My mouth is dry as I glance around this huge, empty office; the secret grove of olive trees with no other humans in sight. Nowhere to hide and no distractions, either.

Finally, Galen turns his focus to his breakfast. He pauses at the lack of muffin, but says nothing about it.

Okay.

Everyone hates their job sometimes, right? And I’ve had three years of interest and excitement; three years of challenge and fun. Three years of swapping secret smiles with Galen Onasis, and wandering this skyscraper with a private thrill that the big, scary boss likes me. That he trusts me more than anyone else on his staff.

I’m overdue a rough patch. And my bruised feelings are not my boss’s problem, just like his maybe-date is no business of mine.

But: “Where were you yesterday?” I hear myself ask.

As soon as the words escape my mouth, I grip my pen in both hands, squeezing so hard the plastic creaks. I sound like a jealous girlfriend, not his assistant. So humiliating.

It’s personal. I wait for the rebuke again.

Instead, Galen spins a grapefruit half and picks up his spoon. He’s frowning, his broad forehead pinched, as he stares at his super healthy breakfast. “I needed a moment.”

After what happened in the hall? Does that mean he didn’t have a date? I need to know.

“Alone?” I rasp.

Blue eyes bore into mine. I shiver, the pen creaking in my grip. “Yes,” my boss says at last. “Alone.”

I should feel better, but I don’t. Because all of yesterday afternoon, I missed Galen so badly, and it’s a good thing this office is tiled, because I would’ve worn a hole in the world’s sturdiest rug with all of my pacing.

And I’m still mad at him for the way he spoke to me, and embarrassed about that fact, and I’ve lost all track of what’s normal and what’s not.

We’ve always had a strange relationship—closer than the usual boss-assistant bond. We’ve been confidantes. Friends and allies. And I’ve always loved that fact, but now I wish there was a manual for this conversation.

Galen pushes to his feet with a sigh. He nudges the plate with the grapefruit halves away from the edge of his desk, spinning the spoon around until it’s at three o’clock. He always does that.

“I don’t even like grapefruit,” he tells me as he strolls across the office, hands tucked in his pockets. “Too sour.”

He’s getting closer. Those broad shoulders brush against olive tree branches as he walks, the leaves whispering against his fancy clothes. Are they soft? They look like they might be.

“Why do you eat them, then?” My palms are clammy around this pen. Does this confession mean we’re okay? It feels like we’re reading the lines for one conversation, but really having another.

A broad shoulder shrugs. “I’m an old man, Kara.”

“Not that old.”

“And if I don’t take care of myself, I’ll age even faster.” His tone is light, but Galen’s eyes are solemn as they watch me. He comes to a stop right in front of my desk.