We hear the knock, but the door opens before we can pull ourselves off of each other. Bree looks like she won the lottery.

“Most people lock the door,” she says and looks at Asher, whose hands are still tucked into my shirt. “Melanie Tran’s manager needs to change the conference call to ten.”

She leaves as quickly as she came, leaving nothing but a rush of panic in her wake. This was the moment she’s been waiting for. A slip up. A lie I can no longer deny.

“Shit.”

I push Asher away from me despite the fact that nothing feels better than his hands all over me. I spend the entire sprint to Bree’s desk adjusting my sweater and wrestling my boobs back into my bra.

The security guard must really love that.

When I get to her desk, Bree is opening a sleeve of crackers and sipping ginger ale. She looks calm and cool and collected, like a serial killer or a sociopath. She’s going to murder me with a letter opener in a fit of vengeful rage.

“Bree—”

“It’s not what it looked like?” she laughs. “I tripped and Asher’s lips broke my fall?”

“It’s not that serious?,” I say, despite knowing that we might be a little serious. “Honestly, we’re just having fun. What’s a little mouth on boob action? I mean, I’ve gone further with guys I barely know!”

She doesn’t look convinced.

I sigh. “It’s complicated.”

“No, it’s not,” she says, opening her laptop. “You’re sleeping with your boss, just like half of the other people in this city. You’re not special, Liv.”

“I didn’t say I was.”

“I just hope you’re not looking for your happily ever after,” she says. “Because you’re not going to get one. This is what they do. You’re not his first intern. You’re not going to be his last.”

“It’s not—”

“Like that? He’s different? He’s not. He’s going to fuck you and he’s going to make you promises and then he’s going to move on to the next girl. It’s a cycle, Olivia.”

“One you seem to be very familiar with,” I say. “You do spend an awful lot of time in River’s office.”

She doesn’t say anything.

Neither do I.

I walk back to Asher’s office, but he’s gone.

* * *

Billie glances over the rims of her wine-colored glasses before she pulls them off and turns to me, an act she’s been repeating for the entire hour and a half we’ve been at the Met. If memory serves me right, she wants me to take another picture.

“Olivia,” she starts, “what’s your opinion on roses?”

“In general?”

“As centerpieces.”