“Yeah, what of it? I heard somewhere once that the only time a man gets flowers in his life is at his funeral. That’s sad. I got you some before you’re dead. Sue me,” she said, setting out leather-bound notebooks and expensive pens that we bought in bulk for these occasions. “What were you looking at?”

“Who.”

“Who? Was it a woman?” she asked, straightening, eyes bright.

“Don’t start.”

“Start what? It’s good to know you can still appreciate a good-looking woman. When’s the last time you had one? Months? It’s not good, that’s all I’m saying. A man needs a woman.”

“Does a woman need a man?” I asked.

“Fuck no,” she answered immediately, then shot me a big grin. “Unless, of course, they can find themselves one like my Marty. In that case, yes. Even if he can’t brew a decent pot of coffee to save his life. Okay. That’s probably your three o’clock,” she said.

Teresa, amongst her many other talents, seemed to have superhuman hearing—that she often called ‘mom-hearing’—and always knew the elevator was about to stop on the floor well before it dinged.

Sure enough, just as she slipped behind her desk, the soft ding rang through the waiting area.

I glanced over as the doors slid open, expecting a stooped woman with a pinched face and rheumy eyes.

But out walked a tall man in a nice suit—and I knew my suits.

Half a step behind him was the woman from the street, her gait tight in her stiletto heels. Almost as if she wasn’t accustomed to walking in them.

My breath felt constricted in my chest as my heart started to attempt to break free from my ribcage.

It was like I’d summoned her.

That is, of course, until the duo approached Teresa, who shot them her customer-service smile—tight lips and no crinkle near her eyes.

It was the woman’s companion who spoke, though I couldn’t make out any of their conversation from so far away.

The woman seemed like she was about to offer a hand in introduction. The man, though, leaned closer to Teresa, stealing all her focus as he reached back and pushed the woman’s hand back down.

What was going on there?

Before I could try to figure it out, Teresa was walking toward the conference room doorway.

Her voice, as always, carried.

“Mr. Vale is expecting you.”

Expecting them? No.

Wanting to kick the guy out so I could bend the woman over the conference table? Absolutely.

“Mr. Vale, Miss Amato is here,” Teresa said, eyes bright, knowing, seeing too damn much, as they always did.

Miss Amato?

This was the woman who I would be working with on the nightclub project?

I was suddenly a lot more optimistic about it.

“Miss Amato,” I greeted her, extending a hand as she moved closer.