A noisy bar is perhaps not the best place to make a phone call, especially not when you’re firing the opening salvo in a battle against your nemesis, but when I peer out the window, rain splatters coat the glass. Good old Seattle weather. I wind through the crowd to stand at the far edge of the bar, near, but not in, the bathroom—too echoy. This is as good as it’s going to get.

“You can do this,” I murmur to myself as I wedge a hip against an empty patch of wall and scroll through my contacts. Graeme’s name pops up and I glare at it. My chest puffs and heat scorches my neck. Time to nip this—whatever this is, this game he’s playing—in the bud.

I tap his number. Ringing fills my ear. I notice the leather of my left shoe is pinching my little toe. I wiggle my toes, but the pinch gets worse. With a huff, I crouch and stick a finger inside my shoe, tugging.

“Hello?” Graeme answers.

I bolt upright and nearly lose my balance. My phone slips through my fumbling fingers and I manage to catch it with both hands before it hits the floor. I lift it, intent on returning it to my ear, and freeze.

Graeme’s face fills my screen. His eyebrows are raised, his expression expectant.

Oh God, we’re FaceTiming. We’re FaceTiming.

I must have accidentally pressed the FaceTime request icon and he… accepted.

Shit.

Graeme’s outside, and with the time zone difference, the sky behind him is blooming with the last vestiges of purple twilight. A streetlamp washes a dim golden glow over his face, which is obscured by a scruffy two-week growth of stubble. His eyes blaze at me and his jaw is as unforgiving as a mountain.

It’s been weeks since I’ve seen Graeme in the flesh—er, pixel—since he’s opted to keep his camera off for video conferences lately. And this is the best view I’ve had of him yet. The image is clear and his face isn’t too close to the camera. His hair is longer than I remember, and he looks rougher somehow—certainly older than his smooth-faced Outlook picture—but still no older than thirty.

Heat sizzles in my stomach. There’s no denying it: Graeme is hot. The thick stubble can’t hide his magnificent bone structure—the high, wide cheekbones, defined nose, and deep-set eyes.

No, no, no. Don’t be distracted by your conniving coworker’s ridiculously good looks.

He pivots to sit on a park bench. Rummaging in my purse, I pull out my earbuds with the built-in microphone and stuff them into my ears. “Uh, hi, Graeme, it’s Henley,” I begin.