The girl I used to know in high school mainly dressed in earth tones in styles that looked like made-over things from the 1970s. I have no problem with vintage clothes or the color brown, but she always wore them and she always looked pissed.

I’d catch her staring.

To be fair, I was worth looking at. When I was a senior and she was a freshman, I was in my high school prime and thought I was pretty hot shit. And I was, in the only way that high school boys can be—I played basketball and I was good at it.

She hated me.

It’s not like I caught her mooning over me. I caught her looking at me with narrowed eyes, her expression like she’d just remembered something unpleasant, like a dentist appointment or a chemistry test.

Nobody was more shocked than I was to get an invitation to her open house. She invited all of us. All six brothers. But it was addressed to Roman + Brothers, so I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions about that.

This is insane.

I stalk back to the elevator and replay the entire thing in my head. There was not one single moment when I let my gaze linger on her wet shirt. It was only a passing glance, really, while I came across the lobby. That’s the only reason I’m so intimately acquainted with the outline of her bra underneath the shirt. And the fact that it’s a fairly sheer bra.

In the elevator I press the button for the lobby and lean casually against the railing on the back wall, pretending to be deep in thought when in fact I’m waging war on the erection that’s threatening to become very visible if I don’t get things under control.

Check that—it is visible.

Over Jenny London.

I think of everything other than the champagne spill on the front of her shirt.

My grandmother carving Thanksgiving turkey. The national anthem. Disney World.

By the time the doors open on the main floor, I have myself under control. At least as much as I’m going to.

Greg, our newest hire for the lobby staff, hovers nervously by the desk. I give him an encouraging wave. “Good work.” He’s already gotten himself a fresh towel and a new tray to circulate. Steve, the maintenance man, is mopping up the spill by the ficus. The grand lobby of our main building, with its soaring ceilings and fresh white paint, is almost restored.

I take a deep inhale and relax my shoulders. Jenny London is my new social media manager, and now I’ve seen straight through her shirt. And fuck, I liked what I saw.

I have to shake it off.