted, and I’m willing to bet it’s because you have a hot date.”

I scoff.

She laughs, shaking her head. “Flynn Parker, you’ve been checking your reflection, and you’re making sure you don’t have lettuce in your teeth, even though it was five hours ago that we went to the salad bar for lunch, and you’ve probably also brushed your teeth twenty times since then.”

I blow out a breath of air. “Minty fresh. Guilty as charged.”

“Who is the lucky lady, and does she know you’re a certified dork?”

“Correction. It’s not yet official. But the Adorkable Committee assures me the certificate should arrive any day.”

“Excellent. We’ll frame it,” she says as we reach the lobby, and she shoves her bag higher on her shoulder. “Now, fess up. Who is the lovely you’re lettuce-free for?”

I laugh, shaking my head. Jennica wouldn’t believe me if I said I didn’t know who she is. I hardly believe me. “She’s a bit of a mystery.”

Her eyebrows shoot up, and she hums her approval. “A mystery girl. How intriguing. What do we know about her?”

Let’s see. I don’t know her name, her occupation, her family background, where she lives, or any of the usual details. But I do know some key traits already. “She’s smart, independent, clever, and likes my jokes.”

Also, she’s great in bed—or against the wall, as the case may be—and feels spectacular in my arms. But I keep those key attributes to myself.

“Sounds like a keeper.”

“Plus, she hasn’t proposed to me yet.”

“There’s still time tonight for her to get down on one knee. And on that note, I need to get to the year-end open house at my daughter’s first-grade classroom. My husband is making me attend. The torture. Dear God, the torture of an open house.”