After rereading the same page for the third time that evening, Mick tossed the script from Paramount on the coffee table in disgust. Attempting to work was pointless. Night had fallen and still Rachel hadn’t returned. He stood, scrubbed his face and scalp with his hands, hoping the massaging motion would dispel the unease that had been building in his gut since midday. The movement didn’t disperse it. Shit. This woman is too much of a distraction. Normally he would have plowed his way through a couple of scripts in the amount of time he’d spent stuck on this one. He glanced at his watch. Nine forty-five. Does she have a boyfriend? Is that where she is? A husband, perhaps? That’s probably it. She’s having a day with family or friends. He sat back down, made his body relax. It’s crazy how little I actually know about her. He leaned forward and picked up the script. What a weird world I now inhabit, Mick mused. Open my door and let an absolute stranger live in my house. Naturally, the employment agency would vet any applicant they sent over. But how thorough were their checks? She could be a bloodthirsty psychopath, for all I know. The thought made him smile. If there was one thing Rachel wasn’t, it was a bloodthirsty psychopath. The woman was an intriguing mix, the bulletproof veneer with a bruised vulnerability and an almost innocence underneath. Mick’s mind flipped to the memory of Wednesday night. He couldn’t enter his study without seeing her there in that pale-pink robe, sneakers slipped off, feet tucked under her, cheeks flushed as she scribbled down notes. Rachel had typed the notes after he had returned to his bed, and they were in a neat pile, along with a USB flash drive, waiting in the entryway hall when he left for work the next morning. The notes were perfect. On the heels of that memory came the image of Rachel leaving that morning. He had cracked open his bathroom window to let the steam from the shower out and saw her exiting her apartment. There had been a bounce in her step. It was as if he could feel joy shimmering in the air around her. He had watched her, razor in his hand, suds on his face dripping down his neck. The towel wrapped around his waist was no match for his body’s visceral reaction to her. There was something about this woman that captured his attention and made it difficult to look away. He’d watched her descend the stairs, looking lighter and more carefree than he’d previously seen her. For a split second he’d found himself holding his breath, hoping she would cross the driveway, knock on his door, and invite him to ride shotgun. She hadn’t. Of course. She’d gotten into her car.