“Yep. Quit this morning.” I keep my tone light, even perky. It doesn’t quite match the moody black stretch knit dress I’m wearing: high neckline, hem right above the knee, an extrawide belt wrapped tightly around my waist, and the kind of sleeves that give the appearance of shoulder pads. It’s severe and sort of a throwback to the 1980s. I can’t say I love the look, but I know my next employer will . . . and judging from some of the leers I’m getting, a lot of other men do too.

“So I was told,” Lander says. Even now his voice sounds groggy. There’s something comforting about it. I can imagine what it would be like to wake up to that voice, snuggled up in his arms.

It’s absolutely not what I’m supposed to be thinking about.

“You also snuck out on me,” he continues.

“You were dead to the world. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Yeah, that’s not like me,” he muses. “I’m usually such a light sleeper.”

“Well, you did drink a lot.” It’s not really true; he probably had three drinks over four hours, but that’s my explanation and I’m sticking to it.

I stop in front of the building where my interview is to take place. The doorman stares right past me, as stoic as a guard at Buckingham Palace.

“Hate to cut this short, but I gotta go.”

“When will I see you again?”

“Soon.”

“When’s—”

But I hang up before he can finish his question. With a plastered-on smile I give my name to the doorman as well as the names of the people I’m here to see. He nods curtly and calls over to one of the security guys, who proceeds to walk me down the halls and corridors to the correct elevator.

“Are you here for the personal assistant job?” the guard asks. “You look more like a Wall Street power player to me.”

“No, not my thing. I manage lives, not money.”

“ ‘Lives, not money.’ I like that.” The guard chuckles, flashes me a grin that is flirtatious and stupidly hopeful.

I return his smile with one that offers no encouragement but doesn’t go so far as to completely dissuade. I don’t mind his interest. One day I might even encourage it if it suits my purposes. But right now I have more important things to worry about.

When we finally get to the elevator and then I get to the right floor, it doesn’t take me long to find penthouse 1400. I press the little doorbell by the side of the door and roll my shoulders back, making sure that my posture is perfect.

In a matter of seconds the door is yanked open by a man in his late thirties, broad shoulders, short, professionally cut sandy-blond hair. His pale-blue eyes roam over me unapologetically before they reach my face.