I sit back, scowling, and am rescued from the whole decision-making conundrum by the chime on my phone that signals someone requesting access to the lobby and the elevator banks. I check the image on the app, then use the intercom feature to confirm that the arrival is the woman from Matthew Holt’s office. Joanna, one of his assistants, had called earlier to say she wanted to run by some material for Lyle to review upon his return—a sheath of research material for the new project and a revised outline.

I’d mentioned the material in my morning call with Lyle, just to be sure that he didn’t want me to have her send the stuff straight to him in Europe, but he’d said to go ahead and review it myself. “You’re sure it’s Joanna?”

“Pretty sure, why?”

“The last time I was in, he’d mentioned that he was considering letting her go. He either changed his mind or I’m thinking about a different assistant.”

I remember the conversation as I wait for the elevator to bring her up to the thirtieth floor. If she is the woman that Matthew’s thinking about firing, I can’t help but feel sorry for her. It would suck to be on the chopping block and not even know it.

Moments later, there’s a soft knock, and I climb to my feet and open the door to reveal a woman with short dark hair and bright red lipstick. “Hey, you must be Joanna. I’m Natasha. Come on in.”

“Thanks.” She glances around. “Great office.”

I explain how it used to be Lyle’s apartment. “Thus the awesome security.”

“Yeah, I wish Matthew had that. It’s a crazy world these days.”

“Tell me about it,” I say, though I don’t elaborate. “Come on. I have a pot of coffee in the sitting area if you want some. Cream, sugar, these cool little chocolate stir sticks. It’s my afternoon treat. Just ignore all the papers on the floor.”

She follows me in, and I pour us both coffee while she explains what she brought over. “The BDSM research is really pretty interesting. We can go over it if you want.”

I shoot her a sideways glance, wondering if she’s flirting with me. Because, honestly, I’m capable of reading research materials all on my own. But I decide I’m imagining things, because she’s not even looking at me anymore. Instead, she’s tapping her lip with the stir stick as she flips the pages in the folder. A nervous habit, I presume, but there’s something so familiar about it, I start to think that maybe I have met her before. One day at Matthew’s office, maybe?