Published and formatted by Blue Eyed Books.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters and events in this book are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons both living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

For Ever, second edition

Star-Crossed City, book 2

Copyright © 2025 by Ari Wright

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author.

ISBN: 979-8-9914464-3-3

eISBN: 979-8-9914464-4-0

Cover Art: Sonia Garrigoux

Graphic Design: Blue Eyed Books

To my grandmothers.

Your wit, wisdom, and worry have made me.

Thank you for everything…

…including all your prayers for my soul after you read this book.

xx

for ever playlist

cinderella’s dead - EMELINE

Thing of Beauty - Danger Twins

Bejeweled - Taylor Swift

Trampoline (JAUZ remix) - SHAED, Jauz

BO$$ - Fifth Harmony

Daddy Issues - The Neighbourhood

Got Me Started - Troy Sivan

Glory Box - Portishead

Hey Mami - Sylvan Esso

NIGHTS LIKE THIS - The Kid LAROI

STRUT - EMELINE

Dolce N Gabbana - KevGee

Lavender Haze - Taylor Swift

NBK - Niykee Heaton

Café Mocha - Jesse Cook

Embrace It - Ndotz

Forever - Noah Kahan

Beautiful (ft. Camila Cabello) - Bazzi, Camila Cabello

Ecstacy - $queebs

Cupid - FIFTY FIFTY

Honey - TRACE

Love Yourself (Short Reprise) - Sufjan Stevens

Get Good (Infinitefreefall remix) - St. South

Louder - Katéa

follow along here!

a note from ari

HELLO BEAUTIFUL READER!

This story and these characters are very near and dear to my heart. Their story is sweet, but a few of the themes surrounding it are not.

Please be sure to check the content/trigger warnings before you proceed. I’ve included them in their own section at the back of the book to avoid spoilers for those who elect not to read them.

I also wanted to include a little note about our main character, Juliet. Because English is her second language, some of her thoughts and interactions with her family are written in Spanish, without in-line translation. This is very much done intentionally, as Juliet would obviously not translate her native language into her second language during conversation.

Most of these parts are small exclamations that will likely be familiar to most readers. Just in case, there is a short translation guide on the next page to help!

Sending lots of love and gratitude!

translation guide

abuela: grandmother

Abuelita: nickname; “Nana”

ajiaco: Colombian chicken soup

amado/amada: beloved

ay Dios mío/ay Dios: oh my God/oh God

ayúdame Dios: God help me

carajo: fuck

carajo con ese cabron: “Fuck this guy.”

gracias a Dios: thank God

hermano/hermanito: brother/little brother

lo siento: I’m sorry

maldición: damn it

Mami: nickname; “Mommy”

mierda: shit

mija: my daughter

muñeca: nickname; “doll”

nada: nothing

nadie: nobody

necesito: need

Papi: nickname; “Daddy”

pero no: but no

pinchao: nickname/insult; “pretty boy”

por favor: please

primo/prima: cousin

primo mayor: older cousin, “big cousin”

puta loca: crazy bitch

que carajo?: “What the fuck?”

que gonorrea: Colombian insult, “Look at this fucking guy.”

tio/tia: uncle/aunt

vamos: come on/let’s go

prologue

Cinderella is an idiot.

I remember the first time I saw the movie. I was seven, new to America, and just fluent enough to understand the English version of the classic film.

I watched it on the floor of my abuela’s tiny apartment, over the tailor shop, while she worked below. It was only a few weeks after she took me from her son, my father—so maybe I was a bit more jaded than the average seven-year-old girl.

But, honestly. Who wrote that mierda?

A man, of course.

But I digress.

I watched the animated movie alone in our cramped apartment. As the story unfolded, I just could not understand. Was I misinterpreting the language? Or perhaps missing some sort of cultural cue?

Or was Cinderella truly just a weak ass bitch?

There were no imaginable circumstances under which I would suffer through years and years of abuse at the hands of my own family in order to… what? Have some dusty attic room full of mice?

How, pray tell, is that an improvement upon being alone but being free? Why would anyone trade their dignity just to be able to say they weren’t lonely? What’s so wrong with independence?

I watched on, thinking I must have been missing something. Surely, the heroine of one of the world’s most classic love stories wouldn’t just lie back and take this crap. Certainly, she would do something to save herself.

Pero no.

She slaved away without a peep until a random fairy godmother gave her a makeover—a temporary makeover… as if someone with magical powers couldn’t have given the girl some setting spray—and then she crashed a party, met a guy, and didn’t even tell him her name, but somehow fell in love with him?!

What kind of utter lunacy? I mean, truly.

I began steeling myself for the tragic ending—the big life lesson I knew must have come at the end of this sordid tale.

Well, we all know how it ends. In fireworks and true love and forever-afters.

The credits rolled. I sat open-mouthed on Abuelita’s floor, completely dismayed.

Because I may have been seven years old, but I had seen enough in life to know the truth. That women who take abuse, get more abuse. That men don’t show up to save you in your darkest hour. That no one—not one single person—can rescue you from your own choices.

Cinderella wasn’t a heroine. She was pathetic.

And I would do better.

one

It’s amazing how often I wake up to an argument.

Abuelita goes in on Marco before I even open my eyes. And because our small two-bedroom apartment above the tailor shop has paper-thin walls, I hear every word.

Marco showed up to drive me into the city and, from what I gather, my poor primo didn’t eat breakfast first.

Big mistake.

Abuelita isn’t having it. She shoves some eggs and a plate of empanadas at him. He keeps telling her he isn’t hungry. But soon chewing garbles my cousin’s deep voice.

When I emerge from my room, stepping right into the small apartment’s kitchen, Marco is, in fact, eating. Begrudgingly ripping bites out of a beef empanada as he watches Abuelita fuss over the stove.

The look on his face feels all too familiar—some blend of exasperation and undying affection. Only Abuelita can force my 6’5” bodyguard cousin to sit down and eat his eggs.

She mutters to herself as she stirs a pot of soup. “Se parece un pollito flaco, pero no quieres tu desayuno? Ay Dios mío...”

Snickering, I kiss her weathered cheek and pat her stooped shoulders. “Buenos días, Abuelita.” I shoot Marco a look as he glowers at me. “I would love some breakfast.”

Abuelita grumbles something about how I always try to make her use English, but passes me a plate of empanadas nonetheless. I reach for the French press beside Marco’s plate, plucking up the last of the coffee before he snatches it.

I pour the dark-roast into the mug waiting at my place and nod at our grandmother. “She needs to practice her English. Junior is quite insistent.”

“Hombrecillo mucoso. Quiere inglés? Tengo una palabra en ingles—asshole.”

Marco smirks at Abuelita’s curse, but turns his keen eyes on me. While I scarf down half of my empanada, he asks, “He’s still giving her grief?”

The owners of the tailor shop below our apartment—a Colombian family like ours—recently handed the reins over to their third-generation grandson. Junior now insists that Abuelita only converse with customers in English. It wouldn’t bother me if he also held the young, single girls working there to the same standard.

Marco’s face says it all—he will gut Junior like a fish. As a newly-minted lawyer, though, I have other ideas. Legal ones.

“I’m monitoring it,” I murmur, sighing as Abuelita continues her diatribe… completely in Spanish, of course.

Marco shoves the rest of his empanada into his mouth and speaks around it. “You know you only have ten minutes, right?”

I down my remaining coffee in one gulp. “Carajo.”

Wincing, I rush to my feet and hurry past Abuelita. Her thickly-accented voice chases me into my room. “At the back of your door, muñeca. I put your dresses.”

“On,” Marco corrects gently. “On the back of the door.”

“Is what I said,” Abuelita tosses back, already returning to her stove.

Smiling to myself, I shut the hollow slab and find Abuelita’s latest offering—four handmade dresses, in an array of bright colors.

My heart gives a pang at the various hues. It would never occur to her that orange or hot pink would not be appropriate for my new job. She simply chooses shades she knows I love.

Not wanting to hurt her feelings, I select the most acceptable of the bunch—a dark, berry red. Long-sleeved, with a square neckline and a slit up the back, it toes the line between professional and provocative... maybe a little too closely.

I step into it anyway. A woman with a straighter figure could easily get away with any of these dresses.

And that pisses me off.

Out of spite, I eschew my usual nude sling-backs for a matching pair of dark-red platform heels and clasp an eye-catching gold chain around my throat. One look in the mirror tells me I’m probably a smidge over the line…

But I’ve never been one to do things in half-measures.

When I step back into the kitchen, Marco examines my outfit with wary eyes. “That? For work?”

“So women with certain body types have to dress differently than other women?” I shoot back. “For what possible purpose? In order to avoid breaking men’s fragile grasp on basic human decency? Anyone who doesn’t approve of me wearing this dress because I have an ass can fight me.”

Marco pours a fresh round of coffee, snagging paper cups off the top of the yellowed refrigerator. He smirks as he offers me one while holding up his other hand in surrender. “All right, prima. Consider my question withdrawn.”

With a shrug of his massive shoulders, he slips a black jacket over his equally dark button-down. “I just wondered if there is some sort of dress code inside the office. Grayson just wants me in basic black suits.”

Marco gets a lot of face-time with our boss. They’re on a first-name basis and everything.

It might annoy me, if Marco wasn’t the one who slipped my resume to the CEO of Stryker & Sons in the first place.

Carrying a ball of gold fabric under her arm, Abuelita shuffles back down the hall. “Wear with this,” she tells me. “Matchings.”

“Matches,” Marco and I both amend.

Abuelita places the flashy coat in my arms and pinches both of our cheeks as she hobbles between us. “Is what I said.”

Today calls for the largest of the company’s luxury SUVs, apparently. I follow Marco to the matte white car, stepping up into the passenger seat as he takes the driver’s.

The decadent scent of leather mingles with the pungent aroma of our coffees. I sit back against the plush interior, sighing. “What’s on your agenda today?”

Marco shakes his head, gazing impassively out the front windshield as he merges us into traffic. “Nice try.”

The Strykers’ schedule is a closely-guarded secret, even for employees. In my two weeks at the company, I’ve learned that meetings with the company’s CEO often don’t appear on our calendars until the day of—and, usually, they don’t mention him by name.

“Whose side are you on?” I demand, only half-kidding.

He shoots me a stern primo mayor look. “The side of both of us keeping our jobs.”

I fold my arms and sigh, unable to argue with that logic. I have to admit, I admire his devotion. I know it’s a rare trait… especially for men.

My cousin truly makes an ideal security director. Steadfast as can be, he combines muscled strength, sharp eyes, and a quick mind into one neat package.

When he started working for Mr. Stryker, the position wasn’t all that prestigious. But as his father edged into retirement, Grayson Stryker took over the role of CEO for their family’s illustrious development firm. Marco’s job altered accordingly, and he went from acting as a chauffeur for a trust-fund-baby/college student, to directing security and transportation for an entire company.

The scope of his influence still stuns me. When he suggested giving my information to Mr. Stryker, I only agreed because I figured it couldn’t hurt. I never expect Mr. Stryker to personally call me in for an interview and give me the last in-house junior counsel position in his legal department.

According to Marco, such personal attention to detail is typical for our boss. He often remarks on the young CEO’s noble character, and convinced me to take the position by detailing how good Mr. Stryker is to his employees.

So far, I’m impressed. The staff seems happy, the pay is highly competitive, and personal time is strictly enforced. The office is always spotless, calm, and humming with industrious energy. On the handful of occasions I’ve met Mr. Stryker, he more than returns the respect others afford him.

I nudge Marco’s elbow with mine. “Thanks again for hooking me up.”

He smiles broadly, reminding me why all the girls in our barrio constantly crushed on him growing up. “You deserved the job,” he tells me. “Top of your class at NYU Law? And he wanted someone bilingual. Frankly, I think they’re lucky to have you. Though I did wonder why you suddenly changed your mind about corporate law.”

The answer is simple, but the word feels bitter in my mouth.

Money.

“Immigration reform is still my passion,” I murmur instead, watching our neighborhood disappear behind us as we descend into the Queens-Midtown tunnel.

Darkness engulfs the car, so I get away with a half-truth. “It’s prudent to cultivate a diverse resume. Five years with Stryker should give me enough experience in corporate law to lend some credibility when I turn to non-profit work.”

And it will give me enough cash to save Mami.

Marco’s fingers drum on the steering wheel. “I guess that makes sense.” He gestures to my new dress. “Abuelita’s coming along, then?”

Our grandmother hates that I sold out and took a corporate job. We fought about it constantly over the holidays, right up until the morning of my first day at Stryker & Sons… when I found a brand-new, hand-stitched navy suit hanging on our fridge.

Abuelita simply shrugged, like she had no clue where the outfit came from, and muttered, “Eh, something to wear,” in Spanish. We haven’t spoken about it since.

I wonder if she changed her tune because of my first paycheck. The signing bonus alone was almost five figures—enough to pay our rent, all our bills, a few debts, and leave plenty for me to tuck away in my new savings account.

It will only take a handful of months for that account to hold enough to hire an expert immigration attorney to get my mother her long-awaited Green Card.

As much as Abuelita loathes the “greedy bastards” who run Manhattan, she’s always been a pragmatic woman. She’s forgiven me, now that she understands why I chose to compromise my morals.

“She saw our bank account and bought steak to make this weekend,” I tell Marco, sighing. “I think that’s about as close as I’m going to get to her admitting I was right.”

Marco turns to me as we clear the tunnel and cold winter light fills the car. “Abuelita’s making steak?”

I have to laugh at his expression. “And ceviche. Sunday after church.”

He groans. “So we have to go to church to get the food? Diabolical.”

He’s right. Abuelita is a woman with a plan.

I come by it honestly.

two

It’s hard to tell exactly how fucked I am.

But the fact remains, I definitely should not have been there.

That didn’t stop me from lying about having an appointment with a dentist. It didn’t stop me from hailing a cab and taking it up to Midtown instead of over to Wall Street.

And it doesn’t stop me from throwing $50 at the driver and striding up to the building like I own the place.

I figure—Grayson is my best friend and he owns the place.

So. Close enough.

The lobby of Stryker & Sons brings elegant minimalism into this century. A twisting cylindrical building, with a base that sprawls fifty yards in every direction. Snow-white marble covers the expanse, gleaming in the gray January sunshine.

I focus on the central point of the monochromatic scape—a wide, obsidian vein that starts in the center of the room and stretches toward the elevators into a gaping yawn of onyx.

And there, amid all the dark stone, I see her.

A bolt of heat snakes down my spine, stopping me mid-stride. My hands fist in my pockets while my eyes follow the blatantly sensual sway of her hips.

Hot damn.

Have I ever seen such a dirty girl before? My cock tells me no—but he is a notoriously fickle bastard. Surely, she isn’t the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. I’ve dated famous supermodels. Visited brothels in Thailand and Amsterdam’s famed Red-Light District.

Why, then, does this random woman stop me in my tracks?

Is it the red dress?

I have to admit, the color appeals to me. Like a bull reacting to the crimson flash of a matador’s cape.

But I refuse to believe I’m that easy.

No, it must be the way the cut follows every line of her dangerous curves. Lethal curves.

At least from the back…

Deep red fabric skims over her thighs and covers an absolutely stunning ass. Up higher, it nips into a tight, thick waist before flaring up top to accommodate two ripe, round breasts.

The slit in the back offers a tantalizing glimpse of her thighs. Bare—which is curious, considering the twenty-degree weather outside. Almost as intriguing as the gold coat draped over her arm. A shimmering “notice-me” signal.

All signs pointing to a girl who wants it. Bad.

My body moves of its own volition, clipping across the floor with too much haste to maintain my usual air of detachment. I can’t stop, though.

The elevator opens, and I guess I step in. All I know is I’m there, and so is she. The matte black doors slide closed at my back.

My gaze rolls over the front of her.

My mouth waters.

Jesus.

The square neckline of that godforsaken dress might as well be a frame for the perfect caramel swells of her cleavage—outlined by dark crimson fabric on three sides and the thick gold chain clasped around the base of her throat.

And what a picture they make. Art—plain and simple.

I stare. Gape, really.

And she notices. Of course. Because I’m the only other person on the damn elevator, and I haven’t even bothered to pick a floor.

“Excuse me?”

Ah, shit.

Without a word, I turn and hit the top button—Stryker & Sons’ executive floor—before shoving my hand back into my pocket, fisting it around my phone again.

The air grows awkward, but I decide not to answer her. It’s one elevator ride. A minute, at most. A stranger I never have to see again. I slip my phone out of my pocket and move to swipe it open.

“Excuse me.”

That time, the sharp edge of her voice instantly turns my head. Her breasts leap out at me again, drawing my focus before I even have a chance to glance at her face.

They really are exceptional.

Fuck me.

A husky, humorless laugh slices through the confined space. “You wish, asshole.”

Christ. Did I say that out loud?

Irritated with myself for my exaggerated attraction—and her for picking such an insanely hot dress—I scoff, “Baby, if you don’t want to be fucked, maybe you shouldn’t dress like you do.”

WHAP.

Her palm connects with the side of my face, backed by stinging force. The shock of it finally jolts me from my gawking. Automatically, my eyes fly to her flushed, furious face.

That gorgeous, flushed, furious face.

Golden eyes snap with fire, lending her lush frown true ferocity. A dark blush stains her high, wide cheekbones, highlighting the diamond shape of her face and the way it tapers to a pointed, defiant chin.

Her gaze bores into mine, unrelenting. So fiercely revolted that I feel it scrape at my insides. If I ever wondered what true hatred looks like, now I know.

It is a fearsome, beautiful sight to behold.

While I stare, the heat blazing in her golden depths cools into disdain. She reaches up as if to deliver another blow.

And—goddamn it—I flinch.

Victory lights her gaze and plays at the corners of her full, wide lips. Instead of striking me, she merely reaches for the control panel and hits a button somewhere in the forties. It doesn’t even occur to me to look at the directory and check which floor she chose. I’m too busy fuming.

“Are you aware,” I growl, “that you just assaulted me?”

But she simply tosses her dark, glossy hair back as the elevator glides to a halt. Cocking a single brow, she shoots me a derisive look over her shoulder. “Sue me.”

three

There is a Colombian phrase Abuelita mutters from time to time.

Que gonorrea.

It basically means: “Look at this fucking guy.”

I mumble it to myself as I step off the elevator eight floors early and make a beeline for the service stairs.

Normally, such blatant attention from a man like the one on the elevator would stir my interest. But something about him instantly pissed me off. I try to put my finger on it as I climb the remaining eight floors.

Was it the way he didn’t even have the courtesy to pretend not to stare at my boobs? The small, sardonic smirk tugging at his lips as he ignored me? The obvious wealth evidenced by his outfit?

A cerulean-blue three-piece suit, offset by his silky red tie and pocket square. Why does that bother me so much?

I hate the way he took such obvious care with his clothing, yet let his dark-chocolate grow hair long enough to curl against his bright white collar. Not to mention the days’ worth of stubble spread over the expanse of his solid, slashing jaw.

And his eyes.

I’ve never seen a pair so dark.

Colorless. Feral, almost.

The sound of the front desk buzzing me through derails my train of thought. I blow out a big breath and push the door to the fiftieth floor open.

Game face, I coach internally. You’ve got this.

Setting my features into an impassive mask, I stride onto the executive floor and make a left into the legal department.

The building’s cylindrical layout doesn’t lend itself to a traditional office setup. Instead of cubicle grids or long hallways with closed office doors, a wide, open space occupies the center of the floor. To capitalize on the stunning views of Manhattan, smoked glass separates our departments into individual pods instead of walls.

I walk through the wide arch that feeds into our department and subtly run my gaze across the row of executive suites at the back of the space. Mercifully, my boss, Dominic’s, light is on—meaning he’s already arrived and hopefully won’t walk past my desk.

Relieved, I drop into my chair and turn on my lamp. Grateful there are no witnesses, I shove the flashy gold coat into the drawer where I also stash my purse.

The other junior associates aren’t in yet. I always make a point to beat them to work. I’m also the youngest attorney in the division by at least five years. And the only woman. And the only Latina.

My colleagues are all Ivy League graduates. And men. And late.

Fancy that.

I manage to make myself two shots of espresso while my MacBook boots up. Sipping my coffee, I pull the day’s agenda from our department’s shared drive and peruse it. I nearly choke when I see a new item slotted in for nine a.m.

A boardroom meeting.

Those only mean one thing.

I have to figure out a way in.

Before I can plot, my boss appears, leaning against the side of my desk and staring down my dress.

I suppose if Dominic Carter wasn’t a colossal sleaze, he might be sort of handsome. Somewhere in his forties, he sports a fit build and a head of salt-and-pepper hair cropped short. An average, decent-looking man who clearly thinks the world of himself.

“Juliet,” he purrs, the corners of his eyes creasing as he grins at my breasts. “That dress is sensational.”

Ordinarily, I play along. But the elevator incident put me over my daily threshold for male nonsense. I ignore his compliment in favor of a question.

“Heading to the meeting with Mr. Stryker?” I ask. Casually. As if I wasn’t blindsided by the news seconds ago.

Dominic sighs at me. “Only here two weeks, and you’re already better prepared than any of the other guys.” He waves his arm at the empty desks. His gaze flickers back to my neckline as he speaks to my boobs.

“I guess that means you get to sit in.”

four

“Graham Everett.”

Grayson’s personal assistant greets me with a deep frown. Her sharp gray eyes match the tight silver bun at the back of her head. And her dour expression goes perfectly with her joyless black suit—one of a hundred, I’m convinced.

In addition to a never-ending stream of ugly office wear, Beth also seems to possess an infinite supply of disapproval. Shaking her head at me, she rounds her desk and draws herself into a formidable stance—quite the feat for someone three times my age and a foot shorter than me.

“You know you’re supposed to wait down in the lobby and let me buzz you up,” she chides. “There are security protocols for a reason, young man.”

“I—”

Her gaze cuts into mine, silencing me. “And I won’t have you derailing his schedule today,” she continues, reaching out to smooth her wrinkled hand over my Brioni tie. “No more of your three-hour lunches. He has someone special waiting for him at home now, and besides that, he is a CEO. He must act like one.”

Grayson exits his office and appears behind her, smirking. “She gives me the same lecture at least once a week,” he chuckles. Beth huffs a long-suffering sigh and turns to adjust his tie as well.

“Did you get that suit off a corpse?” I ask my best friend, eyeing the charcoal material and matching tie. “Or are you working for the Secret Service now?”

Grayson inspects his sleeves, unbothered by my critique. “Ella’s favorite. It’s Armani.”

“It’s boring as fuck,” I correct, only to have his secretary shoot me a glare. That is another one of her rules: no profanity in the office. “I mean boring as frick. Do excuse me.”

Excuse me.

The words remind me of my elevator encounter. I shift on my feet, wondering if the semi I’ve been sporting since the lobby will abate any time soon.

Probably not as long as you keep picturing her tits. And ass.

“You’re excused,” Beth snaps, eyeing me like I’m a fox in her hen house. Which… fair. “Now, both of you run along to the conference room. It’s five after nine, and the first group is waiting. The next set will be in at ten.”

Grayson’s green eyes lit up. “Including⁠—”

Beth’s mouth almost flits up at the corners. “Including the future Mrs. Stryker, yes.”

She dismisses us, and we turn toward the archway that leads out to the main floor. “Two meetings?” I say, looking at him askance.

Grayson nods at someone as we walk past. “Professional and personal.”

“Which set am I? You told me to block out nine until eleven.”

His smile turns ominous. “You’re both.”

Gradually, his meaning sinks in. “Oh God. You had me haul my balls all the way up here for wedding planning?”

He laughs, steering us toward the single largest room on the floor. “Not entirely. The first hour will focus on my personal holdings, finances… and investments.” He shoots me a pointed look. “That’s where you come in.”

I do my best to keep a straight face. But inside, my stomach lurches.

You shouldn’t be here. Damn, my conscious sounds raspy. Like its voice is hoarse from lack of use. You made a promise.

But it wasn’t a promise in writing. And it isn’t a promise that benefits me. So why should I care?

Because he’s your father, the voice hisses. Because you gave him your word.

Yes, I did.

But, unfortunately for dear old Dad, he and I are cut from the same (flimsy) cloth.

My grandfather was a famous investment banker, known for his ability to triple even the most obscenely wealthy’s bottomline. He started our family firm, Everett Alexander. Grandfather brought my father, Hugh, on board when he was my age.

The elder Everett passed away some years ago, but before that, they steadily produced amazing returns for their clients. And made themselves very wealthy in the process.

Now, it’s my turn.

At least, I think so.

But Dad believes I need to earn my place by doing grunt work. He gave me the CFO title but, instead of assigning me clients of my own, he stuck me in an old storage room to molder with filing cabinets full of tax forms. I spend my days with archived account books, entering records into our computer system line-by-line so we can eventually go paperless.

That is my life—data entry. And boredom so dire I swear one day I’ll just drop dead at my desk.

But I’m a licensed trader.

An Ivy League finance graduate.

And Graham Fucking Everett.

If he won’t give me real clients from the firm, I’ll find my own.

Clients like Grayson Stryker, the youngest billionaire in Manhattan.

“So I’m your broker for the next fifty-three minutes, and then I’m your bitch boy?” I quip, yanking the conference room door open.

Grayson strides past me, as unruffled as ever. “I think they call it ‘best man.’ Although, ‘bitch boy’ has a nice ring to it.”

The boardroom is just as colorless and modern as the rest of the office—white walls to the left and right match the marble floor, and a massive conference table lined with clear acrylic rolling chairs.

At least the curved wall of windows offers a staggering view of Midtown—specifically, St. Patrick’s Cathedral and the urban sprawl beyond. I keep my eyes trained on it as I drop into the seat nearest to the door.

Grayson makes his way to the head of the table, throwing out introductions as he goes. “Good morning, everyone. This is my friend and fellow Columbia grad, Graham Everett. For the purposes of this meeting, he’ll be acting as my broker. Graham, this is my accountant, Milton Boyle. My head of real estate acquisitions, Beatrice Dunn. My director of legal, Dominic Carter, and our newest junior counsel, Juliet Rivera.”

My eyes follow his words, sliding from one new face to the next. Until they finally land on the person next to me.

On her.

The woman in the red dress.

Jesus.

At least now I know just how fucked I really am.

five

The look on this smug bastard’s face is priceless.

Part of me longs to call him out and humiliate him. Part of me wants to slap his right cheek so it matches the left.

You’re a professional, I remind myself. Even if he isn’t.

In the end, I settle on complete and total indifference. By the time his wild eyes touch mine, I might as well be made of ice. He stares, horrified, until Dominic reaches across my chest to offer his hand, brushing my cleavage as he goes.

The two men shake hands. I know I have to extend mine as well, but the thought of touching him again flips my stomach. I ruthlessly tamp down my nerves.

“Mr. Everett, is it?” I ask, reaching out.

His hand grips mine with more strength than I expect, given his pretty-boy outfit. A charge skirts up my arm, raising goosebumps on my skin.

“Miss Rivera.”

Those fathomless black eyes run over my features and flit down to my boobs one last time before snapping back to mine. Molten heat shifts in his dark depths. Irritation fills the space around his full mouth as he lies, “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

I can’t help the small, mean smirk twisting my lips. “Oh, likewise.”

Around us, the others settle in. Someone asks Mr. Stryker about his upcoming weekend plans; while they chat, Graham casually leans into the charged space between our seats.

“‘Sue me,’” he quotes, muttering as he trains his gaze on the view across from us. “And you’re an attorney. Cute.”

The memory of my own private joke nearly breaks my concentration. I swallow a mocking laugh. “If you think that’s cute,” I murmur, “then maybe a sexual harassment suit would be downright adorable.”

His head turns toward me. I resist the urge to look back. Despite his repugnant personality, I find his appearance fascinating.

His gentlemanly clothing; those wild, impassioned eyes; the indolent way he speaks and carries himself. So many contradictions. Inconsistencies the lawyer in me longs to resolve.

Graham opens his mouth to speak, but Mr. Stryker begins the meeting in earnest. He blows out a breath and rubs his hand over the back of his neck, a gesture that instantly makes him seem more approachable.

His chiseled lips quirk into a rueful smile. “I’ll be real with all of you and say: I feel uncomfortable commandeering your work time to discuss my personal finances and holdings. So I’d like to offer you an out. If any of you would prefer to return to your company business and leave me to fend for myself, I have nothing but respect for that. Frankly, I don’t want to spend an hour talking about me, either.”

His accountant and Everett chuckle. They clearly knew the intent of the meeting before they agreed to attend.

The real estate acquisitions manager and I exchange a brief glance—as the only women in a room with the CEO, we don’t care what the meeting is about. We aren’t leaving.

“All right,” Mr. Stryker says, nodding. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He waves his hand, and his omnipresent PA begins passing out tablets. Mr. Stryker winces slightly. “For security purposes, we’re not able to distribute this information on paper. The iPads are encrypted and password protected. You’ll each have access to a set of data as it pertains to your specialty.”

He gestures to the blank white space behind me and then taps a few things on his own iPad. The wall flickers to life as a projection of an MLS listing pops up. It’s a townhome… a thirty-three-million-dollar townhome on the Upper West Side.

“Miss Dunn,” Mr. Stryker clips, taking his seat. “You’re up.”

The real estate woman looks about my age. She clearly knows what she is doing—her fingers fly over her screen as she pulls up the information she needs and rises to her feet.

With a shoulder-length head of shimmery auburn waves and a wide, white smile, she commands our attention easily. Her navy jumpsuit and short, matching blazer give her a trendy air of professionalism. It also highlights her lithe, willowy figure. I find myself fighting the urge to glance at Everett and see if he’s ogling her the same way he gawked at me.

Beatrice Dunn reviews the property for us. It seems like a huge place for a bachelor—and on the “wrong” side of the island for a Midtown executive. But it’s a gorgeous prewar building, completely renovated throughout and full of charming architectural quirks.

Every time I look at the price, my stomach squirms.

Beatrice taps again. “Projected returns within five years fall somewhere in the neighborhood of thirteen million dollars.”

Everett’s voice comes as a surprise from the place beside me. “And Stryker’s condo on the East Side?” he interjects, drawing my eyes.

Instead of his tablet, he has a legal pad in his lap. His right hand scratches notes as he waits for Beatrice’s reply.

Numbers, I realize. He does math while he listens.

“I have an offer going under contract next week for nineteen million,” she answers coolly.

Everett flashes a quick smile, turning on his charm to soothe the sting of his interruption. “Great, thanks.”

Beatrice gives a dismissive bob of her chin and turns to address me and Dominic. “The contracts for both of these properties should be on your tablets. They need to be reviewed and approved as soon as possible.”

I look at the application on my screen, wishing I’d had time to familiarize myself with the program in advance. It seems simple enough, though—a few taps lead me to the main menu, then a section clearly titled “contracts.” There are several documents stored within, but only two with addresses in their titles.

“I’m with you,” I tell her, pulling up the condo contract. “I assume the West Side property will be the top priority?”

Beatrice smiles warmly at me. “Naturally.”

“And the East Side sale; standard conveyances?” I confirm, scanning the relevant section of the document.

Mr. Stryker cuts in. “Yes. It all goes.”

I nod and turn to Dominic for his answering directives… only to find my boss fumbling with his screen. “I don’t have either document.”

Without much thought, I reach over and navigate his way to the same list I had. “There,” I tell him, pointing. “Third from the top.”

Mr. Stryker checks his watch. I sense that the motion indicates he’s losing his patience. “Don’t sweat it, Carter. Miss Dunn will confer with Miss Rivera. I’m sure she’s more than capable of two contract reviews.” A frown mars Mr. Stryker’s brow. He gives me a sincere look. “Unless you have other plans this weekend, Miss Rivera.”

Aside from church and steak, I don’t. But I appreciate his consideration either way. “Not a problem,” I demur. “Real estate moves at warp speed in this city. We have to be quick to stay competitive.”

Mr. Stryker nods. “Well put. Miss Dunn? Get with Miss Rivera after we conclude? I’ll rest easy this weekend knowing you two are on it.”

Beatrice nods again, shooting me a friendly smile while she slides back into her acrylic seat. “I look forward to it.”

“Great,” Mr. Stryker says, turning to the accountant. “Milton, talk to me about property taxes. How screwed am I?”

Mr. Boyle starts his portion of the presentation. Thrilled, I bite back a smile and flag the two contracts in question. They’re the first I’ve been trusted with independently—and they’re Mr. Stryker’s personal properties. It seems like a huge vote of confidence.

Finally, it’s Graham’s turn. Unlike the others, he remains seated, pivoting his chair to address the room at large. His expression looks casual, but a mysterious spark gleams in his eyes. His opening remark seems to surprise everyone.

“When’s the last time you went to a mall?” he starts.

The room remains silent. Graham’s mouth draws up at the corners, lending his handsome features a boyish quality I try not to like. “Anyone?” he prompts, looking at each person in turn before his eyes fall on me. “Miss Rivera?”

I don’t appreciate being put on the spot, but I refuse to quail under his bright black stare. “A true shopping mall?”

I haven’t been to one in ages. As much as it pains me to help him prove his point, I have to admit, “It’s been years.”

Graham gives a decisive nod. “And when’s the last time anyone in this room sent a contract in the mail?”

Beatrice actually snorts. “As in the mail-mail?” Her hazel eyes widen. “I don’t think I’ve ever done that. And I’ve been licensed for years.”

Graham’s cocky smile widens. “Has anyone called a restaurant to make a reservation lately?”

No one replies. With a sardonic smirk, Mr. Stryker shoots his friend a look. “We get it, Everett.”

Graham claps once. “Of course you do. Because it’s common knowledge. Old media, old commerce, old communication. It’s all old. And while we may not be willing to admit it yet, we’re done with it. So why not take our money and put it where it belongs?”

Annoyed, I snap, “Which is…?”

The words pop out before I can stop them. I curl my fingers around the arm of my chair, resisting the urge to press them to my mouth.

Graham’s answering grin renews my goosebumps. It’s somehow smooth as silk yet razor-sharp all at once. “The future, Miss Rivera.”

I don’t have a retort for that. No one does.

Graham takes advantage of the silence, pulling up a graph of market projections. “This is what Wall Street is telling you,” he says, waving a blasé hand at the chart. “They want you to invest in AT&T. Walmart. FedEx. But if we know that the world is changing—or, arguably, has changed—why are these companies still among the most highly recommended for diverse portfolios?”

Again, no one has a response. Graham’s grin returns. He taps his screen. The projections on the wall morph, tripling instantly. “This is what I propose instead,” he concludes. “I’ll let you read for yourselves.”

My eyes scan the projections, noting that none of the stocks are businesses I recognize, but they all sound familiar. My mind reels back to a Wall Street Journal article I read recently.

“Cryptocurrency,” I murmur, narrowing my eyes at the names. “It’s all crypto?”

“Yes, it is,” Graham replies, not looking at me. “Entirely.”

On my other side, Dominic scoffs. “No one deals in cryptocurrency exclusively. The risk is enormous. And with the rates as low as they are now, won’t it take years to get any returns back?”

Mr. Stryker’s green eyes loop over the projections. “I have time. The wait for returns doesn’t disturb me as long as we’re certain there will be returns.” He pins Graham with a searching look. “How sure are you?”

Graham doesn’t so much as blink. “Completely.”

A smile flirts with Mr. Stryker’s features. “Where have I heard that before?” he mumbles to himself, shaking his head good-naturedly. “Say I go for this—how much?”

Again, Graham replies with absolute confidence. “Give me five. I’ll give you back one-fifty in three years.”

Million, my mind squeaks again. One-hundred-and-fifty million?!

Mr. Stryker strokes his forefinger over his jaw while he stares his friend down, considering. Dominic swivels back and forth between the two, aghast. “Surely, you’re not considering taking your entire portfolio in such a volatile direction. Your father always adhered to market projections and⁠—”

Mr. Stryker holds up a staying hand. “I’m aware,” he cuts in, his voice flat. His gaze finally flickers from Graham to Dominic. “But I’m not my father.”

He turns back to Graham. “Do it. Five million of my personal funds. We’ll see where we’re at in six months, and if your strategy proves successful, we’ll discuss the possibility of transitioning Stryker & Sons’ vested interests over to you.”

I want to be a shark. Truly. But I’m sick at the thought of being responsible for so much of someone else’s money. Taking on two high-stakes real estate contracts already seems incredibly intimidating, and all I have to do is review them.

Thank God I’m not writing this contract, I think, running my gaze over the projections again. Too rich for my blood⁠—

“Miss Rivera?”

I look up at the sound of Mr. Stryker’s voice. “Sir?”

He taps at his iPad a few times. My own screen flickers. A deluge of documents appears on top of the two I’ve flagged.

“Since Mr. Carter objects to this change of strategy, I’ll assign my personal Everett Alexander contracts to you. Graham will tell you what he needs in order to initiate the trades. The two of you will need to hammer out some details first. I’ll sign as soon as you’ve come to agreeable terms. Shall we shoot for a week from today?”

Carajo.

Shock obliterates all other thoughts. I must nod, though, because a second later, Mr. Stryker motions to his PA, who makes a note on her notepad. Satisfied, Mr. Stryker offers me a brief but encouraging smile before turning to the rest of the room.

“I think you’ve all suffered enough,” he announces. “There’s a catered lunch coming in at noon. Beth will send an email out when it arrives.”

Just like that?

It feels as if one meeting has launched my career into a different stratosphere. And I’m floating in space, untethered.

I blink down at the list of contracts, still in disbelief.

Game face, Jules. Don’t let them see you sweat, I tell myself. Especially Everett. Not to mention⁠—

A terrible thought finally sinks down through the awe.

Dios mío.

Dominic.

For once, my boss’s eyes aren’t glued to my boobs. Instead, they burn the side of my face with ill-disguised animosity. Scowling, he opens his mouth, only to be cut off by both Graham and Beatrice.

“Miss Rivera—” Graham starts first, but Beatrice grips my elbow and yanks me to my feet, rotating us toward the door.

“Sorry, Mr. Everett,” she says over her shoulder, “These contracts simply must be reviewed today. I’m sure Mr. Carter can give you Miss Rivera’s contact information. You can email her to coordinate your schedules for next week.”

Beatrice leans closer to me, muttering while she fixes her eyes on the exit. “Don’t turn around. I swear to God, smoke is coming out of Dominic’s ears. And that Everett guy looks like he’s about to eat you.” She huffs an agitated breath. “These men, I swear.”

Gratitude floods me. “Thank you,” I murmur back.

“No sweat,” she whispers. “I’m thrilled they hired you. We need more women around here, and you’re clearly twice as smart as balls-for-brains back there.”

I like her more and more by the second.

We make it halfway across the main floor before she turns to me and grins, offering her hand. “I’m Beatrice, by the way. But call me Tris. Beatrice is soooo crusty.”

Giggling, I shake her hand. “Juliet. But my friends call me Jules. And if today is any indication, we should definitely be friends.”

Tris widens her hazel eyes. “Please. I know Mr. Stryker is doing his best to change things up, but this place is such a boys’ club. I swear his father never interviewed a woman for any role apart from administrative⁠—”

She swallows the rest of her sentence on the spot, then pins a bright smile to her lips and speaks through her teeth. “Oh. Here comes Mr. Stryker’s fiancée.”

His fiancée?

That explains the big townhome purchase. And why I never see him check out any of the women in our office. Not that a fiancée would stop some men from behaving like animals.

I shake the thought of Graham Everett out of my mind and pivot to find Beth approaching with a gorgeous blonde beside her. Dressed casually in a slouchy ivory sweater that reveals one freckled shoulder and dark, high-waisted jeans, this woman clearly doesn’t work in the office.

But she also doesn’t look like the fiancée of a mega-mogul. Her basic dove booties and understated pearl earrings certainly don’t scream hundred million. And she carries, of all things, a plastic container full of brownies.

The girl beams at Tris, exuding irresistible, genuine warmth. “Tris!” She throws her arms around the realtor, affording me a flash of the flawless oval diamond gracing her ring finger. “I’m so glad I caught you!”

“Me too!” Tris replies, stepping back to present me. “Jules, this is Ella, Mr. Stryker’s fiancée. Ella, this is Juliet Rivera. She’s a new junior attorney here. We’re just about to go over your townhome contracts.”

Ella blushes brightly. “Oh Lord, the townhome. Obscene, isn’t it?”

Tris’ smile sharpens. “Not for Manhattan’s hottest CEO and his gorgeous bride.”

Ella rolls her deep blue eyes at Tris before sliding them to me. “I can’t tell if she’s an expert saleswoman or I’m an easy mark.”

Recognition suddenly lights her gaze. “Wait—Juliet? As in Marco’s cousin? Oh, he’s told me so much about you! I adore Marco! Gray would be lost without him, seriously. He’s parking the car downstairs, but I think he’s coming up for our meeting.” She chuckles. “So silly. Only Gray would call wedding planning a meeting.”

Gray.

It takes me a moment to realize she’s talking about Mr. Stryker—Grayson Stryker.

Tris touches my arm, her expression sly. “Ella hired my roommate Alice as her wedding planner. They used the meeting this morning to lure Graham here and trick him into discussing best man duties.”

“It’s totally Alice’s idea. She’s a genius!” Ella giggles. “Anyway. How do you like it here, Jules? Are they treating you well, or do I need to kick Gray’s behind?”

A startled laugh escapes. “No, Mr. Stryker is great! I’m so grateful he decided to give me a shot. I know he usually hires people with more experience.”

Tris waves her hand dismissively. “Psh. You crushed that meeting. We’re lucky to have you on board.”

“You’re obviously brilliant,” Ella says kindly, smiling at me and Tris in turn. “Look how you’ve already fallen in with the right people.”

Ella glances around us. Her face turns coy. “So, am I late? Is Gray checking his watch compulsively?”

I swallow a smile when I realize I was right about Mr. Stryker’s watch-checking earlier. Of course he’s impatient—he wants to see his fiancée.

And I don’t blame him. She’s a delight.

“We better let you go before he comes looking for you,” I tease. “Because if he comes out here, he may give me more contracts to review.”

“Okay then,” Ella replies, “For your sake. But come by the break room later and grab a brownie! Assuming the boys don’t eat them all.”

six

“Graham.”

The sound of my name interrupts a fuck-load of very dirty thoughts as I watch Miss Rivera’s hot ass sway out of the conference room.

I face my friend, quirking my brow. His stern glower immobilizes me. “No.”

“Pardon?”

Grayson eyes me shrewdly, not backing down. “No,” he says again.

No fucking the hot new lawyer.

No matter how achingly sexy I find her.

No matter how hard it made me when she interrupted my presentation to ask her bright, cutting questions.

No matter how badly I want to take her back to that goddamn elevator and flatten her up against the black metal doors. 

And I have to meet with her again.

Multiple times.

How in God’s name am I supposed to avoid fucking her?

Discipline, I tell myself. Get a grip, Graham.

I have a multi-million-dollar deal on the table. I need to get my head out of my ass. Or out from between Miss Rivera’s thighs.

I give a single nod, sweeping my notes into a tidy pile. “Understood.”

The starch leaches out of Grayson’s posture, transforming him from a CEO into my best friend. He offers a half-smile. “That was fun, huh?”

Truly? If the layer of sweat drying under my vest is any indication, I’m not nearly as self-assured as I force myself to act. I wonder if anyone can tell.

I make my way to the head of the long table, willing my posture to stay loose. “A thirty-million-dollar townhouse. A five-million-dollar crypto investment.” I shrug. “Typical Friday.”

The accountant scurries off, but Grayson’s attorney lingers until my friend reluctantly turns to him. “Need something, Carter?”

I’ve noticed that Grayson tends to use men’s last names when he doesn’t like them very much. But this Carter guy doesn’t take the hint. He crosses his arms and stares Grayson down. “Will you need me for the next portion of your meeting? I overheard Beth say your fiancée will be in attendance.”

Grayson eyes him warily. “Why would that necessitate your input?”

“We should begin drafting your prenuptial agreement,” Carter scoffs. “Immediately.”

The air around us evaporates, leaving a vacuum of tension.

Oh fuck.

Grayson snarls, biting out his words individually. “There. Will. Be. No. Prenup.”

I do my best to hide the shock that jolts through me. No prenup?

Grayson is worth hundreds of millions; his family and their company—billions. Even if he secures the Stryker wealth by other means, without a prenup, the returns on the investments I broker for Grayson will make his fiancée independently wealthy overnight.

I open my mouth to say as much, but Carter jumps on the grenade before I can. “Mr. Stryker,” he chuckles, the picture of amused arrogance. “I’m sure you’re still learning how this works, but if you’d allow me to explain the implications of entering into a marriage without proper protection⁠—”

“Enough, Carter.” Grayson’s voice cracks like a whip. “I suggest you drop this. Permanently. And perhaps, going forward, your time would be better spent learning the basic technology this company utilizes instead of making assumptions about my personal life. You’re dismissed.”

Sufficiently chastened, Carter stalks off. I start to comment, but Grayson’s no longer paying a speck of attention. Because Ella walks in.

Ugh.

These days, nothing makes me quite as nauseous as being around Grayson and Ella.

I suppose, if I’m being generous, it isn’t really his fault he turns into such a major pussy whenever she walks into a room. After years of longing for The One Who Got Away, he recently recovered the love of his life.

And they’re… happy.

All the time.

No matter what.

Happy.

It’s pitiful, really. The second she appears, his entire world visibly shifts on its axis. He brushes past me, prenup rage forgotten, and closes in on the small blonde standing beside the doorway.

Grayson tucks his fiancée under his arm and kisses her forehead. Mooning down at her, he murmurs something too quiet for me to hear as he skims his fingertips up her cheek. Ella blushes, smiling at him like he personally puts the sun in the sky every morning.

I fend off an instinctual wave of bitterness with humor. “Should I retch here or in the hallway?”

“Hallway,” Grayson replies, not looking at me.

Ella, on the other hand, bends around his body to toss me a beatific smile. “Good morning, shithead.”

Her loving nickname always makes me chuckle, even if I don’t want to. Truly, Ella is impossible to hate. Believe me—I’ve tried.

But if you can’t beat ’em…

Closing the space between us, I lift her hand for a gentlemanly kiss. “At your service.”

Predictably, Grayson scowls and tugs his fiancée’s fingers out of mine. Ever since I hit on her the first time he introduced us, he’s been so touchy. Personally, I think it’s unfair—how can he fault me for flirting with a girl like Ella?

Frowning, she smooths her hands over my shoulders in a motherly gesture. “Graham, have you been eating? I swear these suits get more ostentatious and looser-fitting every time I see you.”

Damn the woman and her sweet, insightful nature. I haven’t been eating very much most days.

She holds up a plastic Tupperware box. “Here. Have a brownie.”

I start to roll my eyes, but Grayson pouts. “Those are my brownies.”

“I made these for everyone,” Ella corrects breezily, offering me one. “You get plenty of brownies at home.”

Just to goad Grayson, I snag two and wink at his fiancée. Making her blush is just so deliciously easy. I can’t resist. “Thank you, gorgeous. Grayson’s always going on and on about your brownies.”

Grayson opens his mouth to bite my head off, but Ella flattens her hand against his chest. Cheeks glowing, she fixes me with a narrow-eyed look. “Pretty soon, I’m going to make you call me Mrs. Stryker, shithead.”

My friend smiles at his fiancée. “Just three more months.”

Christ. Three?

I glance down at her stomach. “Oh shit. Is there a reason we’re rushing?”

Now Grayson turns red. While his ears burn, Ella giggles, smacking my arm. “Graham, I know you’ve never had a single romantic impulse, but try to keep up: We want to get married. That’s why we’re ‘rushing.’ Although, really, a four-month engagement isn’t that rushed.”

Grayson tightens the arm around Ella’s middle. “We’ve wasted enough time,” he murmurs, staring down into her eyes. “If it were up to me, we wouldn’t wait until April. I’d marry her tomorrow.”

Ella grins at him. Her eyes flash with mischief. “But then we wouldn’t be able to torture Graham for the next twelve weeks,” she points out. “And I wouldn’t get my dress.”

Ugh. Dresses and vows and flowers and cake. My Stryker-specific nausea surges.

Grayson cups Ella’s face in his hand. “I want you to have everything you want, Ellie. And I can’t wait to see you in your dress.”

Beaming, Ella bats her lashes at him. “Speaking of me getting my way, I want to ask your new lawyer to get drinks next Thursday with Tris and Alice. We have plans to meet up, and I think Juliet would have fun if she came, too! Is that all right with you?”

Lord God, say no.

“Sure.” Grayson shrugs. “I don’t see why not.”

A sound somewhere between a snort and a scoff bursts out of my mouth. “You can’t be serious. She’s an employee.”

Ella tightens her dark blue gaze. “She’s a person. And I’m thinking she probably hasn’t had a chance to make many friends here yet.”

Grayson crosses his arms at me. “We’re about to sign a contract making you my broker, and we hang out all the time—how is that any worse than Ella spending time with one of our lawyers?”

I can’t explain why I hate the idea so much. “Yeah, but we’ve been friends for years. This chick is a stranger. What if she witnesses something embarrassing? Or if she hears details about the wedding? Isn’t it some sort of big secret affair because of security and shit?”

Ella throws her hair back with an irritated flick. “She’s Marco’s cousin. And she’s bound by attorney-client privilege. I would argue she’s one of the safest people to go drinking with. If she told the press anything she overhead, she could be disbarred.”

Grayson’s shit-eating grin makes my fists clench. “The future Mrs. Stryker is correct. As per usual, shithead.”

seven

“You gonna order or what?”

I press my palms to my bleary, burning eyes and sigh. “More coffee.”

My new waitress is not impressed. “That’s it? Deanne says you’ve been sitting here for hours.”

Deanne’s not wrong. After a torturous pow-wow with Grayson’s wedding planner, I hiked back Downtown just in time to watch my father blow out of our office at noon. I tried to settle myself in my usual windowless room and rectify accounts, but the stagnant air made me claustrophobic.

The idea of working at my apartment didn’t appeal to me either. Instead, I wandered into Katz’s—an old-school deli in the Lower East Side, one block up from my place. After sitting there for the better part of the afternoon and all of the dinner shift, I still can’t get the numbers in front of me to make sense.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I know the books are correct. The deals went through years ago. I’m only reviewing them to be conscientious. And I have a fucking finance degree. I know what I’m doing.

So why can’t I understand them?

Maybe I’m dyslexic. Or attention-deficit. Or just dumb.

A steady stream of weak coffee and angry servers hasn’t helped. But I refuse to admit defeat. And I refuse to allow myself any reprieve until the goddamn math makes sense.

My mood darkens by the hour. It was already shit, thanks to Miss Rivera’s elevator assault. Not to mention my nagging conscience and the pressure of closing my first major deal. But the longer I sit at the metal table, staring into a soup of accounting gibberish, the worse it gets.

“Is that it?” the waitress demands again. “It’s after dinner, and you haven’t ordered any food.”

Unbidden, Ella’s concerned expression pops into my mind. She has a point about my suits fitting looser. Having them all re-tailored would be such a bitch.

“Fine,” I grunt, still glaring at my ledgers. “Pastrami and latkes.”

“Sour cream or applesauce?”

“Both. Obviously.”

She harrumphs and stalks off, but it doesn’t cheer me up. Normally, arguing with strangers amuses me. I enjoy fighting in general. Something about ruffling other people’s feathers while remaining completely calm pleases me. I consider myself unflappable. 

Except when beautiful Latina women slap you.

Growling, I flip back a few pages and re-read the ledger notes for the millionth time, then flip forward again.

Nope. I don’t get it.

Have I lost my mind?

First, I chased down a random woman and basically harassed her in an elevator. In the middle of Midtown, during a work day. Then, I brokered a deal I didn’t have permission to make. Now, I can’t read a basic accounting ledger.

Disgusted with myself, I slam the books shut, only to realize they aren’t the right ones. I’ve pulled them from my usual stack, but the binders are green instead of the typical blue. Who knows what I’ve been looking at?

“Fuck me.”

It’s Friday night, and I’m in a deli. Easting pastrami. Alone.

How the mighty have fallen. Four months ago, I would have been out with Grayson at whatever club no one else could get into, drinking too much in some VIP section and meeting women we had no intention of remembering.

Now, I’m working late and clogging my arteries while he writes love poems to his fiancée’s pussy. Or whatever engaged dudes do to convince themselves they won’t get bored sleeping with the same girl for… ever.

My phone chimes, and I snatch it up. Ever since I got Juliet’s email address from Beth and shot her a few terse lines about arranging our first meeting, I lunge every time I get a notification.

Because you want the contracts signed so you can make a shitload of money, I tell myself. Obviously.

But it isn’t an email from the sexy-ass lawyer. It is an all-too-familiar text.

My stomach sinks, taking my appetite along with it. Even so, I flag down my server and tear my wallet out of my pocket.

“My order?” I mutter. “Double it. And wrap it up to go.”

My dark mood is a black hole by the time I get the food and take a cab to Greenwich Village.

If I didn’t feel like shit, I might find an entertaining sort of irony in my surroundings. Five years ago, these dorms were a familiar hook-up spot for me. I went home with a lot of NYU girls in my college days.

Now—wearing my three-piece suit, holding a briefcase full of account ledgers—the damp dorm hallway feels wrong. The girls seem uncomfortably young. The music is way too loud.

And—God—has it always been so grimy?

I slam my palm against the door with more force. “Chris!” I yell, pounding again. “Let me in, damn it.”

The slab falls away, revealing a cramped rectangular room. Two twin beds occupy the back corners. The desks shoved against the ends of the mattresses are both overflowing—one with laundry, the other with pages and pages of shit.

Pieces ripped out of magazines, printed sheets, loose-leaf covered in scribbles.

And there, hunched over the notes, is my half-brother, Christian.

Before I even step over the threshold, he starts babbling. “—going to be huge, Graham. I swear. I know I’m right about this. You have to look at the markets in Asia to see the trend, but⁠—”

Cocaine tonight.

Some nights, I find him falling in the other direction, down an opioid-induced rabbit hole of depression. I have a hard time deciding which I hate more.

I can’t focus on his words. I’m too preoccupied with the way he twitches and scratches at his wrists. His eyes are normally blue, but they look black in the dim glow of his desk lamp. I step closer and realize it isn’t a trick of light—his pupils are blown.

An instinctive rush of fear trickles through me. The urge to act rises, as strong and noble as ever. You’ve tried, I remind myself. He doesn’t want help.

Still, I start to try to calm him down. “Christian⁠—”

He bounces his leg, continuing his rambles. “—gonna be huge. You have to tell him. He won’t listen to me, but he’ll listen to you. You have to tell your dad.”

“Our dad,” I correct automatically, fighting the heavy sensation spreading through my chest.

“Our dad,” Christian mutters, then gives a humorless smirk. “Right.”

He can’t stop moving. Jiggling his legs, itching his forearms, tugging the sleeves of his sweatshirt, tipping his head back and forth. I recognize the usual symptoms.

Even so, I ask, “What did you take, Chris?”

Christian doesn’t look up from his pages of nonsense. “Bunch of stuff. Here.” He hands me a list covered in a barely visible layer of white powder.

“Chris. Jesus Christ,” I mumble, feeling sick. “Do you need to go to the hospital?”

He shakes his head, but then he can’t stop. He twists it back and forth for a full minute. “I’m fine,” he lies. “Did you bring me food? I smell pastrami.”

It’s incredible that he can smell anything apart from the sharp stench of BO. Then again, he knows to expect a meal when I show up.

It’s our uncomfortable arrangement. Christian uses all of his meager allowance on drugs, forgets to grocery shop, and then texts me for help. I always bring him food. I used to bring him cash, too, but I’ve learned that just leads to more drugs and more texts.

“Katz. I got latkes, too.” I offer him the bag—he can eat both sandwiches. My appetite isn’t going to come back.

He grabs the bag and starts ripping into it. At a loss for words, I wonder when he last ate. I’m guessing it’s been a couple of days because he downs half of a sandwich before I manage to speak.

“Listen, Chris,” I try again. “You need to come with me. If Dad saw you, he would…”

Help? I don’t want to say it because I’m not sure I believe it.

Guilt swamps me. If I were the one with a drug problem, my parents would spare no expense to make me well again. But life has always been different for Christian. He was born four years after me, seven years into my parents’ ill-fated marriage… to a woman who was not my mother.

My father had many affairs throughout the years. I guess Mother usually ignored them. But she couldn’t ignore a bastard, especially when Christian’s mom sued Dad for child support and shared custody.

The lawsuit splashed our family’s drama all over town. Mother never recovered from the humiliation of the whole ordeal. She filed for divorce—to save face, I always suspected. Shortly after, I got a part-time brother.

Luckily, I was too young to really understand what all the fuss was about. After four years of solitude, I thought Christian was a delightful addition.

We stayed fairly close all our lives, though he never attended the schools Dad selected for me. It took a while for me to realize—I was sent to top-tier establishments while Christian went to B-list private schools.

When I turned sixteen, I got a car and driver. Christian got a cab allowance and a subway card.

When I graduated from prep school, I went backpacking in Europe for two months. Christian got a steak dinner.

When I got into Columbia, my father gave me a limitless credit card for all my expenses. Christian had to go to NYU, take out loans, and live on a stipend.

Stupidly, I always assumed that Christian would come work with us at Everett Alexander. He’s better with numbers than I am—and normally, I’m pretty damn good. He also has investing instincts that put mine to shame.

Now I know better. Though no one’s ever said as much, Christian won’t get a job offer from our father. He won’t get anything from him ever again.

It’s taken me twenty-some years to understand, but I finally get it: my father only has enough love for one of us.

And he picked me.

So here I am, with a bag full of accounts I can’t understand, holding a list of investment strategies Christian made while high as a kite.

And they are brilliant.

Inspired, really.

I swallow the lump in my throat and hold the paper out to him. “I can’t take these.”

The food tempers Christian’s manic high. He finishes the first sandwich and moves on to the next with much better manners. “I want you to have them,” he murmurs, subdued. “I made them for you.”

The knot in my gut swells, pressing into my lungs. “Chris, if you showed these to Dad, maybe he would⁠—”

Christian’s dilated gaze meets mine, unwavering. His mouth curves into a bleak smile. “He would use them, take all the credit, and keep all the money.”

The truth sends a burning bolt of hatred through me. “He’s a fucking dick.”

Grim acceptance fills the features so similar to mine. “At least, this way, you get the glory. Not him. He’s limited. I’ve accepted it.”

I gesture at the general squalor around us. “Is that what all this is about? Trying to be okay with things the way they are? Because it doesn’t have to be like this, Chris. You know you can stay at my place any time. For as long as you want.”

I don’t have a second bedroom in my current apartment—but, hell, I’ll move.

Christian’s next smile almost looks believable. “Won’t help. Because you’d still be you, and I’d still be…”

A drug addict.

That’s what he means—it doesn’t matter where he lives, because he’ll still be sick.

Chris looks down at the remaining half of the sandwich, licking his cracked lips. I know he wants it. In the end, though, he hands the pastrami on rye to me. “Here. Eat. You look almost as shitty as I do.”

I hold the Katz wrapper in my hand, not wanting to turn him down. What if it’s the last time he ever hands me something? What if this is the last meal we ever get to eat?

Will he pull himself back from oblivion again next time? Or finally slip over the edge?

I don’t have any answers. So I fold his notes into my jacket pocket and take a bite of the sandwich, silently accepting his offer.

eight

On Sunday, Abuelita’s church friends spend forty minutes trying to convince me I need to quit working and get married before I turn thirty… and then proceed to cook and eat the food my job helped pay for.

Sometime amid all their clucking, Marco lets himself into the apartment, barrels down the hall, and barely says hello to Abuelita before locking his hand around my arm and hustling me into my room. After hours of speaking Spanish to all the abuelas, my answering curse comes out in my first language.

“Que carajo, primo?”

Marco dwarfs my tiny bedroom with this wide, muscled frame. In a dark sweater and black jeans, he looks like a stunt double from an action movie. But his frown is intimidating—even to me.

“I think I should be asking you the same thing, Jules,” he grits, shoving his phone under my nose. “What the fuck is that?”

My blood chills at the video clip on his screen. Crystal-clear and completely, undeniably me… slapping Graham Everett.

In the elevator. At the office.

I gasp, gripping the iPhone and hitting the replay button. “No,” I breathe. “There are cameras?”

Marco yanks his phone back. “Of course there are cameras, Jules.”

He crosses his thick arms over his chest, glaring at me. “If I had known you were going to go around acting like la puta loca, I never would have put my ass on the line and asked Grayson to give you a shot.”

“I’m not a crazy bitch!” I spit, my temper rising. “That asshole practically harassed me. He ran to get onto my elevator, crowded me, and then stood there, staring down my dress. I asked him to stop, and he told me that I should—that if I⁠—”

Too angry to repeat Graham’s taunt, I shake my head. “He’s a dick. He deserved that slap.”

Marco’s expression remains impassive. “Of course he did. He’s a notorious asshole who’s gotten everything he’s ever wanted his whole life. All of them are, Jules. Even the nice guys like Grayson. They’re spoiled and entitled—and too spoiled and entitled to realize it.”

He blows out a breath, raking both hands through his hair. Tension tightens his features. “But you can’t let them get to you like this, Jules. People like us have to be better than all of them to get just a little of what they have.”

“I know that,” I grunt.

Marco’s thick brows knit together. “I know you know that. So why did you let this guy get to you?”

Because he made me crazy.

I still can’t explain it. Not even to myself. Why did I slap a complete stranger? Why did I avoid him—a well-connected, valuable networking asset—while he was in the office after our meeting? Why have I allowed his email to go unanswered all weekend?

To piss him off.

That much I understand. I also know that I wouldn’t invest my time to make any other random guy angry after one brief encounter. Especially with my reputation on the line. 

No. There is something about Graham specifically that brings out the absolute worst in me.

“He just…” I can’t justify it, so I hedge. “He caught me on a bad day.”

I twist my fingers in the hem of my T-shirt. “Do you think Mr. Stryker will fire me when he sees the video? I was worried Everett would tell him what happened, but then I realized it makes him look bad too, so I thought I was off the hook.”

Marco watches me steadily, suspicion shifting in his gaze. “It’s my job to review the elevator footage at the end of the week and bring anything of concern to Mr. Stryker.”

He holds up the video on his screen. “I haven’t shown this to him—yet. And, I guess, as long as you’re both okay, and I’m certain nothing like this will happen again, I don’t need to show him at all.”

I open my mouth, but he cuts me off. “I’m serious, Jules. If I delete this clip and shit goes down later, we’re both fired.”

The group of ladies assembled in Abuelita’s kitchen laugh on the other side of my door. “If we both lose our jobs,” Marco adds, “how will Abuelita buy her steak?”

“I’m sorry. Really. And thank you.” I try for a smile. “Don’t worry. I got my shot in; it won’t happen again.”

He bleats a laugh but still shoots me a warning look. “If it does, and you get caught, I am so throwing you under the bus.”

“You can tell Mr. Stryker I snuck into the building in a catsuit and deleted the file before you could watch it,” I offer.

Marco shakes his head at me. “Always such a drama queen.” His wary eyes slide over to my door. “Speaking of, how screwed am I if I go out there? I’m starving, but last week Señora Reyes spent an hour trying to convince me to commit to an arranged marriage with her niece from Bogotá.”

I snort. “I’ve already gotten two vicarious proposals and a lecture on how to bag a husband. They’ve only been here since two.”

With a weary sigh, he makes his exit, inciting a chorus of old bitty chatter. I shut the door before they get any ideas about calling for me.

I’ve had the same tiny bedroom for eighteen years. I outgrew it ages ago, but recently, it’s started to feel even smaller than usual.

I want more.

Not too much more.

But something better than eight hundred square feet above a dress shop. I want it for myself, sure, but I also want it for Abuelita.

And Mami.

But first, I have to finish the job my father abandoned—I have to get her out of Colombia and into America.

I always knew it wouldn’t be easy. That’s common knowledge in Jackson Heights and every other immigrant community. After all, if my mother could just hop on a flight and be here the next day, she would have done it once it became clear that my father wasn’t going back for her…

I’m not sure I ever truly understood just how difficult the process would be until we studied immigration in law school. I’ll never forget that week of classes: how I sat there, swallowing lumps of unshed tears, listening to apathetic professors list all the reasons I’d possibly never see my mother on American soil.

Each lesson weighed heavier on my heart. I spent every night poring over my notes, full of impotent fury.

Why wasn’t there a path for people like her? She doesn’t have any education, any extra money, or anyone to vouch for her.

As far as our immigration system is concerned, all the reasons she urgently needs to escape only make her “unfit” to be a potential citizen. The entire scheme seems rigged against those who need help the most.

For weeks, hopelessness circled over my head like a vulture. I avoided Mami’s calls and emails, ashamed to face her when I’d all but given up. I even started looking into other types of law and considered changing my focus to something that wasn’t so mired in futility.

Until one day, in the law library, I overheard a conversation that changed my mind.

A group of third-years chortled among themselves at the table behind mine, discussing politics. It didn’t seem like a particularly funny topic to me—if anything, the subject filled me with dread. The wrong president, the wrong balance in Congress: It all had a direct impact on people like my mother. People like me.

It took overhearing a group of guys arguing in the library for me to change my mind. They went back and forth about how easy it is to immigrate legally for anyone “worth having here.”

I was shocked. Didn’t we just learn the exact opposite in class? The system was designed to keep people out. Didn’t they get that?

Another sniggered while they gathered their books. “Yeah. It’s simple. Tens of thousands. Legal fees. Translators. Easy.” They started to shuffle off, leaving one chilling, sarcastic remark in their wake. “When I’m a senator, I’ll make sure it gets even easier.”

I was embarrassed it took that long for it to hit me, but it did.

The system wasn’t an accident.

It wasn’t a mistake.

It wasn’t a runaway steam engine or a tangled lump too complicated to fix. It existed exactly as it did for the sole purpose of maintaining the status quo. So that assholes like those guys could continue oppressing others.

So they could continue to oppress me.

And there, in that moment of horrible clarity, something amazing happened.

I got mad as hell.

Fuming, I crumpled up my list of alternative specialties and chucked it across the library floor. I’d be damned if I was going to leave politics in the hands of those assholes. Men like them would not determine my future or my mother’s. I wouldn’t stand for it. And if the system was meant to keep those dicks in power, I would simply have to change it.

Easier said than done, but I won’t give up. I have a plan, and it starts with making a decent living at Stryker & Sons and helping Mami.

I just have to survive Graham Everett for one week.

Or he has to survive me.

nine

Jesus Christ.

Juliet Rivera is going to kill me.

How is it physically possible for her to look even better than she did last week?

It violates the laws of physics or chemistry or something, surely. There has to be some point when her sensual appeal will finally peak, right?

I figured her charm had to lessen over time—and, therefore, I assumed there was no way she’d be as hot Monday as she was Friday. For one thing, I expected her to wear a different outfit; and I spent the better part of two days persuading myself that the evil red dress was the problem. Not the woman in it.

Ha.

Today’s outfit is worse.

The baby blue suit should be a perfectly professional choice.

Would be—on anyone else.

But Juliet’s luscious curves over-fill the tight pencil skirt hugging her ass and nipping at her waist. A visible outline of her breasts swells under the ivory shell beneath her cropped blazer. And the color—much like the berry red of Friday’s cursed dress—complements the smooth honey hue of her skin.

Maybe it isn’t the clothes, I decide, still staring. Maybe it’s the way she has her hair twisted back. It loops into a low bun, showing off the elegant arch of her throat, her sweet little ears, and the stubborn slant of her jaw.

I want to wrap my hand around that jaw, pull it out of the way, and bite her neck. I’m not normally one for hickeys, but something about her maddening air of defiance stirs a savage longing to mark her. I feel like a wild animal, desperate to sink my teeth into her, desperate for her to tear her claws into me.

All this while standing in the middle of Stryker & Sons’ executive floor. At noon, on a Monday. With Beth clucking beside me.

She frowns ferociously as I snap to. “Young man, are you listening to me?”

No. I’m imagining ripping the slit up the back of Juliet’s skirt, bunching it around her thick hips, shoving her onto her desk, pulling her legs apart…

“Graham Everett!”

Beth’s murderous expression quells my rising erection. Her knowing gray eyes sweep from my face over to Juliet—who sits at her desk, dark brows furrowed, typing with admirable speed.

“Don’t you even think about it, young man,” Beth chides. “That woman is out of your league.”

I scoff, equally amused and offended. “Excuse me?”

Beth straightens her posture. “You heard me. You leave that girl be. She has enough to deal with around here as it is.”

I follow the woman’s subtle nod back toward the legal department, where I find Miss Rivera is no longer alone. Her boss looms over her desk, leaning so his chest presses into her right shoulder blade. He turns his head, inches from the side of her face, and murmurs something to her.

Jealousy raises my hackles. His proximity makes their relationship clear. Either they’re fucking or⁠—

Wait.

She leans as far to the left as she can manage in her rolling chair. He sets his hand on her other shoulder, and she hunches forward.

I recognize the stiff set of her spine from our elevator incident—she doesn’t enjoy this. She suffers it.

Most likely because she can’t slap her boss the way she decks random assholes.

And that makes me… furious.

Without another thought for Beth, I stalk to the legal department, right through their arched glass entrance. My feet carry me straight toward Juliet’s desk, not stopping until I stand directly beside it.

“Miss Rivera.”

Dominic immediately steps back. His eyes widen, then narrow when he recognizes me. “Graham Everett. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

I search Juliet’s face for signs of distress, driven by some foreign protective instinct I don’t fully understand. But if I expect even a modicum of vulnerability or gratitude, I’m doomed to disappointment. Miss Rivera’s fiery gold gaze burns as hot as ever, regarding me with the same ill-disguised distaste she has for her boss.

Something about her disapproval pleases me. I long to get under her skin—in every way, I guess.

A slow smile pulls at my lips. I incline my head at her as I reply, “I’m here for Miss Rivera. We have a meeting.”

The middle-aged dick has forehead wrinkles when he frowns. “During lunch?”

I shove my hands into my pockets, hiding clenched fists. “It’s all my schedule allowed, unfortunately.”

And the only time I can get away from Everett Alexander undetected.

He opens his mouth to comment, but I’m already bored with him. Instead, I turn back to Juliet.

For a moment, her beauty stuns me all over again. Irritated with myself, I bark, “Are you ready ? I had Beth reserve one of the vacant office pods for us.”

Juliet angles her chin defiantly. “If you’d allowed the front desk to buzz me, I would have been waiting for you when you walked in.”

Why does she look so goddamn beautiful when she gets angry? My eyes drift over her features, and I force a taunting smile. “I’m a big fan of the element of surprise.”

Images of the many ways I could surprise Miss Rivera flicker through my mind. On her desk. In the conference room. In that fucking elevator.

She gathers a neat pile of files from the corner of her desk, along with her MacBook. Then, she reaches for her bottom right-hand drawer and pulls out a soft, purple square with ropey black handles.

A lunchbox.

Something about it—Juliet, with her intimidatingly quick mind and scorching temper, packing herself a sack lunch—amuses me. For the first time in Miss Rivera’s presence, I actually feel like smiling for real.

Watching her walk in front of me will be too great a temptation, so I pace myself half a step in front of her as we exit the legal department. I should have guessed she wouldn’t be meek enough to follow me in silence.

Halfway across the center of the floor, she gives a derisive little snort. “Do you even know where we’re going?” 

I grind my teeth against the all-consuming desire to look at her again and keep my eyes forward.

“I was here when this place was an empty shell without walls,” I mutter. “I helped Stryker decide where to put the damn meeting rooms. So, yes.”

It takes a moment for her to issue her airy reply. “My schedule said Room C.”

I know the one. And—hell—I know it’s the smallest. And the most private.

A portion of the room wraps around a structural pillar, into a fire wall, rendering it partially obstructed. The other pods are completely open or visible through their front walls of glass.

I could take her to the hidden corner and⁠—

My fingers ache from gripping the insides of my pockets.

If I rip a seam, I’ll be fucking pissed. This suit is cashmere, for Christ’s sake.

Another three-piece, with a rich navy jacket and pants. A bright white vest with matching blue pinstripes covers most of my white shirt and equally blank tie. I ordinarily put a gold pocket square in the jacket pocket, but this morning, I chose red again.

Seemed fitting for impending bloodshed.

Years of ingrained etiquette force me to pull the door open for her and step aside. The teasing scent of jasmine sends a prickle down my back as Juliet sweeps past me. The sight of her from behind nearly undoes me. All lush, gorgeous curves, covered in soft blue fabric that fits her like a second skin.

And that godforsaken slit.

Fuck me.

Watching her full hips sway takes me from semi-erect to fully hard in an instant. I let the glass door fall closed behind us and take a moment to discreetly adjust myself inside my pants.

She opens her laptop, shuffles her folders, and lays out her lunchbox while I stare unabashedly at the split up the back of her skirt. Finally, she lowers herself into her chair and glances down at my empty hands. “No lunch?”

“I never eat lunch. Too busy.”

Her gorgeous face pinches in disbelief. “You never eat lunch?” She glowers. “Not once—ever?”

Rolling my eyes, I drop back onto my own chair and fold my hands behind my head. “You are such a lawyer. Jesus. Yes, counselor, I have indeed eaten lunch at one point in my life. I just don’t eat lunch now.”

Juliet’s tawny gaze regards me impassively. “Don’t you get hungry between breakfast and dinner?”

A bitter laugh scrapes out of my throat. “Breakfast. Ha. You’re cute.”

Her eyes narrow. “So you’re telling me you haven’t eaten since dinner?” Without waiting for my answer, she sighs and unzips her lunchbox. “Here. You’ll be useless to me if you’re starving.”

I start to tell her that there’s no way on God’s green earth that anything she has in that sad little lunch box will ever appeal to me. But then she places half of the most delicious-looking sandwich I’ve ever seen in front of me. Wrapped in brown parchment, two pieces of crusted bread hold a layer of thin-sliced steak, a herb salad, and some sort of sautéed vegetable combo. My mouth waters.

“Bistec encebollado,” she says, her musical accent caressing the words. “Colombian steak. I had it for dinner last night and turned the leftovers into a sandwich.” She pulls a baggie of chips out of the bag and places them between us, then tosses me a haughty look. “You’re welcome.”

Her attitude is almost as attractive as her luscious ass. I refuse to show gratitude but smile despite myself. “Are you Colombian?” I ask, sliding the surrendered sandwich portion to my part of the table.

Juliet takes a healthy bite out of her half and uses her free hand to unlock her laptop. When she speaks with her mouth full, I have to swallow another smirk. “Yes.”

“Have you ever been there?”

I don’t know why I want to ask her questions. We have shit to do. I need to get back to Everett Alexander within a reasonable time frame.

If I understand her, it will be easier to control our interactions.

At least, that’s what I tell myself as I watch her click around on her MacBook.

Her guarded expression stays firmly in place. “I was born there. I moved here when I was six.” Her burning gold eyes snap to mine, pinning me in place. “Eat. We need to work.”

I hate doing what she tells me to do, but her bossy tone heats my blood. If I fucked her thoroughly enough, could I soften her?

With a grunt, I pick up the sandwich and inspect it up close. It looks incredible. The fresh salad and sautéed medley are embarrassingly appealing—God, when was the last time I had a vegetable?

I take a bite.

It’s a mistake.

Because I instantly know I’ll never eat another sandwich that delicious again.

My awe must register on my face because Juliet snickers. “Yeah,” she drawls. “Abuelita doesn’t miss when it comes to food.”

I want to ask her who “Abuelita” is and what other foods she can cook, but this fucking sandwich is magic. I can’t stop eating, even when Juliet’s smirk turns unbearably smug. “I knew you were hungry, pinchao.”

“Pinchao?” I manage to mumble between bites.

Fuck, it is good.

Her smile takes on a secretive edge while humor brightens her eyes. The enigmatic amusement makes her even sexier. More beautiful.

Staring, I have the same sinking sensation I got when I bit into the damn sandwich—a moment of fleeting perfection. The best, slipping through my fingers.

Will I ever meet anyone else as drop-dead gorgeous as her?

I swallow the last of the life-changing sandwich. I miss it already.

“Don’t worry about it,” she replies, still smirking to herself.

She takes another graceful bite of her half, then slides a small stack of documents over to me. “I took the liberty of printing copies of everything you sent me. I only had time to read one of the sample contracts you provided, but I have to tell you—based on my research—it needs a lot of work.”

Back to battle so soon.

I lean forward slowly and drag the papers over with the tips of my fingers. Everett Alexander’s standard client contract sits on top, slashed to ribbons with red ink and rude orange highlighter.

“So your two days of research revealed problems with the contracts my company has used for decades?” I retort, pitching my voice between amusement and condescension. “Do tell.”

Juliet finishes her food and sets her lunchbox aside, then straightens into a regal pose.

“Perhaps—because they’ve been in use for decades—they’re outdated,” she suggests, her voice too-sweet. “Would you like me to speak with your in-house counsel directly? It may be over your head.”

Her insincere smile doesn’t touch her hard, topaz eyes. So far, it’s the only expression of hers I don’t like.

Besides, I know her game—the old “kill them with kindness” trick. With an added pinch of dismissal.

If she thinks she’ll get rid of me that easily, the woman clearly has no idea who she’s dealing with.

I give a sharp laugh just to rile her. “Listen, cupcake, I know more about this shit than you ever will, okay?”

An answering spark of fury lights her gaze. “I thought you might say as much.”

She picks up another portion of the files stacked beside her and unceremoniously drops them onto my copy of the marked-up contract. “Here.”

There have to be hundreds of pages laden with notes, tabs, and Post-Its. The first sheet alone makes my vision swim. “What’s this?”

Juliet preens, pleased with herself. “Precedent for every single change I recommend.”

I thumb the edge of the stack, quickly counting up the documents. It’s days—no, weeks—worth of work. “You did all of this in one weekend?” I ask, incredulous.

“On Saturday,” she returns. “Then I spent Sunday morning drafting this.” Another sheaf of papers flutter onto my growing pile. “It’s my proposed contract for Everett Alexander and Mr. Stryker.”

My throat tightens around a twinge of guilt. I hate that I can’t tell her or Grayson the truth about my position at the company. I’m not authorized to make any deals on behalf of Everett Alexander. I’ll have to change the contract covertly to reflect the proper titles if I want it to be binding.

To hide my eyes, I glance down at my vintage Rolex. “Mind waiting while I read it?”

Juliet gives a careless shrug, momentarily mesmerizing me with the bounce of her breasts. “That’s what I get paid for.”

She slides a second copy out and holds it up. “I’ll read along with you.” Another smug smile teases her full lips. “In case you have any questions.”

I flop back in my chair to scan the document. Her prose is impressive—clipped, concise, and punishingly detailed. A few pages in, the door swings open behind me.

Grayson leans into the office pod, his expression somewhere between suspicious and surprised. “Beth told me you were taking a working lunch in here, and I didn’t believe her,” he says to me before flashing Juliet a smile. “Hello, Miss Rivera. Thank you for sacrificing your break to deal with this leech.”

Juliet chuckles quietly but keeps her eyes on her lap. “I tend to eat at my desk anyway, so it’s no trouble, sir. I think we’re making good progress here.”

I notice she’s only at the top of page two while I’ve nearly cleared page three. “Or we would make good progress,” I put in, “if some of us read faster.”

Loathing flashes in Juliet’s eyes. Her grip on the contract visibly tightens as Grayson clears his throat. I look up to find him frowning at me. “English is Miss Rivera’s second language, Everett. Last time I checked, that’s one more language than you speak, is it not?”

Ah, shit.

I’m a complete asshole. She told me she moved here from Colombia as a small girl. Of course she has to mentally translate everything she reads.

With an awkward cough, I pick an imaginary speck of lint off my lapel and mumble, “My apologies, Miss Rivera.”

Her answer drips insincerity. “No offense taken, pinchao.”

I still don’t understand the name she keeps calling me, but Grayson snorts before laughing loudly. I always forget he speaks a smattering of Spanish because of his mother. The thought of him sharing jokes with Miss Rivera at my expense makes my blood simmer.

But Grayson excuses himself. “I see you have him well in hand, Miss Rivera, so I’ll leave you to it.” With one last warning look at me—"Graham? No.”—he disappears.

Juliet’s already hard at work again, but I interrupt. “You know, if you insist on giving me a nickname I don’t understand, I’ll have to come up with one for you, too.”

A cool laugh floats out of her. She turns her gaze back to the contract, pointedly not looking at me. “You heard the boss; you don’t know any other languages with which to insult me, pinchao.”

So it is an insult.

I sort of figured.

“I learned enough French to get me through a three-month study abroad program in Paris,” I grumble. “I could come up with something.”

Unbothered, Juliet hums. “Sure you can, pinchao.”

She keeps reading and I keep staring at her profile, wishing for the hundredth time that she wasn’t so damn striking.

“Bijou.”

The word pops out before I really consider it. Stupid. It isn’t an insult at all. More a term of endearment, albeit a mildly patronizing one.

It means “jewel.” Fitting, since Ella called her Jules on Friday.

She sort of reminds me of a jewel. Full of fire and facets. Brilliant. Rare. Sharp edges that cut and catch light and make her more interesting than any smooth, rounded pebble could ever be.

Juliet lowers her papers and faces me head-on, startled. “Bijou? Doesn’t that mean kiss?”

The thought sends a jolt to my groin. What would those full lips feel like if I crushed them against mine?

“Nope. That’s bisou. Close, though. Try again, bijou.”

A steely glint lights her eyes as she raises her stubborn little chin. She looks so glorious—her prim posture, the flames snapping in her gold gaze.

I feel insane. Have I ever wanted a woman so much? Without even the slightest provocation from her?

Does she feel it, too?

Our gazes meld, but from the corner of my eye, I catch her quick gasp. She shifts slightly, giving away the moment her thighs clench under the table. Her tongue sweeps over her lower lip, followed by the scrape of her teeth.

Juliet wants me, too.

I know it, even before she opens her mouth and obliterates my control.

“Are you going to make me?”

ten

Graham suddenly shoves himself away from the table in Meeting Pod C and stalks to the concealed corner of the room.

With glittering black eyes, he backs up against the wall. His hands go to his pockets, his stance one of easy confidence as he watches me.

Waiting.

Thinking I’ll follow.

And—ayúdame Dios—I want to.

…I want to?!

His fine, flashy clothes fit his lean strength to a T. There’s something sexy about the way he pulls off outfits no other man would even attempt. From his spotless white tie to his navy wing-tipped shoes, the man has style and elegance all his own.

It doesn’t hurt that he continues to be one of the single most gorgeous men I’ve ever laid eyes on. With his dark, overly-long hair slicked straight back and his face clean-shaven, I can admire every line of his arresting features—the straight nose, the bulging muscles of his jaw, the divot gracing his chin.

Pulsing energy pools in my core. The thrill of it tightens my nipples into hard points and grips my gullet, squeezing a harsh exhale from my throat.

I tell myself I have to be wrong.

Surely, this polished businessman wouldn’t come on to me in the middle of a meeting. Inside Stryker & Sons. In a room with windows…

Right?

Dark heat smolders in Graham’s eyes, contradicting his casual posture. The velvet depths shift restlessly as he jerks his chin up.

“Get over here.”

I clamp my legs closed to stave off the ache his raspy command creates. Fire burns higher in my belly, the flames licking at my lungs. Burning my defenses to heaps of ash.

I have to tell him no. But when I tilt my head and open my mouth…

“I said, make me.”

And then, I’m against the wall.

With his long, strong fingers wrapped around my wrist, holding it up next to my shoulder. His other hand presses into the space beside my head, his arms forming a cage around my body.

A breathless quiver escapes while I look up at him. His gaze traces each part of my face before settling on my lips. His nostrils flare on a sharp inhale, like he is attempting to gather his self-control. And failing.

I press my free hand flat against his chest, telling myself I’ll find purchase and move away gracefully. But as my palm spreads over the spotless, proper vest, Graham’s heartbeat pounds against my fingertips. Strong and sure and real.

That pulse tempts me. I want to slip my touch under all of his civility and feel his warm skin. Remind him that he’s just a man, after all.

Yearning bursts through my body. Before I know it, instead of shoving back, I find myself fisting the fine fabric to hold myself closer.

“Damn it, Juliet,” he mutters, staring at my lips. “Tell me this is all in my head. Tell me to stop. Slap me again. Anything. Just⁠—”

He wants me to reject him. And, somehow, that just makes me want him more.

What is wrong with me?

Graham’s wary midnight eyes consider my face for a long moment. His hips skim my torso and his rigid length prods my belly. I close my eyes, expecting him to steal his kiss, but instead, his forehead presses into mine.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs again, his voice rough. Begging. “Stryker is like a brother to me, and you work here, and we⁠—”

My fingers find their way to his lips, silencing him with a gentler touch than I intended.

I don’t need to hear all of his reasons; I already know them.

So I say, “Shut up.”

And I kiss him.

My hand cups his clenched jaw as my mouth crushes his. Even in heels, I have to arch my back to reach. But the second I do, Graham snatches me up against him.

A low, feral sound tears from his throat while one hand clutches the back of my neck and the other curves around my ass, tugging me tighter against his lean hardness. When I feel the size of his cock, a startled inhale escapes me, parting my lips to the sweep of his tongue.

He grinds his erection into me and rumbles against my mouth. “All for you, bijou.”

My traitorous body has a mortifying response to the notion of his big cock being mine. Liquid desire trickles from my core. My inner muscles tweak tight. The twinge between my thighs throbs, begging for the thick slide of him.

His tongue mimics the thrusts I desperately want elsewhere, claiming my mouth with possessive plunges before retreating in slow, tantalizing strokes. I moan into his kisses, pressing my heavy, tingling breasts into his chest.

Graham likes that. His fingers spear the low chignon at the nape of my neck, holding me just so and slanting his lips over mine from a new angle. The hand cupping my backside sweeps lower, finding the slit in my skirt. He caresses the sensitive skin there before leisurely gliding upward, to the place where my thighs meet my ass.

Belatedly, I recall that my tight pencil skirt didn’t allow for underwear. Graham discovers my bare skin and pulls back on a grunt, stabbing me with his molten black gaze.

“Where the fuck are your panties?” he growls, low and thick.

I want to give him a cheeky reply, but I can’t stop panting. His fingertips curl into the cleft of my center, teasing the wet heat. His jaw grinds as his eyes fall closed.

“Jesus,” he whispers. “Juliet.”

My name on his lips sends a new thrill through me. I slip my hand between our bodies and grasp his steely length through his pants, stroking him in one long tug.

A broken snarl tears from his chest. On the second stroke, Graham drops his face into the crook of my neck and speaks around labored breaths.

“What are you doing to me? I can’t stop.”

I know the feeling. I’ve never been so turned on in my life. Lust thunders through my veins, drowning out my awareness of anything but him.

Squeezing his erection in both hands, I bite into his neck, just above his collar. A lung-full of air sloughs out of him, along with a groan. “Juliet, please.”

I don’t know if he’s begging me to stop or keep going, but it doesn’t matter. I can’t resist the way he reacts to me.

By the fourth pass of my palms over his rigid length, Graham starts to grind into my touch. His fingers respond in kind, finding my pussy and teasing me with soft, circular caresses until I clench against him.

“Goddamn you,” he curses, taking my mouth in another punishing kiss.

All of my muddled passions bleed together as he pushes one long finger inside of me. Tightening around him, I gasp. “I hate you.”

Graham’s cock swells under my hand. “I have never hated anyone this much,” he agrees, resuming our kiss.

A second finger joins the first, curving to reach a spot inside that makes me hiss. I fumble with the zipper of his trousers, dying to feel the heat and hardness of him in my palm.

But Graham suddenly freezes. His fingers slip out of me in a wet rush while his other hand tightens around my nape.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

Another sound sinks past the hum of my pulse. My heart nearly stops. Until I turn and realize that it’s just an alarm, clanging out of his abandoned phone.

Our hour is up.

I find myself alone against the wall. My body pulses with pent-up need as a shiver of loss chills my spine. Everything between my legs throbs.

Like a feral jungle cat, Graham stalks back to the table. He bends over it, spreading his arms wide to brace himself while he stares down.

But his eyes are closed. His chest heaves subtly. White-knuckled hands grip the edge of the metal tabletop.

“Fix your hair,” he directs, his tone as black as his expression.

For the first time, I do as I’m told. He’s only managed to loosen a few pins. It takes me a second to right them.

Without opening his eyes, he continues, “I’m going to leave, and you’re going to stay here for five minutes to gather up your shit. You’re flushed. You need to settle before you walk out there.”

Graham releases a long breath and stares straight at the window opposite him, not glancing in my direction. “I’ll read all this shit and come back tomorrow at the same time. Do not reserve this room again. Put us in Pod A, where everyone can look in.”

His head snaps to the side. Black eyes pierce me. “This never happened. Agreed?”

I swallow an irrational swell of hurt. He is, after all, completely correct in every way. It can’t happen again. And it would be best to pretend it hadn’t happened at all.

“Agreed.”

eleven

Juliet Rivera kissed me.

And I’m starting to suspect I’ll have to undergo some sort of shock therapy to get rid of my hard-on.

My cock throbs through two endless meetings back at Everett Alexander. Three trips in traffic. And spending an hour in the weight room at my gym does nothing but encourage it.

Back at my place, after my workout, I jack off twice to the memory of her wet, glorious heat—once in the shower. Then when the scent of jasmine clinging to the files I brought home gets me hard all over again.

Disgusted with myself, I pour a smooth glass of Pinot Noir and chug it before refilling the crystal with a second serving. I need to mellow out enough to get through my damn work.

I can’t show up for our next meeting unprepared. I won’t give her the satisfaction.

I wander over to my record table and put on my favorite bossa nova album. The quiet strains of acoustic bass echo off the exposed brick walls and up into the high ceiling.

When I purchased this loft, I expected the fashionable Lower East Side loft to feel homier over time. I carefully selected pieces from my favorite artists to grace the walls, and invested tons into a surround sound system that catered to my record collection and cache of digital music.

None of that helped, so I hired a decorator to furnish it. She did a decent job of capturing my eclectic tastes and penchant for color. Gave decent head, too. But, alas, the furniture and rugs and blow jobs didn’t fill the emptiness, either.

My kitchen serves as a monument to the idea of cooking. I got a wild yen one month and convinced myself I would learn how to prepare gourmet meals. On impulse, I ordered thousands of dollars of five-star equipment. The rack of untouched cookware hanging over my island now mocks me on a daily basis.

It doesn’t seem to matter what I do to this place. I don’t like being here.

Maybe I’ll talk to that Beatrice chick, I tell myself, carrying my work over to the sitting area in the living room. She’s a realtor. She’s hot. I could ask her about putting this place on the market and take her out…

I know I’m only fooling myself. Moving to another over-priced apartment won’t squelch the cool solitude of my existence any more than fucking Beatrice What’s-Her-Face will slake my desire for Miss Rivera. 

Who I hate.

Passionately.

Too damn passionately.

Flopping back onto my sofa with my wine, I will myself to focus. Originally, I planned to spend the evening going through her objections to the Everett Alexander document and combating them. But I find myself reaching for her proposed contract instead.

By the time I finish reading it, I’m half-hard all over again.

Goddamn this woman.

Her contract is good. It’s great, actually. And I find that possessing such deep—albeit begrudging—respect for the woman I lust after does strange things to me.

I briefly entertain the thought of hiring her away from Stryker. I’ll need a lawyer to form my contracts for future clients. Obviously, Everett Alexander’s are out of date. Never mind the fact that I’m technically operating on my own at the moment.

The truth makes my stomach twist… and nausea reminds me that I haven’t eaten anything since Juliet’s delicious sandwich.

My cock twitches in my sweats.

Graham Everett. Hard over a fucking sandwich. 

One kiss—and the woman has utterly ruined me.

twelve

My feet and back ache as I climb the stairs to Abuelita’s walk-up. My spine slumps after twelve hours in heels, not to mention the veritable mountain of work I’ve carted home with me.

But the worst part of the whole shitty day is still Graham Everett.

Who I hate.

So much that I curse his name every time I think of it. Carajo con ese cabron…

At the top of the steps, the unmistakable scent of ajiaco fills my nose. Abuelita’s Colombian chicken soup can only mean one thing⁠—

“Who died?” I ask, bursting through the door.

Abuelita stands at the stove with her back to me. She waves one wrinkled hand over her shoulder. “Nadie,” she mutters, stirring the large simmering pot with a long wooden spoon.

“In English, Abuelita,” I chide gently. “You need practice—hay que practicar, bien?”

I expect her usual scowl and more Spanish muttering. Instead, she wipes her hands on her apron and turns to face me with a regretful sigh. “Bien, muñeca.” Sadness fills her dark eyes. “Was work?”

How was work? “I was very busy today.”

Fighting with Graham Everett. Loathing him. Wanting him. Hooking up with him in a conference room.

I set my bag on one of the empty kitchen chairs. Everything suddenly seems too heavy for me to carry. “You made ajiaco?”

She nods. The dim light from the hood over the range steeps half of her face in shadows. “Necesito,” she says simply.

I watch her ladle the soup into two bowls. She shuffles toward me and sets them on the breakfast table while I pull off my heels and my blazer. “Why do you need it?” I ask, rubbing an ache in my left foot. “Do you feel sick?”

Abuelita scoffs. “I never sick.”

“I’m.”

She slowly gathers soup onto her spoon. “Is what I said.” Her gray brows knit together as her gaze roams over the bag of folders beside me. “You working hard, muñeca.”

She means too hard, but I purposefully misunderstand. “It’s good to work hard. You taught me that.”

Her lips tighten. “Stubborn.”

“Wonder where I learned that,” I return, shooting her a pointed look. “Now, tell me why you made ajiaco.”

Abuelita considers me for a long moment. “Is no thing, muñeca. Only cold, so I make ajiaco. Now, eat.”

I cross my arms over my chest, not buying her deflections. “Abuelita.”

My grandmother rolls her eyes to the heavens and throws her hands up. “Fine. I tell. Your papi come today.”

Dread turns my stomach to lead. My father only makes appearances every six months or so. After years of listening to me berate him, he’s stopped coming over when I’m home.

I’m fine with that arrangement. After what he did to my mother, I prefer not to see him.

Abuelita’s never forgiven her son for abandoning me after bringing me to America. His visits normally infuriate her. Tonight, though, she seems subdued.

“What did he want?” I demand.

“No thing,” she lies into her soup. “I handle him. Not you worry.”

But he is my worry. He always will be, no matter how hard she tries to protect me from his sorry ass.

It’s not like I won’t ever have to deal with him again. He’s technically still married to my mother. As soon as I get her here, we’ll have to serve him divorce papers.

The thought is yet another reminder of why I can’t let Graham get to me.

Men ruin women, the way my father ruined my mother.

“Tell me,” I order, out of patience for horrible men. “I’ll deal with it.”

Abuelita pins me with a glare. “Eat.”

I truly don’t have it in me to argue with her anymore. I have to save my strength for work—and building up new defenses for tomorrow’s “meeting.”

thirteen

It is literally impossible for this outfit to turn Graham on.

The rich brown turtleneck covers every inch of skin from my chin to my hips. I wear it tucked into a fawn-colored skirt with absolutely no slit to speak of and sport matching sheer tights over my ugliest granny panties.

Full ass coverage is my friend.

So far, Graham’s had equally passionate reactions to my hair being up and down, so I figure something in the middle might be my best bet. Using a tortoiseshell barrette, I clip half of it back into a matronly style. Simple black pumps round out the dull look.

There, I think. No color. No skin. No jewelry.

I’m as far from sexy as a girl can get. Just in case, though, I borrow one of Abuelita’s frumpier coats to throw over everything.

By the end of my commute, I’m freezing, hungry, and my eyes burn. Dominic awaits me at my desk. His gaze flickers over my clothes. I watch the exact moment he decides I’m not currently hot enough to merit any niceties.

His lip curls back. “All bundled up today,” he sneers. “Like a nun in a blizzard.”

I do my best to paste a good-sport smile on my face. “Just guarding against the cold!”

And your pervy ass.

And my own lack of self-control whenever a certain broker sniffs around.

When I slip my coat off and bend to put it in my desk drawer, he changes his tune. “Still lovely, as always,” he hums, somewhat warmer. “Did you make much progress on the items I gave you yesterday? I’m hoping to review them with you over lunch.”

Over lunch?

It makes sense for Graham to come meet me during my lunch hour because he comes from outside the office, and we’re dealing with Mr. Stryker’s personal holdings. But Dominic asking to meet with me during my break seems decidedly odd. I can’t think of a reason why he would require such a thing aside from some sort of misplaced—pathetic—jealousy.

“I have another lunch meeting with Mr. Everett,” I reply brightly, trying my best not to appear suspicious. “I’ve reserved Pod A for us.”

My thighs clench at the memory of Graham’s voice growling instructions at me. I mash my lips together, busying myself by arranging my work for the day.

Dominic rounds the desk, coming to stand in front of me with his hands on his hips and a peeved expression on his face. “I don’t want you scheduling any more lunch meetings. It’s against company policy.”

I want to glower at him but force a bewildered face instead. “Oh dear, is it? I just assumed it was acceptable since Mr. Stryker dropped in on my meeting yesterday and didn’t mention any issue with the timing. He actually thanked me for working during lunchtime. But if you think it’s an issue, then, of course, I’ll adjust accordingly.”

Carajo. That last part veered dangerously close to sarcasm.

“I don’t think I like your tone, Miss Rivera,” Dominic snaps.

My jaw clenches against the urge to point out that he never uses my last name. When my tits are out, I’m Juliet. He’s even dared to call me Jules on a few occasions.

Exhaling through my nose, I raise my face. “My apologies. I was up very late and haven’t caffeinated sufficiently.” I throw in a coy smile, knowing it will stroke his endless ego. “Forgive me?”

He gives a curt nod. “Just don’t get into the habit of scheduling lunch meetings.” Walking away, he issues one last demand over his shoulder. “I expect notes on all of the cases I dropped off yesterday by tomorrow morning.”

The reality of another sleepless night settles over me. My shoulders hunch. “Yes, sir.”

Dominic’s door slams. Beth appears in the archway of the legal department behind me. I turn just in time to catch her glaring at my boss’s office before her sharp gray gaze flits to mine. “Miss Rivera?”

It’s much easier to find a smile this time. “Good morning, Beth. I wish you’d call me Juliet. Or Jules, even.”

Beth’s tight lips spread into a rare smile. “Juliet, then.” She glances over my shoulder for another second before settling back on me. “Is Mr. Carter giving you grief?”

I try for a bright, breezy tone. “Nothing I can’t handle. Did you need something?”

She eyes me intently. “Mr. Stryker would like to speak with you privately this afternoon. His schedule allows for a three o’clock. Will that do?”

Panic grips me. Why does Mr. Stryker want a one-on-one with me?

Anything work related could be discussed in front of my colleagues. And it certainly won’t be anything untoward; Mr. Stryker clearly adores his fiancée.

Marco deleted the elevator footage, so he doesn’t have any reason to reprimand or terminate me. Unless…

Dios mío. He saw us yesterday.

For the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel like crying. All of my hard work and determination is spiraling down the drain—all because of a man I don’t even like and shouldn’t want.

I know I deserve whatever I have coming, though. I cringe just thinking of what Mr. Stryker might have witnessed.

“Three?” I croak back. “Yes, ma’am.”

Beth’s somber gaze feels heavy on my face. “All right,” she replies slowly, her lips pursed as she considers me. “I’ll let him know.”

Could my day get any worse?

Little do I know.

fourteen

“Graham?”

I blink a few times, remembering myself.

You’re at work, you idiot. Look alive.

“Sorry, what was that?” I ask, turning my bleary eyes toward my father.

He sits at his ornate, polished desk, looking exactly like me if I went through a thirty-year time warp and gained sixty pounds. The way he stares when I meet his eyes puts a fine mist of sweat over my brow.

The large room feels stifling. Despite its size, his office always seems stuffy. The sumptuous antique furnishings are priceless collector’s items, but that doesn’t make them attractive. Or comfortable.

I shift in my usual chair, looking for a position that won’t make my lower back hurt.

Jesus, I’m old. And completely checked out.

His dark eyes pierce directly into my thoughts. “You’ve been distracted this week,” he notes. “I saw you had accounts with you when you came in from the weekend. The green binders? I expected them on my desk yesterday.”

Ah yes. Yet another of my recent failures.

“I’ll get them back to you as soon as possible,” I reply, steepling my fingers.

His frown deepens, and I wonder if I, too, will eventually have grooves bracketing my mouth. “There are a lot more accounts for you to review and enter data from before I can give you clients.”

Little does he know I already have a huge deal in my pocket. I swallow the smug urge to flash him a grin. “Naturally, I agree that my time is valuable,” I drawl. “So, if you’ll excuse me?”

I start to rise but freeze in place when I feel his eyes travel down my frame. “What?”

“You’re dressed differently,” he points out, shuffling his papers and avoiding my gaze. “More professional. I like it.”

The dark brown pants, camel-colored jacket, and plain white shirt pain me. My muddy green tie and tweed vest are equally uninspired. But I chose them to keep a low profile and only made one allowance for flair—the damned red pocket square.

“Christ,” I mutter. “I’ll have to burn this suit now.”

Dad flashes a quick smirk, and I pause. Whenever he smiles, it gives me a renewed perspective on the man. A guy with wealth and influence… hiding a weak heart.

Sometimes, I think I see those failings in myself. I’ve never committed to anyone, helped Christian in any meaningful way, or demanded that my father give me a real job.

All of the things I hate about myself are directly from him. My illustrious inheritance.

Another commonality we share: charisma. For better or worse, people respond positively to him… and me.

Unbidden, the image of Juliet’s furious face and stinging slap slips into my mind. My lips curl up as I stride out of the office.

Well, most people.

The stark splendor of Stryker & Sons feels like another planet after a morning of Everett Alexander’s pomposity.

The wide, white lobby provides a bracing burst of freshness—like opening a window for cold winter air after leaving the furnace on all night. Invigorated, I clip my way toward the elevators. Until, halfway over, I see her.

Déjà vu skitters up my spine as I jerk to a halt halfway across the floor, once again standing in the black vein. This time, Juliet stands off to the side, near the exits, looking strangely small.

I’ve come to view her as a force of nature. Now, with her head bent and her arms wrapped around her torso, she seems less like a storm and more like a speck. A bit of warm earth, engulfed by a blizzard.

The urge to go to her hits me head-on, but I rein it in. Maybe she’s waiting for a food delivery… or a quick visit from a boyfriend.

Jesus.

I never even considered a boyfriend. And I certainly didn’t ask if she had one before helping myself to everything up her skirt.

Frozen, I watch as Juliet’s head turns, tracking the movement of a man crossing the floor. He seems too old for her, but I can’t tell if his face is truly as worn as it appears. From my vantage point, he also looks short, with a sunken chest he puffs out in front of him as he marches in her direction.

My hands fist in my pockets. I can’t look away, even when the man barrels right into Miss Rivera and hugs her. Juliet freezes with her arms wrapped around herself.

I drift toward her slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of her expression. The man pulls back and grabs her shoulders, shaking her while he speaks animatedly. Juliet grimaces.

She slips free from his embrace and stares while he goes on. The more he talks, the smaller she looks. Her shoulders round gradually, pressing forward under some invisible weight.

You shouldn’t care, I tell myself. You hate her.

But her stricken expression reminds me of the moment I tore away yesterday, when I left her panting against the wall.

And, right now, I don’t care who this guy is or how much I dislike Miss Rivera.

I won’t watch her shrink.

My steps eat up the floor to bring me to her. The closer I get, the clearer the scene becomes. This man isn’t her boyfriend—I would put money on that.

He looks too old, for one, with weathered russet skin and dull, yellow teeth. His slick black hair hangs limply around his face, cut in a choppy, shapeless style.

Miss Rivera stands almost as tall as he does. Her clothing matches her somber expression—all earth tones with no hint of her usual flash.

Even covered in brown from chin to ankle, she’s striking. I particularly like her hair. Pinned halfway back so I can take in her beautiful features and still enjoy the way her long, shining tresses fall to the swell of her breasts.

The fierce urge to kiss her again—right here, in this very public lobby, in front of the anonymous asshole—claws at my insides. I tamp it down and jerk to a stop at her side.

“Graham.” My name falls from her lips for the very first time as a breathy gasp. Concern wells in my middle when panic flares in her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m early,” I say curtly, pivoting to pin the man with an assessing look. “Graham Everett,” I tell him, extending my hand. “I’m a colleague of Miss Rivera’s.”

The scent of liquor assails my nose. “Julio Rivera,” he returns. “You know Julieta?”

Julieta.

I didn’t realize her full name isn’t Juliet. Another stupid oversight on my part.

Jules shifts on her feet, obviously uneasy. “Papi, Mr. Everett and I have a meeting. You need to go.”

Papi. As in… her dad?

This guy?

Julio scowls, narrowing cloudy brown eyes at his daughter. “I came all the way from the Heights to have lunch with you, mija. The least you can do is tell this pinchao to wait.”

I really need to look that word up.

But instead of siding with her father, Juliet edges closer to me. “I can’t, papi. Graham and I are in the middle of a project.”

“I tried to do this the nice way,” he grumbles, “But you’re not listening, just like your abuela. If you’re going to be a brat, I suppose I’ll have to treat you like one.”

He reaches for her arm and grabs her wrist. My instincts take over. The next thing I know, I’ve pushed a hand into Julio’s chest and stepped between them. My other arm guides Juliet behind my body, tearing her from his grasp.

“I’m afraid Juliet’s time is spoken for,” I tell him, glaring. “As she said, you’ll have to come back.”

I feel her touch, feather-light, brushing from the back of my elbow to my wrist. Somehow, the small gesture of gratitude warms me. I automatically reach to gather her cool fingers in mine.

Julio watches the exchange with a disgusted snarl. “Ah. I see. Is this how you got your fancy job, mija? Everyone likes to talk about how you hustled to get here, but really you’re just a whore like your mother, eh?”

My fist cocks before he even finishes his insult. But Juliet desperately squeezes my other hand, holding me back.

When I turn my head, I find her eyes shining. “Please don’t,” she whispers. “He’s just drunk.”

Hatred—true, flaming revulsion—burns down my throat. A sensation I’ve never actually experienced for Jules.

What I feel for her may burn just as bright, but it’s a different sort of fire altogether.

I snap back to Julio. “Leave. Now.”

Gritting his jaw, he leans back and spits, “Fine. I’ll see you later, mija. We have many things to talk about.”

He lumbers away, leaving me alone with Juliet. I rotate toward her, keeping our hands entwined between us.

“What the fuck was that about?” I ask.

Her complexion blanches from warm brown to wan beige. “He wants money,” she says, wooden. “He heard about my job here and wants ‘his piece.’ Says he needs it for medical bills.”

I try my best not to act completely repulsed by his entitlement. “Is he sick?”

Her head shakes robotically. “He—has a girlfriend. And she’s… having a baby. Apparently.”

Inside my grip, Juliet’s hand starts to tremble. I hold it up between our bodies, wrapping my other palm over her chilled knuckles to warm them. “You’re shaking.”

“Yes.” Her defiant chin slant makes an appearance. Even quivering, with tears in her eyes and no color in her cheeks, she has her self-respect. And I admire her for it.

We’re alike in a lot of ways. Proud, stubborn, passionate. She clearly wants to cry, but she refuses to do it in public.

How many times have I done the same, swallowing lumps lodged in my throat whenever someone asks about Christian?

“Come on,” I murmur, already moving, pulling her along with me. “I know a place.”

fifteen

Graham drags me past the elevators, over to the service stairs in the back of the lobby.

Once we make it through the door, he releases my hand and turns away. Pretending to be busy with a button on his suit jacket. Thinking I need privacy.

“I’m fine,” I growl, but my throat constricts on the words, turning them into a squeak. I have to sniffle before continuing. “You don’t need to wait here with me. It was just a—” My voice cracks. “Shock.”

Graham’s tense figure spins suddenly. He unwinds, reaching for me, but I step back to put more space between our bodies.

His jaw clenches at my movement. Taking in my tears, his dark eyes flash.

“Bijou.”

I looked up the word on my subway ride home last night. It means “jewel.”

Now that I hear him say it again, curious warmth licks low in my belly. The sensation makes me weak—and, just for a second, I soften.

Graham doesn’t miss his opportunity. He closes the gap between us and cups my cheek with his large, long-fingered hand.

“You’re tired,” he whispers, skimming his thumb over the dark circle beneath my eye, collecting the tears gathered there.

It isn’t a question, but I nod.

“And now, your dad turned up with bad news...” Graham’s dark, slashing brows knit. “But there’s something else. What is it?”

Is this really only our third meeting? He already seems to know me.

While I debate how much to tell him, he pulls the red handkerchief from his breast pocket and dries tears off his fingers and my chin. The tender gesture takes me by surprise, and I blurt out my response without polishing it.

“Mr. Stryker asked to see me at three today. Alone. I can’t figure out why… unless he saw us yesterday and wants to fire me.”

Every part of Graham goes eerily still. Seconds pass. His eyes don’t so much as flicker, but I see the wheels of his mind spinning. Finally, he blows a slow breath out through his nose and folds the red cloth back into his pocket without meeting my eyes.

“I’ll handle it.”

A bitter laugh scrapes up my throat. “If you think I’m some sort of damsel in distress who’s just going to sit on my hands while you charge off to fight my battles for me, you’re delusional.”

I square my shoulders. “My father had me at a disadvantage, showing up unannounced—when I’m about to be fired—telling me I’m going to have a sibling because he’s taken another mistress. Just because I lost my grip for a second doesn’t mean I need you to swing into my boss’s office and defend my honor.”

Graham’s exasperated expression is distinctly at odds with the way he holds my face. His features say he’s at his wit's end. But his touch is gentle, almost reverent.

“Stubborn woman,” he grinds out, smoldering those midnight eyes into mine. “Why do I want to fuck you every time you argue with me?”

“So all the time?” I ask, sniffing back the rest of my tears.

His crooked, boyish grin heats the air between us. “Something like that.”

A shadow suddenly crosses his features. He raises his other arm and glances at his wrist, frowning. “Damn. We only have fifty minutes. Less, by the time we make it upstairs.”

The thought of returning to the executive floor with tear-stained cheeks mortifies me. “Can we not?”

Graham’s hand falls from my face. He gives a brusque nod. “Understood. We’ll go out.”

A small smile plays at my lips as I stride past him. “Amazing,” I mutter. “I think we just agreed on something.”

The small dim sum restaurant tucked around the corner happens to be one of my favorites. I’m pleasantly surprised when Graham leads me into the cramped bistro and waves at the hostess like he knows her.

I want to believe I’m ready to resume our usual animosity, fully guarded against his charms. But then he flashes his roguish grin and pulls out my chair for me.

And something in my middle flips.

“Best dumplings in Midtown,” he boasts, folding himself into the seat opposite mine. “For those of us with taste.”

Graham could not look more out of place. His tweed-and-camel outfit reminds me of Downton Abbey and British country fashions. He looks like a debonair lord about to mount a horse and ride off for a hunt.

His appeal is undeniable.

Annoyed by his general handsomeness, I narrow my eyes. “I thought you didn’t eat lunch.”

He shrugs with his trademark indolence. “You do.”

My stomach gurgles, agreeing with him. Maldición. Straightening my posture, I pretend to scan the menu.

“So,” he offers conversationally. “Still hate me?”

The question catches me off-guard. My eyes fly to his, finding one dark brow arched in a gorgeous mask of mild curiosity.

I open my mouth to issue a sound jab, but my stupid brain chooses that moment to recall the feel of his hands holding my face. My gaze drifts to the red handkerchief in his pocket.

With a sigh, I have to admit, “No. I don’t.”

He gives a single nod, his face carefully impassive while he looks back at his menu. After a moment, he considers me with a new, wicked gleam in his dark eyes. The look turns his next question into a challenge. “What type of dumplings do you like?”

“Shrimp and pork, of course.” As if there are other worthwhile dumplings.

His grin widens. “Fried or steamed?”

“Fried for the shrimp, steamed for the pork. Obviously.”

Graham’s gaze never leaves my face, even when the waitress appears at his elbow. “Two orders of fried shrimp and two orders of steamed pork,” he says, then cocks his head at me. “Obviously.”

His humorous regard has me biting back my own smile. And issuing myself a stern reminder.

You may not despise him, but this is still not a man you can afford to like, Jules. Get back to business.

I gesture to his bag. “So, lay it on me.”

Graham’s heated smile curves higher. “You’re going to want to rephrase that.”

I glower. “Graham.”

“Bijou,” he returns.

His grin fades, leaving his expression intense while he stares me down. “I was wrong yesterday, about acting like nothing happened. We can get back to work and do our jobs. I’ll sit here and eat lunch with you and act like a civilized adult. But I can’t pretend yesterday didn’t happen. I won’t. It happened. I had my fingers inside of you, your hands on me. I’m not going back to the way we were before.”

Well, shit.

What can I say to that?

My attitude feels childish in the face of Graham’s unflappable calm.

Much to my horror, he does have a point. It did happen. As a lawyer, I can admit how silly it is to quibble about facts.

And the fact is: Graham and I made out. After I kissed him, he kissed me back and put his hand up my skirt while I stroked his cock through his pants.

“All right,” I sigh. “That’s fair.”

Satisfied, Graham extracts my files from his bag. He sets them on the table between us, then flattens his palm on top. “The contract you wrote is very good,” he praises, solemn and unwavering with his intent stare. “You are very good.”

I’m used to people being surprised when I turn out not to be an airhead. I shoot him a smug look over my glass of water. “Thought I’d have boobs-for-brains?”

He glances at my breasts, then back into my eyes. “It’s unusual to meet anyone so smart and so sexy.” A sardonic smile plays at his full, soft lips. “Yet another thing we have in common.”

Just days ago, it felt like we had nothing in common. How could we? He’s a wealthy guy who grew up in penthouses with hired cars and an Ivy League education. And I live in a shoebox with my grandmother. He has everything gift-wrapped and waiting for him while I continue to scrap for all the things I want.

It made sense that we would be opposites, at first.

Now? I’m not so sure.

I pry the contract out from under his hand, surprised to see my draft annotated with slanting cursive in the margins. Some of the notes are terse, but most just offer simple explanations. There are even some questions and—shocking—a couple brief compliments.

“I take it this means that—assuming I still have a job by the end of the day—we can work from my version instead of yours?” I do my best not to sound too haughty.

Graham leans back in his chair and pretends to pick lint off his jacket. I recognize the sheepish gesture from yesterday. “I suppose that’s acceptable.”

“All right then, pinchao,” I reply, smiling despite myself. “Let’s get to it.”

He smirks. “Again, bijou. Poor choice of words.”

sixteen

I turn out to be even more fucked than I originally realized.

Pacing outside Stryker’s building, I repeatedly push my hands through my hair.

I’ve already blown my lunch hour to hell and texted my father some made-up bullshit about a migraine. After ten minutes, I figure Jules will be safely installed back in the legal department. I want to slip into Grayson’s office without her noticing.

And I can’t let her get fired over something I started. 

But it’s more than that.

Fuck me. Damn it all to hell. Motherfucking….

A litany of expletives fills my mind while I ride the elevator up all fifty stories and cut across the main floor as quickly as I can.

Beth startles when I burst through the archway leading to Stryker’s office. “Mr. Everett,” she snaps, hawk-eyed as per usual. “We weren’t expecting you.”

My foot taps, expelling nervous energy.  “Is he in?” I demand, unable to summon any sort of charm. “It’s time-sensitive.”

With a clear air of disapproval, Beth presses the intercom button. “Mr. Everett for you, Mr. Stryker.”

A second later, I step into his office. Similar to the conference room, the wide curved space has white walls, a glass front, and a floor-to-ceiling panoramic view behind a smoked charcoal desk.

My best friend sits at the helm, smiling until he sees the look on my face. His expression clouds over. “Graham?”

“I’m fine,” I huff, flopping into one of the leather Eames chairs opposite his. “Sorry to barge in. Finish whatever you’re doing. I’ll wait.”

Grayson clicks around on his computer for a few seconds and then shoves the work on his desk off to the side. “All right. Talk.”

I mean to ask about Miss Rivera’s job. I plan to admit to whatever he might have seen and spin a story to reduce her culpability. And then—depending on how pissed he is—I’ve decided I need to broach the topic of running his investments through me instead of my father’s company.

That last part gradually sank in over lunch with Juliet. Her contract is air-tight. Even if I manage to get away with switching out the names at the last second… I don’t want to tarnish her hard work like that.

Her earnest face drifts into my mind. “No,” she said when I asked if she still hated me. “I don’t.”

I don’t want her to change her mind. And I don’t want to lie to Grayson.

Because I… care.

Revolting.

Bordering on intolerable.

But there it is.

I open my mouth to say all of it—and something completely different comes out.

“I want to leave Everett Alexander.”

What. The. Ever-loving. Fuck.

Stryker leans forward like he didn’t hear me properly. “I’m sorry, what?”

Clearly, I’ve lost my mind. From the moment I all but assaulted Juliet in that elevator last week to this very second—I don’t recognize myself.

But as I sit there, with the most ludicrous statement I’ve ever uttered hanging in the air, I don’t feel sick or regretful. A sudden rush of calm rolls over me.

For the first time in years, I feel right.

The possibilities quickly come together in my head. I can walk away from my father’s business. The “legacy” that’s always been touted as some holy grail.

Because, lately, it feels less like a gold medal around my neck and more like a noose.

In one brilliant moment of clarity, I realize I don’t want to prove myself to the likes of Hugh Everett. I want to rise so far above his level in every category that I’ll never find myself beholden to him again.

I can do it. I already have the education and countless cutting-edge investment strategies. I’ll have to find a client base more quickly than I originally planned…

But I already own my apartment outright, and I have my trust fund to cover other expenses in the meantime. Plus, Stryker’s account will be huge.   

If I can sell him on my sudden insanity.

I take a page out of Juliet’s book and roll my shoulders back. “I want to leave Everett Alexander and start my own firm,” I say, relishing the rightness of the statement. “And I want you to be my first client.”

Grayson watches me for a long moment. I know from years of friendship that he’s scrutinizing my demeanor, trying to figure out how serious I am.

Finally, he spreads his hands. “This is your proposal?”

I want to wince. He has a point; most start-ups would never approach the CEO of a company like his without a detailed business plan. And I have nothing to offer him other than my word.

Which, up until now, has been flimsy at best.

“It’s a new plan,” I reply. “Very new. But it’s the right move for me.” I blow out a deep breath. “I can do this, Grayson.”

I expect caution. Indecision. Maybe even a few jokes. After all, the guy has witnessed all of my most disgraceful moments. Every time I skipped class, blew off a woman, or cheated on an exam; he was there. He’s seen me blacked out, coked up, and everything in between.

But still, he looks me dead in the eye and says, “I know you can do it.”

The simple statement hits me like a gut punch.

He trusts me?

He… believes in me?

Has anyone else ever done that? Have I ever given them a reason to?

“Thank you,” I reply, clearing the thickness from my throat. “I want to do this the right way. Let me write up a proper business proposal and if you like what you see, we can talk about drafting new contracts.”

Grayson inclines his head. “No.”

I blink. “No?”

He cracks a sideways smile. “Like I said: I know you can do this. I don’t need a proposal. And I guess it could be fun to play the big shot and make you sweat, but I’m not a dick, so I won’t do that. You’re my best friend, Graham. Our best man. You have my business.”

Well, shit.

I stand up to shake his hand, but Grayson rounds his desk and claps me on the shoulder instead. “So we’re good?” he asks. “We can get a drink to celebrate Thursday night if you’re up for it.”

I step back, dazed, buzzing with the thrill of what I’ve just done. Holy hell. I still don’t know what’s come over me, but I’m glad for it.

“Thursday’s great,” I chip. My mind spins, forming to-do lists and contingency plans. “Though, I think I could use a drink right now.”

Stryker laughs. “I would offer you some of the gin I keep in my desk, but I have a three o’clock.”

A three o’ clock. The thought sinks through my jittery stupor. Fuck. Juliet.

I watch Grayson saunter back to his seat, considering. Obviously, he doesn’t know about the incident in Pod C, or he’d be pissed at me. And, if that were the case, he wouldn’t be handing me five million dollars to invest through my fledgling company.

As long as he’s clueless, I want to keep him that way. Mentioning Juliet now would only make him suspicious.

“I suppose I’ll need a good lawyer,” I mutter, half to myself. “I don’t have a non-compete contract with my father, but he’s going to try to throw the book at me.”

“Shit.” Grayson rubs the back of his neck. “You’ll also need someone to work on your contracts for clients who don’t have their own attorneys. And someone to review vendor arrangements, insurance.”

My throat goes dry just thinking about all of the logistics. “We can talk shop Thursday night,” I grunt. “Do any of your attorneys here do freelance or would that be a violation of their non-competes?” 

Stryker shakes his head. “If it were anyone else, I’d be pissed about my people doing work for another company on the side; but since it’s you, I’m fine with it. Talk to Dominic. I think he used to work for some hedge fund Downtown. Maybe he can do some start-up work to get you going and point you in the right direction for someone more permanent.”

Fuck that. Dominic is the asshole head of legal I saw leaning all over Juliet.

“I’ll let you know if I borrow anybody,” I hedge, half-kidding. “After hours only, of course.”

Grayson starts to turn back to his computer while I make for the exit. Though, he does toss out, “Yeah, don’t screw with any of my people during business hours, or I’ll be fucking pissed.”

Poor bastard.

Too little too late.

seventeen

Even with a cup of coffee in my hand, I feel every minute of the previous night’s sleep deprivation. After a huge fight with Abuelita about her hiding my father’s request for money from me, I proceeded to eat a bagel for dinner and work until two a.m. finishing Dominic’s assignments.

My cousin looks at me askance as we barrel into the darkness of the Queens tunnel. “You okay?”

Great, I look as shitty as I feel.

I already know that, though. My emerald blouse and black skirt are as basic as my limp ponytail. At least I remembered to put some earrings and makeup on.

“I’m fine,” I grouse, taking two big gulps from my coffee. “Just a bad week.”

Marco keeps his expression blank. “Saw you on Mr. Stryker’s schedule yesterday. How did that go?”

Ironically, my dreaded meeting with the CEO turned out to be the one boon in my otherwise bleak day. He asked me to draft a prenuptial document for Ella—one that will guarantee, under any or all circumstances, that she stands to inherit every penny of the Stryker estate upon his demise.

He also wants the arrangement to dictate entirely equal terms in the event of a divorce, virtually handing over half of his net worth to his fiancée upon the end of their marriage.

It was hard to endure the meeting without gawking at him.

What he requested is highly unusual. Bordering on crazy. And a definite “fuck you” to Dominic’s suggestion that our CEO draft a prenup to protect his wealth.

Normally, spouses who separate only split whatever they acquired during the marriage. But he wants her to have half of everything he owns if she ever leaves him.

He even used those exact words—if she ever leaves me. Because he cannot fathom any scenario where he would leave her.

It was about as romantic as a contract meeting could get.

The thought of Graham’s mouth on mine drifts through my brain.

Well, almost as romantic as a contract meeting can get.

“Attorney-client privilege,” I mumble.

Marco shoots me a grin. “So, he’s putting you to work, then? I’m glad. That Dominic guy is a prick.”

I bite my lower lip to stifle a giggle. I didn’t have the balls to ask my boss why he wanted me to do his prenup instead of the head of my department, but I got the sense he doesn’t like Dominic any more than I do.

Marco’s phone rings as we speed out of the tunnel. He answers with his last name. “Amir.”

“Yes, sir,” Marco says a moment later, glancing at me. “The only thing is—Grayson, I have Juliet in the car with me. Yes. Are you certain? Okay, twenty-five minutes.”

He hangs up with an apologetic look. “Looks like you’ll be late. Grayson needs me to swing up to the East Side and get him right away. He told me to tell you to text Dominic and let him know you’ll be in by nine-thirty, per his orders.”

My stomach knots at the thought. “Just drop me off. I’ll take a cab the rest of the way.”

Marco rolls his eyes. “And have it look like you’re avoiding Grayson?”

Maldición. He’s right. I send the damn text and hide my phone in my bag so I won’t have to read Dominic’s reply.

He’ll hit the roof. I’ll be lucky if there isn’t a huge stack of folders on my desk when I get in.

I recognize the address for Stryker’s building from the closing contracts I reviewed. The place is, of course, even grander in person. I only have a moment to take in the ultra-modern architecture before a small blonde bounces toward the car.

Ella.

She appears at my window and I roll it down, already smiling at the glee on her face. “Jules!” she chirps. “Gray told me you were in the car, so I popped down with him.”

Behind her, Ella’s fiancé offers her an indulgent smile. “She’s supposed to be getting dressed,” he tells me, then turns back to her. “You know Marco is just dropping me off and coming right back for you?”

Ella pulls a face. “I know, I know,” she grumbles. Then, to me, “Grayson is forcing me to go shopping. I suspect Marco is coming to make sure I actually meet the personal shopper and not for security purposes.”

Mr. Stryker glowers at her, but speaks to me the same way she did. “It’s her birthday in February, and I’m taking her to Aruba for a week. She needs swimsuits and resort wear, but every time I try to take her to a store, you’d think I was torturing her.” He shakes his head, exasperated. “I’m bringing in professionals.”

Ella casts me a knowing look. “He has trouble being firm with me,” she translates, “so he’s making Marco do it.”

Grayson seems like a different man around her. His posture loosens, and his smiles come easier. I’m surprised when he wraps his arm around Ella’s waist and pulls her into his side, bending to drop a kiss on her neck without even a twinge of hesitation. He whispers something in her ear and then steps away, flashing a smile that makes me blush.

That poor girl never stood a chance.

Dominic doesn’t storm out of his office to berate me for being late. He doesn’t hover over my shoulder and not so subtly stare down my shirt. I drop my finished research and notes off in his inbox and leave his office without earning so much as a glance.

He wants to ignore me? Sounds like a vacation.

And it is. I work in peace all morning, plodding through Graham’s revisions and beginning my final review of Mr. Stryker’s new townhome purchase.

He asked for the prenup before the end of the month. Now, I suspect he wants it behind them before their vacation. The thought brings a small smile to my lips as I save the finalized real estate agreement to our portal.

“Huh,” a deep, rich voice intones behind me. “That might be the first time I’ve ever seen you smile without it being at my expense.”

Graham.

When did I stop thinking of him as Mr. Everett?

Probably somewhere around his hand up my skirt.

He appears beside my desk, wearing his boyish grin… and the most ludicrous suit ever conceived.

“Dios mío, pinchao,” I startle. “Is that velvet?”

Graham’s smile heats. He leans closer. “You shouldn’t speak Spanish to me here, Miss Rivera.” The rumble in his tone raises goosebumps on my skin. “It distracts me.”

I refuse to give him the satisfaction of sounding as breathless as I feel. “A velvet suit,” I continue, ignoring his flirt. “In red.”

Graham inspects his arms, tugging at the black shirtsleeves underneath. The slim-fit jacket has wide, slanted lapels trimmed with matching onyx piping. His silk vest mixes the black and claret colors into a swirling paisley pattern, blending seamlessly with his tie.

“It’s more of a burgundy, actually,” he comments, then points to the square in his jacket pocket. “Aside from this, of course.”

The red handkerchief.

I see his point. Bright crimson doesn’t match his outfit at all, but, then, it hasn’t matched any of the others, either. Clearly, Graham Everett makes his own rules.

As evidenced by his black velvet footwear.

I laugh before I can help it. “Oh no, the shoes!”

Graham’s eyes flit over my features while I giggle. Finally, he drops his gaze to his feet and gives one of his signature shrugs. “How else is a guy supposed to get away with slippers at work?”

The fine layer of stubble around his sculpted mouth outlines the bright white flash of his teeth. He truly is handsome, especially when he smiles. 

I shake my head and gather my meeting materials. “Honestly, what possesses a person to go to their closet and decide on a burgundy velvet suit?”

Graham steps back as I stand. A slight wince mars his brow. “Sometimes, you choose a confident outfit because you feel confident; sometimes, you choose one because you need to feel confident.”

I might smirk at him if he didn’t sound so sincere. Part of me wants to ask why he needs extra confidence, but the larger part can’t admit that I care. Instead, I hold up my lunchbox and wave it like a taunt.

“You’ll be begging me for lunch today, pinchao. Abuelita made it.”

Graham slips his hands into his pockets while we walk toward the meeting pods. “Your grandmother again?”

I nod, holding my head high. “I live with her in Queens. She’s a fantastic cook on a good day, but even better when she’s angry. We had a fight last night and this lunch is her passive-aggressive way of making me feel bad. So it’s bound to be amazing.”

He snorts, amusement lighting his midnight eyes. “Your grandmother revenge-cooks?”

I don’t like the intent, teasing way he regards me. My stomach does a silly somersault. “That amuses you?”

Graham holds the door to Pod A open for me. “Only because it seems like something you would do.”

“Me?” I narrow my gaze at him as I round the table and take a seat facing the glass wall and door. So I’ll be reminded that we aren’t alone every time I look across the table.

“Yes.” He gracefully slouches into his seat. “Convincing someone they were wrong by blowing them away with your talent seems exactly like something you would do, bijou.” He holds up the final draft of our contract. “Exhibit A.”

I sniff as regally as I can. “Well, thank God for me, then. At least now we can finalize the arrangement, and we won’t have to keep meeting like this.”

Graham doesn’t buy my ice-queen act for a second. “That bad, am I?” he drawls. “Weird. I could’ve sworn I felt you press those gorgeous thighs together under the table just now.”

His dark gaze sharpens on mine. “No reason to pretend, remember, bijou? Just like I won’t pretend I haven’t been hard since you laughed a few minutes ago.”

How does he turn me on so quickly? Just a few words, a slight curl of his lips. I have to force myself not to shift in my seat.

I glare at him instead. “Focus, pinchao. We have to finish this today.”

He straightens his shoulders, snapping back to business. Dark eyes drift over my shoulder to the spectacular view of Midtown. “Agreed. I’ve suddenly found myself with a lot more on my plate than I had previously. I can’t keep running up here every afternoon. Let’s get this over with.”

He doesn’t mean it as an insult, but it still stings me. Very deliberately, I fold my hands over the papers and make no move to read them. When I open my mouth, black fire crackles in his eyes.

“Do not say ‘make me,’” he warns. “Or I will fuck you on this table in full view of the entire office and actually get both of us fired.”

eighteen

There’s no help for it.

I have to have her.

Not here. Not now, but soon. Any noble notions I entertained about leaving Juliet alone were shot to hell the moment she laughed at my shoes.

Such a sweet, lusty sound. She laughs with abandon. It reminds me of the way she melted in my arms when we kissed.

I will away the erection pressing at my zipper, gritting my teeth. “Right off, we should strike out the names as written and revise. The contract will no longer be between Stryker and Everett Alexander. It will be Stryker and myself.” I withdraw the documents folded inside my jacket pocket. “Or, rather, my new company.”

Juliet’s brows lower over her eyes, blending with the coal fringe of her lashes to shroud her skeptical golden gaze. Her voice drops. “Your company?”

I do my best to stay stone-faced while I slide the articles of incorporation over to her. “Yes.”

Ever a true professional, she reviews them thoroughly before regarding me with a dispassionate air. “G&C Capital?”

“Yes.”

Juliet’s lush ponytail cascades over her shoulder as she tilts her head. “Who is ‘C’?”

Of course she caught that. The name is one of a thousand ultra-important business decisions I remain utterly unsure of. I only had a day to come up with it. I knew I wanted something with my name and Christian’s, but “Everett” is too well known around town, and inextricably tied to our father. So, I settled on our initials.

But I can’t tell people that.

Investments are all about trust and respect. If everyone in the city knows I’m saving a place at my company for a drug user, I’ll never build a client base.

Grayson is the only exception—but he’s known Chris forever, and he knows me. He’ll trust me to weigh how much responsibility to give to my brother and when to give it to him. Society acquaintances and strangers won’t.

Which is a bunch of hypocritical bullshit, since half of the wealthy people I know are drug addicts in their own right. Fancy, expensive drugs, procured through “proper” channels. But still.

I don’t even know if Christian will ever be fit to work with other people’s money. I just know he’s brilliant. And my little brother. If he wants a real shot at a better life, I’ll do anything to encourage that.

I pick a speck of thread off my sleeve. “No one.”

Her lips quirk to the side. “You’re lying.”

Christ.

Does she have to be so goddamned smart?

All. The. Time.

It makes me want to fuck her and argue with her in equal measure.

Which is really something. Because before meeting Juliet, I’d never wanted anything as much as I now want to fuck her.

Refusing to concede, I stare her down. “G-and-C. Just good alliteration.”

“Mm-hmm,” she hums flatly. “And this company of yours is a new development?”

“New,” I confirm. “Yes.”

I don’t like the assessing way her topaz eyes flick over me. “Well, I know you didn’t get fired because then you wouldn’t be so nervous.”

I narrow my gaze at her. “How do you figure?”

Her beautiful breasts bounce when she lifts and drops her shoulders. “If you got fired, started a revenge company the next day, and planned to sign Mr. Stryker the same week, your bid for retaliation would be a resounding and immediate success. No need for anxiety. You’d have nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

She folds her hands, searching my features and seeing way too much. “But you are anxious. So that means you stand to lose a lot with this move. And what could a guy like you lose? Your inheritance, of course: Everett Alexander. Which means, I’m guessing, you’re starting G&C Capital for another reason. Without telling your family. And I bet it all hangs on our deal.”

Fuck. Me.

“Got me all figured out, huh?” My voice comes softer than I intend, but Juliet’s cheeks color under my glare.

“You’re not as mysterious as you like to think you are,” she sniffs.

Well, what can I say to that? It’s true.

“Neither are you,” I shoot back, pissed at her and myself and everything all at once. “In fact, after what I saw yesterday, I thought you’d be a little less judgmental. It’s not like you have yourself figured out. And I’m not the one with a deadbeat alcoholic father who stalks me at work.”

Ah, shit.

I want to take it back the second I say it. Her dad’s fuck-ups have nothing to do with her. In fact, I suspect that she’s succeeded in spite of them.

Across the table, Juliet has gone from my usual hot-tempered, warm-blooded opponent to a statue. Still and ashen, her jaw grinds while she meets my gaze, taking the undue criticism without so much as dropping her defiant little chin.

Shoving both hands through my hair, I start backpedaling. “I mean, obviously, your family issues aren’t your fault. I only mean to say that all families have their shit, and maybe there’s a reason that I’m leaving Everett that isn’t anyone else’s goddamn business—even exceedingly sexy lawyeresses.”

Juliet’s expression doesn’t move, but fire flashes in her eyes again. I swear it warms the whole room. “Lawyeress isn’t a word,” she scolds evenly. “And certainly not ‘lawyeresses.’”

I shrug, hoping she’ll melt for me. “We could always agree to disagree, Miss Rivera.”

“Us?” she snorts, smirking. “Dream on, pinchao.”

nineteen

I cannot deal with Grayson’s shit.

Specifically, his absolutely sickening adoration for his fiancée.

Who, sure, looks damn fine in some vintage orange mini-dress and thigh-high white boots. A look Ella mysteriously carries off without looking like a go-go dancer who charges by the hour.

Admirable. But surely not justification for Grayson’s googly eyes.

He watches her saunter up to the bar, his gaze saturated with devotion and possessiveness. “God. Those boots.”

Ella has a well-known penchant for ugly shoes, and these are no exception. Straight out of the seventies, the boots’ only redeeming quality falls somewhere around the bare strip of skin at the back of her thighs. Since I’m not allowed to ogle my best friend’s future wife, the shoes find no such redemption in my eyes.

“They are hideous,” I announce.

Grayson smiles, delighted. “I know. I love them.”

Christ. After another sleepless night and another trip to Chris’s dorm room at two in the morning—this time with gyros—I really don’t have the stomach for his mooning.

I take a long sip of my drink. “Never pegged you for a shoe fetish.”

His eyes glue themselves to her hemline. “Not shoes. Ella.”

Glowering, I search for something—anything—else to focus on. It’s too dark to see shit, though. I know we had to choose a place that’s too dark for other people to take photos, but this feels extreme.

Anotheroom—the trendy bar-slash-lounge in SoHo that Ella selected for the evening—doesn’t believe in lightbulbs. Small gas lamps give off just enough light to see the faces of whoever gathers around the tabletops or sits at the counter. People walking in the aisle between the bistro tables and the bar are no more than silhouettes.

At least they serve decent scotch.

“So, have you made much headway this week?”

Grayson’s off-handed question feels like a trap. Do I tell him no and play it cool? Or tell him I’ve spent the better part of two days banging my head against the wall, trying to figure out my next moves?

I pick at the seam of my lapel. “I’ve made enough.”

Grayson drinks his gin and tonic, eyeing me shrewdly. “It’s good to admit when you don’t know what to do. I had to learn that the hard way a few times. Feigning competence in the name of saving face doesn’t get you very far when the rubber meets the road.”

Sighing, I down more scotch. “I’m a bit out of my depth with the start-up side of the equation. But your contract is done, and I have your trades ready to lock in before lunch tomorrow.”

“Good.” He gives a nod, reaching into the gray tweed jacket of his suit and extracting a folded sheaf of papers from some pocket. “Here. I wrote out a list of everything I could think of to help you get going and included all the contacts I could, and the rates we have with each. Use my name, and you should get the same rates.”

In layman’s terms: He’s throwing me a lifeline. And he took time away from all of his own work—and his fiancée—to help my dumb ass.

The gesture humbles me. I can’t look him in the eye as I take the bundle of information. “Thanks, man.”

He slaps me on the shoulder. “You’re welcome. Don’t get too grateful, though. It’s a shitload of work. Don’t try to do it all at once.”

He wanders over to Ella to help her carry our drinks. It’s sort of hard not to stare. The purity of their connection bewilders me. Witnessing their relationship in the wild is like spotting a unicorn in the middle of Manhattan.

An eruption of giggles turns my head. Three women trail in off the street, pausing to shuck their coats in the doorway.

Juliet.

My body snaps to life instantly. Muscles tighten warily while my prick hardened in my trousers.

Goddamn it.

I haven’t seen her since our last meeting yesterday. But the time apart accomplished nothing. If anything, I want her more now.

Especially in that dress.

It isn’t quite as cruel as the red one she had on when we met, but it’s close. Another garment perfectly fitted to every delectable dip and curve. The neckline doesn’t reveal as much, but the divided skirt falls higher on her legs, offering an enticing slash of thigh with each step she takes.

As ever, she walks with purposeful strides and a seductive sway to her hips. As soon as she spots Ella at the bar, a breathtaking grin breaks over her features. She gives an animated wave, and Ella waves back before turning and pointing to our table.

To me, at our table.

All three girls stop short. Beatrice’s expression darkens while the wedding planner’s—Amy? Ashley? Antoinette? —freezes in a careful mask.

For her part, Juliet trails her eyes down my entire body and back up again, pausing on the details of today’s three-piece suit. Emerald cashmere, with a peacock-patterned vest and matching blue tie.

For the seventh day in a row, I’ve tucked the red pocket square into the front of the jacket. I try not to let myself think about why too much. Though I suspect it has everything to do with Juliet.

The woman makes me feel nearly invincible—like maybe she could be my one and only weakness. An unsettling notion that gives me more confidence than ever in her absence and completely fucks me over whenever she comes into a room.

While the other ladies hesitate, amusement lights Juliet’s expression. She shakes her head and closes the length of the bar between us with slow, languorous steps.

Her long glossy hair catches the dim light from our table’s gas lamp, shimmering in a dark curtain that frames the swell of her tits. The thin gold belt around her waist winks at me.

My fingers twitch as I fight the urge to trace over the metal links. Would they be cold from the wind… or warm from the heat of her body?

I remember the way she felt around my fingers—so hot and soft. Perfection. Would she be as wet if I touched her again? Would she grip me the way she did before?

She’s the only woman who’s ever taken me to the brink with such ease. I’ve spent every night since with my hand wrapped around my dick, imagining what other magic she might wield. 

Her sardonic smirk sends a foreign burst of warmth through my chest. “Pinchao,” she sighs, eyeing my outfit with a look of mock solemnity. “We have got to talk about these clothes.”

A smile steals across my face. “You like the green?”

Her topaz gaze glimmers. “You look like you robbed a leprechaun. And how many peacocks had to die to make that vest?”

I take a sip of my drink to hide my grin. “Twelve.”

She rolls her eyes at my dumb joke. “Dios,” she mutters. “It’s brighter than any of the lights in this place.”

“Not as bright as Ella’s boots, though.” I notice her hands are empty. “You don’t want a drink?”

Part of me hopes she says no. If she doesn’t drink, I can stop fantasizing about getting her tipsy and putting my hand back up her skirt. I glance at her lap, wondering if she has any panties on today.

She squirms, smoothing her hands over her thighs before settling them over her skirt. “Tris is grabbing me something.”

“What do you drink?”

Why do I give a fuck?

Why do I want to know her favorite drink, her favorite foods, her favorite places?

Juliet seems to be asking herself the same questions. Her black brows knit. “Red wine.” She looks at my glass. “Let me guess—scotch?”

I may not know her, but she seems to know me. And, for the love of God, how does that make me hard?

I can’t stop my idiotic questions. “What kind of red wine?”

Juliet shrugs. “I’ll drink whatever Tris picks.”

But what does she want? That seems important. I’m annoyed I won’t find out.

To distract myself, I chance a glimpse down the front of her neckline, but her bright eyes catch mine instead. True to form, neither of us look away, each refusing to back down.

The hum of our sexual tension gradually fills the silence. Like static with a dial that someone keeps nudging. Higher… and higher… and higher. Until it blocks out anything but her, and the thick, burning pulse she pushes through my veins.

It eclipses my self-control. Obliterates all thoughts of maintaining my apathy or staying professional. I know right then, in one crystallized moment, that this fight is pointless.

Over, really.

I’ve already lost.

Her tongue slowly rolls over her lower lip as her gaze roams over my mouth. I can read every dirty thought flickering in her eyes; she wants my lips back on hers, my body pinning her again.

I clench my hand in my pocket, fighting the urge to lunge forward, sweep her up, and carry her out into the alley. Right now, I could fuck her in front of every person in SoHo just to show them how badly she wants me. Just to have her once.

Juliet breaks our stand-off first, turning just in time for Ella to throw her arms around her like they’re old friends.

My best friend’s fiancée then sets another scotch in front of me. She grins. “For you, shithead.”

Juliet’s husky laughter sends a fresh ache through my raging cock. She laughs harder than I’ve ever heard before and I can’t look away.

She squeezes Ella’s arm. “I knew I liked you,” Juliet tells her, cutting an electric glance at me.

“It’s my nickname for him,” Ella replies. “Though Grayson told me you have your own.”

Juliet’s expression turns sly. Sparks light her tawny eyes. “Only when he gets under my skin,” she returns. “Which is often, I’ll admit.”

Under her skin. My mouth waters even as I clasp my pocket harder, disgusted with myself.

The woman turns me into a rabid beast, literally salivating at the thought of shoving inside her. I want to punish her for it, somehow.

I almost taunt her by telling them my pet name for her, but I don’t want anyone else to hear it. The term I meant as a jab has become some sort of twisted endearment. It feels private. Embarrassing, almost.

I miss my moment. Grayson arrives with another gin and tonic for himself, a glass of champagne for Ella, and a bottle of merlot with three glasses.

Tris begins chatting away, pouring for herself and her friends. I put concerted effort into focusing on her face—the upturned nose, her wide smile and unique hazel eyes—hoping that I’ll experience some twinge of attraction. Anything to distract me from the buzz of energy radiating in the space between my seat and Jules.

No such luck. Tris is hot. I see it, but didn’t feel it.

After Ella and the wedding planner—Alice, as it turns out—squeal over wedding details while Grayson dutifully smiles along, the subject finally turns elsewhere. Tris mentions their new townhome and compliments Juliet on her expedited work.

“She is good,” I put in, hearing the begrudging tone in my voice. Even before Grayson’s quizzical eyes meet mine across the table, I hasten to cover my tracks, “For someone who likes to call me names.”

Tris pulls a face, clearly implying that everyone would like to call me names; most just didn’t have the balls. She turns back to Jules.

“Seriously,” she goes on. “I couldn’t believe it when I opened the portal this morning and saw all the documents completed. I came by your desk to take you out for a thank-you lunch, but Dominic beat me to you.”

Grayson stills with his glass halfway to his mouth. His face remains smooth; if I didn’t know him so well, I might not notice the censure lurking in his eyes. “Carter takes you to lunch?”

Beside me, Juliet stares at her fingers as she swirls the dregs of her third glass of wine. Tension replaces the sensual energy radiating from her body into mine.

My hackles rise. What did that motherfucker pull? The very first day all week that I’m not there, and he made her go to lunch with him?

Before I know what I’m about, my left hand creeps into the neutral zone between our bodies, resting lightly against her thigh where no one can see it. Her jaw clenches at the contact, but a second later she scoots ever-so-slightly closer.

“He didn’t take me to lunch. He just had some things he wanted to discuss with me in his office,” she finally says, offering a tight smile. “Some scheduling issues. I might need to come in to work with him a couple of weekend days. No biggie.”

Weekend days? Disgust simmers in my stomach at the thought of the two of them alone in the office. The hand pressed against her leg balls into a fist.

Grayson is pissed, too. Ella notices, casting me a nervous glance. When she sees my face, her lips thin.

“I’ll speak with him,” my best friend announces mildly, taking a long draft of gin. “Multiple people have vouched for your hard work and efficiency, Juliet. If there’s so much work to do that you can’t get it all done during the workweek, he should delegate to the other juniors or have a conversation with me about hiring more staff. There’s no reason for him to drag you in on the weekends. Or your lunch hour, for that matter.”

Thank fuck.

Jesus. Why do I care?

Grayson’s arm winds around his fiancée’s waist and pulls her closer to him. She offers a smile, instantly dissolving his frown.

“All right, boss man,” she teases, grabbing him by the tie. “I think you and I should scram. Let all of your employees talk trash about you for a while. It’s good for company morale.”

Ella truly does make my friend laugh unlike anyone else. “Excellent suggestion, as always,” he chuckles. Then, to us, “I left the tab open for everyone. Have a few more rounds on me.”

The last look he gives me could only be described as a warning. “See you tomorrow,” he says, raising a sharp brow at the hand I have under the table. “Behave yourself, Everett.”

twenty

My two glasses of wine turns into two bottles.

Well, not really, since those bottles are shared among three of us. But still, I have twice what I originally planned to drink.

Luckily, I’m prepared to blame it squarely on Graham.

Specifically, Graham flirting with Tris and, occasionally, Alice. The fact that he feels he has to bestow equal attention upon Tris’ roommate so she won’t be upset—because, in his mind, he is clearly the biggest catch ever—only underscores his arrogant jackassery.

So why does it make me insanely jealous?

Possibly because, the more she drinks, the more Tris flirts back. By the time we pour out the final glasses from our second bottle, I realize: Her disdain for Graham is a front. She’s attracted to him, too.

How could she not be?

Why is any of this a problem for me?

While Tris and Alice giggle over one of Graham’s funny stories, I take a bitter slug of my wine and slide from my chair. “I’ll be right back,” I mumble.

A line in the hallway thwarts my plan to pop into the ladies’ room and regroup. I don’t really need to pee, but I wait anyway, biding my time behind several women until I find myself alone in the narrow, unlit stretch that leads to the back exit.

I’m eyeing the door, considering my options, when a voice comes from behind me.

Right behind me.

“You, too, huh?” Graham rumbles into my ear.

My spine stiffens while my throat goes dry, turning my words into a rasp. “Me, too?”

“Saw you looking at the exit,” he explains, drifting into my line of sight. “I had the same idea. But I suppose I should be polite and let the others down gently, right?”

I do my best to act cool. “A gentleman would,” I sniff, inspecting my nails. Suddenly I’m pissed and spoiling for a fight. “Unless you want to take Tris home. It seems like she’d be willing.”

His hands surprise me, finding my hips and slowly sliding up to the gold chain belting my waist. “Now, now, bijou,” he murmurs, leaning close. “No need to break out your claws. You know I only want to take home one woman here.”

His thumbs draw circles on either side of my navel, sending a quiver down my legs. “What are you doing?” I ask. “We agreed no more.”

Graham shakes his head slowly. “We agreed we wouldn’t pretend,” he argues. “So don’t act like you haven’t felt this heat building for the last two hours.” He raises one slashing brow, midnight eyes glinting. “Unless I’m mistaken?”

The question hangs between us, floating in the space between his sculpted mouth and mine. An expensive blend of scotch and his usual spice blurs my already-muddled mind.

I’m too tipsy to remember to act indifferently, especially when his warmth washes over me and pools between my legs. My chest rises and falls faster as my breathing picks up.

Graham notices. His gaze, dark and hot, traces over my cleavage. He looms closer. “Am I, Jules?” he asks, deceptively soft. “Mistaken?”

I swallow a whimper, not wanting him to hear. “Even if you aren’t,” I breathe. “It doesn’t matter. We work together.”

His lips quirk form the ghost of a smile. Glittering eyes trail down to my collarbone at the same moment he raises one of his hands to the hollow above my sternum. Feather-light touch traces over the ridge of my clavicle, instantly hardening my nipples. An audible breath stutters out of me.

“Not anymore,” he counters, smiling more at my reaction to him. “After tomorrow morning, our business will officially be over. Once those contracts are signed, you won’t see me again.”

My throat clenches closed, trapping the single word that comes to mind.

No.

“This still isn’t a good idea,” I contend, though I hear my own reluctance.

The hand at my waist slips around to brush over the small of my back. “My bijou,” he hums. “Always so sharp and full of fire. I bet you have a lot of rules for yourself, don’t you?”

I hate the patronizing drawl in his voice. “No,” I spit, lifting my chin to glare at him. “Only one.”

Carajo.

I didn’t mean to say that out loud, but it’s too late. Damn the wine.

“One rule,” he repeats, pinning me with those black eyes.

His dark velvet depths are magnetic. Something in them connects with the fluttering sensation stretched taut in my belly. I feel like I’ve been hypnotized. Words fall from my lips without much resistance. “I could only sleep with you once.”

That shuts him up.

He goes still, with one hand flat against my tailbone and the other settled into the curve of my neck. His breath gusts against my lips as he stares right into me, completely immobile.

“Come again?”

I smirk at his unintentional double entendre. “That’s my whole point: You won’t come again.”

My laughter breaks his trance. He finally moves, grabbing both of my hips and pulling me flush against his body while he frowns down at me.

“Only once? Dear God—why?”

I lift one shoulder, aiming for blasé. “One time. It’s my rule.”

Graham’s fingers tighten, biting into my ass. “So, you don’t sleep with people more than once unless you’re dating them?”

My foggy brain thinks back through all of the faces of my former lovers—the ones I recall, at least—checking to be sure I don’t make a liar of myself before I shake my head. “No. That’s my point. I don’t date because I never sleep with anyone more than once.”

He looks incredulous. “Never? Ever?”

“Never ever.”

I expect frustration or badgering. Instead, concern fills his features, making him impossibly more handsome. He cups one hand around my jaw, his voice almost… soft. “Why not, bijou?”

I’ve never explained it out loud. Most of the men I slept with knew they stood firmly within one-night-stand territory before things ever got physical. We met on dating apps and in clubs. I only went home with them if they had their own places. And I left as soon as we were done.

Because if I sleep with someone more than once, I might start to like them.

Because I never want to belong to anybody.

Because I’ve watched what happens when women trust men who don’t deserve it.

And I have to do better.

“It’s easier,” I offer simply.

“Easier?” He presses his forehead into mine while his thumb skirts my lower lip. “How could any man only have you once? That doesn’t sound easy; it sounds impossible.”

A fresh round of flutters warms my middle. I don’t know if it’s the wine or his proximity, but I can’t squash them. I find myself leaning into his hand, enjoying the way his long, strong fingers hold my face.

I love everything about the way he feels, actually. Especially when he shifts, putting one of his legs between mine and grinding his erection into my right hip. The solid weight starts a steady pulse in my pussy. It clenches, longing to tighten around his length.

Dios mío.

I’m in a bar with coworkers. Why don’t I care about getting caught or being kicked out? Why can’t I care about anything aside from him?

“This is dangerous,” I whisper, turning my head to graze his palm with my open mouth. “We’re combustible.”

Graham's eyes follow my lips. “A match and a stick of dynamite?”

I’ve known from the moment I slapped him in the elevator—his antagonism brings out the worst, most volatile parts of me. All the heat I fight so hard to hide bursts out. I’ve been working overtime to bottle it all back up since.

“It’s your fault. You’re the match.”

“You are dynamite,” he agrees, brushing a smile over my cheek.

His stubble makes my breasts tingle. I strain closer, trying to rub myself against his chest. His hand slips back to the nape of my neck.

My resistance wavers. I whisper his name. “Graham.”

Before I draw my next breath, his lips seal over mine.

It isn’t like our scorching moment in office Pod C. This kiss doesn’t plunder or demand. It’s a gift—slow and sensuous. Almost… sweet.

Graham coaxes my mouth open and slides inside, gently cradling the back of my head while our tongues meet. The luxurious vapor of scotch fills my senses, and I stretch up onto my toes, deepening our connection while he licks into me.

My fingers make short work of his jacket buttons, grabbing handfuls of his silk vest. He presses closer, humming his approval while stroking up the curve of my hip to cup my breast. Tingles tremble through my chest, wracking me with a shudder. I sink my teeth into his lower lip with a punishing nip.

His tenderness evaporates on the spot. He bites me back, then thrusts into my mouth with a possessive plunge. I suck his tongue, refusing to surrender.

My defiance only makes him hotter. He fists the loose hair at my nape and tugs, capturing me for more rough kisses. I let him hold my head still, but squirm against his body, purposefully rubbing my side into his erection until the steely prod of his cock settles into the sensitive spot between my hip and my pussy, his hardness melding perfectly with my softness.

Graham breaks away on a groan, panting. “Fucking hell,” he growls softly, pulling back to look into my eyes. “We are combustible.” He teases me with another stir of his hips. “Just give me one night, bijou. Let me show how good it can be.”

One night?

It’s so… Graham. Never one to agree to a first offer, he has to push for a little more. Negotiating, even when he doesn’t realize it.

And, insanely, I don’t want to turn him down. As he frames my face with both hands and sweeps a stray hair off my forehead, I realize I’m not even sure I can.

Obviously, I want him. Badly. He’ll know I’m lying if I say otherwise. And what’s the point in denying it? He’s right—after tomorrow, we won’t work together anymore.

Besides… I feel like I might go crazy if I don’t have him inside of me.

I tilt my head back, eyeing him with all the starch I can muster while enveloped in his arms. “Fine.”

His eyebrows lift. “Fine?”

I give a single nod. “Yes. One night. Not tonight, though. It has to be after tomorrow, when our business is done.”

Graham’s cock twitches against my belly. He grinds his jaw. “Saturday night. All night.”

He kisses me again. Another slow, enticing brush of his lips over mine.

The fight drains out of me all at once. Graham gives a low rumble at my surrender, gently combing both of his hands into my hair. His fingertips massage my scalp while he nuzzles his forehead into mine.

He issues a command, but his breathless voice turns it into a plea. “Come over at seven.”

A hopeless laugh escapes me. “At the rate we go, we’ll be done by 7:10.”

Graham’s heated smile melts my amusement. “Oh, bijou,” he sighs. “Don’t count on it. If I only get you for one night, I plan to take full advantage. Come at seven, and I’ll order us dinner.” He presses a kiss to my temple before leaning back. “You’ll need your energy for what I have in mind.”

With that, he pulls away. Tossing me one last boyish grin, Graham stalks to the rear exit and leaves me panting against the wall all over again.

twenty-one

I’m ready.

Sometime between walking out of the bar last night and waking up today, it all clicked inside me.

I’m going to close my first deal. I’m going to tell my dad where to shove his company. I’m going to make Stryker and myself a shitload of money. I’m going to make Juliet beg to have me more than once.

And I’m. Ready. To. Go.

I dress with extra care, selecting a navy suit lined with red pinstripes. It is the outfit the now-infamous pocket square actually belongs with. The crimson coordinates with a matching vest and tie over a white shirt.

I know I’ll have to get rid of the damn handkerchief soon. After wearing it for Juliet all week, I won’t want to use it anymore if I can’t see her again. It deserves one last go-around.

I stride into Everett Alexander thirty minutes late and don’t report to my father’s office for our usual morning pow-wow. When he sends for me around ten a.m., I sit at my desk for another fifteen minutes, weighing my options.

Should I tell him about G&C at the office? That might cause a scene. With the way assistants and clients gossip in this town, word could be all over the island by lunch.

If I have him come to my place, I won’t be able to leave.

I decide to ask him to meet me for dinner on Sunday evening. In an upscale restaurant, he’ll be less likely to totally lose his shit. I can walk out if I need to. And, by then, I’ll have memories of my night with Juliet to help me forget the whole ordeal.

I catch myself thinking that way all morning. Who cares if I can’t hail a cab, lose my wallet, break my phone, or spill my coffee? It doesn’t matter if I somehow have the shittiest day of my life—because tomorrow, I’ll have her.

With all my careful planning, I thought I’d prepared for most outcomes. But I did not anticipate my dad being pissed off before I even tell him.

“Graham!” he shouts when he hears me outside of his office.

I stop to exchange pleasantries with his assistant—yet another twenty-two-year-old blonde who barely knows her own name, let alone a single goddamn thing about finance. From experience, I know that if she isn’t already sleeping with my father, she will be soon. Then, we’ll pay her some sort of settlement; she’ll sign a non-disclosure agreement; and, three months down the road, a new blonde will appear in her place.

It suddenly strikes me how utterly fucked that is.

Grayson would never sleep with any of the women who work for his company. Even before he found Ella, I never heard him so much as consider it.

I won’t, either. Not only is it just plain stupid, but the power dynamics of a fifty-year-old executive boning his twenty-two-year-old assistant are dangerously out of balance. Only a sleaze like dear old Dad would get off on such a thing… over and over again.

Bristling, I blow into his office and throw myself into my usual chair. “You bellowed?”

“You were late,” he barks, glaring over the expanse of his antique desk.

I can’t help but look at the wood carvings for the millionth time. Why didn’t I ever notice how garish they are? Why didn’t I see all of the pomp and fluff for what it really is—a way for Dad to cope with his own inadequacies, always at the expense of others.

Doesn’t matter, my brain pings. You’ll have Juliet tomorrow.

“I overslept.”

The lie rolls out so smoothly. I no longer feel even a twinge of guilt for deceiving him. I don’t care what he thinks of me. I don’t want his approval. Earning it suddenly seems like a mistake, almost. A great way to end up just like him.

Nauseated by the thought, I swallow a mouthful of bile and level gazes with him, wishing we didn’t look so damn similar. Wishing, perversely, that Christian could look more like our father than me.

Like the coward he is, Dad drops his stare before I do. “I need those account ledgers back,” he snaps at the desktop. “You’ve had them too long.”

Again with the damn ledgers.

I roll my eyes. “Fine. You’ll have them Monday.”

The old man considers me for a long moment, taking my measure before once more turning his attention to the miscellaneous papers strewn around him. “How can I give you real work to do if you can’t even complete simple data entry in a timely fashion?”

I’ve spent three fucking years doing account reviews, sitting in on meetings, going to bullshit lunches where I can’t speak unless I’m spoken to. He knows I can do the work. He knows I ordinarily turn every assignment in well before his bullshit deadlines. He just wants another excuse to keep me out of any real business.

It isn’t the first time.

But it will be the last.

I smile. “Excellent point. I’ll get them back to you before the end of the weekend. Speaking of which, I was thinking we could grab dinner on Sunday night. On me. Maybe Hillstone?” His favorite place to eat—and pick up women twenty years younger than him.

Startled by my invitation, Dad balks slightly before gaping at me. “Uh… sure.”

I clap once. “Great. I’ll meet you there at five. But right now, I’ve got to run out. I’ll be back before one.”

He nods as if he has some sort of authority over my plans. I let him think he’s dismissed me and stand , eager to get on with my day. Eager to get Uptown. To Juliet.

The meeting, I corrected internally, making for the door. Eager to get to the meeting.

twenty-two

Dread chills my gut as I shuffle against the icy wind.

After a horrible morning fighting off Dominic’s repeated suggestions that we work together over the weekend, I was unceremoniously called out of the office by my father.

It meant missing Graham’s drop-in to sign his contract. I debated texting him to tell him where I was, but he wound up messaging me. Making sure I wasn’t home sick and asking if I was all right.

I didn’t tell him where I was going, but knowing he was worried about me helped, somehow. God knows why, but…

Dios.

I can’t… like him…?

That would be silly.

Right?

A flurry of memories blows through my brain. Graham picking non-existent lint off his arm anytime he admits that he’s wrong; taking last week’s meeting by storm with his slow-burning charisma and quick confidence. The way he reached for me when he heard me crying. The feral grin that melts my mind. His stupid velvet slippers.

Soon, I’ll know even more about him. As I round the final corner to my destination, a final text appears. Two lines. Liquid heat pools in my center as I skim them.

7 p.m. tomorrow, The Ludlow, unit 20A.

I’ll be waiting, bijou.

That nickname. When did I start buzzing every time he says it? It was annoying just days ago… wasn’t it?

I shake Graham out of my head, focusing on the hotdog stand outside the MetLife Building. Sure enough, there he is. Julio Rivera—huddled into a threadbare brown coat, bouncing on the balls of his feet as I approach.

“Mija,” he calls over the wind. “You keep your papi waiting so long in the cold?”

As if he didn’t drag me out here.

“I need to eat quickly,” I mutter, then glance at the hotdog cart beside him. “I’m assuming you waited for me so I would pay?”

Julio puffs his chest out indignantly. “I can pay for two hotdogs, mija. I only thought you would want to pay now that you’re working.”

His claim alludes to an old fight between us. He wanted me to go to work straight out of high school and often remarked that I “freeloaded” off his mother by living with her while I attended college and law school.

Of course, now that I pay her rent and all her other expenses, my father feels he should be entitled to a slice of my income as well.

Rolling my eyes, I reach for the twenty stashed in the pocket of Abuelita’s black trench coat. I hold up two fingers, peeved beyond words, and hand the money to the vendor. He wordlessly hands back my change and two dogs.

I duck into the covered archway at the front of the MetLife Building, seeking a bench and some refuge from the relentless cold. My father follows, shambling gracelessly behind me.

“I’m here,” I say flatly, busying myself with a bite of my hotdog. “What do you want?”

I recognize the wounded expression on his face before he starts speaking and cut him off. “Don’t bother with the guilt trip, Papi. I’m not giving you any money. I can’t believe you would even ask me to pay your girlfriend’s expenses, considering you’re still married to my mother.”

You gigantic piece of mierda.

A deep frown creases his weathered face. “We are family, mija. Your mother would want you to help your baby brother.”

The very mention of my father’s love child sickens me. I lower my half-eaten hotdog and gape at him. It blows my mind that he has the audacity to use my mother—his wife—against me in an argument about his side piece.

But then, when I really think about it, I realize he’s correct.

Mami would tell me to give him the money. She would worry about him.

Because, even after years of outright abandonment, she still loves him. This pathetic, selfish, weak man owns her heart. She routinely asks about his well-being and clams up when I mention my plans to procure a divorce for her as soon as I get her onto American soil.

If she finds out he carelessly knocked up his latest girlfriend, it will crush her.

“You think I’m going to mention any of this to Mami?” I hiss. “Hasn’t she suffered enough?”

Julio scoffs, sending a stale burst of rum-scented breath at me. “Your mami does not suffer because of me. She has her men, and I have my women.”

A burst of fury straightens my spine. “You know she has no choice,” I spit at him. “Because of you. She never would have…” I still have trouble saying it out loud. Even thinking about it hurts. “…done those things if you hadn’t left her to fend for herself with no other options.”

My father eats his hotdog with an unbothered air. “You would like Lucia,” he tells me, as if we haven’t discussed my mother at all. “She’s not much older than you. You two could be friends.”

His pronouncement hits me like a physical blow. To my horror, tears swell in the back of my throat.

No, I roar at myself. No more tears for this man.

I vow, then and there, that he will never get another single thing from me. Not a penny. Not a look. Not one single drop of my grief.

I stand, feeling as brittle and cold as an icicle while I stare down at him. “I would never be friends with a woman who could sleep with another woman’s husband. I am leaving. Do not call me or text me again. Do not contact Abuelita. And enjoy your lunch. Because it’s the last very thing I will ever give you.”

I drop my food in the nearest trash can and stride off blindly. Fuming, chilled to my very soul, I have one inconvenient thought I can’t shake.

At least tomorrow, I’ll be with Graham.

twenty-three

I learned long ago to never tell Abuelita about my dates.

The mention of a viable man either sends her into a delirious tizzy of matrimonial excitement or down a Catholic Guilt spiral. Since I know I’ll probably spend the whole night at Graham’s, I make up a story about sleeping at my new friend Tris’s place after a night out.

I hate lying to her, but it’s the only way to explain my outfit and the small overnight bag slung over my shoulder. If I’m not careful, she’ll tuck a rosary into my coat pocket.

On a last-minute impulse, I chuck my ankle booties in favor of my red heels.

There, I think, slipping them on. Make him sweat a bit.

At six-thirty on a frigid Saturday, the F train is virtually deserted. I ride it all the way to Manhattan, then over to the Lower East Side. After a short jaunt from the Second Street station, I’m standing in front of The Ludlow.

Its impressive façade rises higher than most around it. Hundreds of windows shine, even in the dimness of dusk.

Of course the pinchao lives here, I grumble internally, frowning at the doorman.

The modern teak lobby makes me sigh. There are no buttons to press, so I have to talk to the concierge. As I give my name and wait for approval to enter the elevators, I wonder how many other women the front desk staff have buzzed up for Graham.

It’s possible I’m not even the first girl this week… or this weekend.

You don’t care, I coach myself. Even if there was someone else here last night, by the time you’re done with him, he won’t remember her.

I do my best to carry that confidence all the way to his door. It swings open, revealing a gorgeous half-dressed Graham, who silently waves me in while holding his phone to his ear.

“Right,” he says to whoever is on the call. “I understand that.”

His entryway consists of a narrow strip of hall, its walls covered in small pieces of modern art. I linger while he locks the door, inhaling the spicy smell of his cologne and the unique woody musk of his apartment.

My eyes roam over his clothes, taking note of his open vest and unbuttoned collar. The elegant light gray pants have a fine sheen to them. The luster coordinates with the purple-and-silver-silk paisleys on his vest.

He frowns as he listens, but his eyes fall on mine. A spark ignites in their midnight depths, blazing hotter when he trails his gaze down my body. Seeing my shoes, his jaw hardens. “Uh-huh,” he grits into his phone.

Spurred on by his reaction, I unceremoniously drop my coat, turn on my red heel, and make a big show of sauntering down the hallway.

Until I almost trip over my feet.

Ay Dios mío.

The hall empties into a spacious great room with hardwood floors and high, white walls. To my left, white marble and steel cabinets gleam under recessed lighting. Beyond the island and barstools, an attractive walnut dining table stands further to the left, covered in papers and a glowing MacBook, with a gold Sputnik chandelier winking overhead.

The large living room rug complements an asymmetrically curved sofa as red as my shoes. White leather Eames loungers sit perpendicular to the couch, standing like sentries under the floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall window at the back of the room.

It’s gorgeous. I find myself clutching my hand to my heart. “Oh my…”

Behind me, Graham makes a noncommittal sound. “Possibly. I have a few other portfolios I’m considering. Let me get back to you. I have something time-sensitive in front of me right now.”

Me. I toss him a coy look over my shoulder. “Am I time-sensitive?” I mouth.

His eyes rove over my face, down to my cleavage. A black stare spears me. “Yes.”

I don’t know if he means to answer me or whoever he’s on with. Either way, he promptly hangs up, sliding the phone into his back pocket and hooking an iron arm around my waist in one smooth motion.

“Yes,” he says again.

And then I’m against the wall.

twenty-four

Glorious.

It’s the only word to describe finally having Juliet all to myself. 

It’s the only word for how delectable she looks in her soft white blouse.

It’s certainly the only way to describe the swells of her breasts, on full display. All for me.

God. Until she’s back in my arms, I didn’t realize how much I missed her.

I’d probably be disgusted if I had the capacity to feel anything aside from exhilaration.

Through my shirt, with my vest hanging open, her body warms me in a whole new way. Before I know what I’m doing, I have her pinned against the wall, thrusting my leg between hers and locking my arm around her torso.

It only takes a second for her to respond, tilting her head to get to me the way she wants. Her hands curl into my hair, grasping at the strands, brushing my open collar. Tugging until I growl into her mouth.

I’ve been hard since I woke up. Now, my erection resurges, pressing into her belly while she claws at the back of my neck and rubs herself over my thigh.

Her heat brands me through my pant leg, snapping me back to reality. I break our kiss. “Not so fast, Miss Rivera,” I scold quietly. “If I only get one night, you better damn well believe I’ll make the most of it.”

With kiss-swollen lips and heavy-lidded gold eyes, Juliet still manages to glower at me. “You’re the one who’s already half undressed.”

Right, as always. I returned from a late lunch at Tavern on the Green with one of my Columbia contacts and only got partway through changing out of my suit before phone calls started rolling in.

Her fingers trace the row of buttons arrowing down my abdomen, pausing when she reaches my waistband. Her eyes shimmer.

“And, besides,” she hums, reaching lower. “You’re not the boss of me.”

This woman might kill me.

She challenges, on every level, my innate masculine instinct to dominate. And I’ve never been harder.

Yet my cock swells even more when I catch another glimpse of her red heels. “I cannot believe you wore those,” I mutter, shaking my head. “Bitch.”

I expect her to slap me again. Instead, she tips her beautiful face back and gives an equally exquisite laugh.

God, I love that sound.

My arms tighten around her. And she does the same to me. I set my jaw on the crown of her head and let her turn her face into my throat.

“Are we… hugging?” she whispers, catching her breath.

I don’t want to think about it. Or anything else that might happen between us.

Juliet does things to me that I don’t fully understand. I like it too much to try to figure it out. At least, while I still have her.

Once she leaves, I’ll dissect it. Then, I can move on.

“As a wise woman once said,” I reply, not loosening my hold. “Shut up.”

Her surprised breath tickles the side of my neck as she presses herself closer. The soft peaks and valleys of her body fit into the harder planes of mine. She relaxes bit by bit, and I close my eyes.

I want to hold her longer, but she sighs and leans back. Her gaze seems cautious. I already miss her laughter.

“All right,” I mumble, dropping my hold on her. “I believe I promised you dinner. What will it be?”

She takes my measure, wary as ever. “I get to choose?”

Why do I want her to pick?

“I chose lunch on Tuesday.”

There. That sounds… diplomatic. Equitable, at least.

Juliet pouts while she considers her options, casting her eyes up to the ceiling. I try not to smile down at her. For the first time since we met, she just looks adorable. Unguarded and indecisive.

“Thai food,” she announces.

I love Thai food. When I tell her that, she smirks. “Damn. I almost said Indian.”

Then it’s my turn to laugh. “Oh, bijou. Always spoiling for a fight. You should save that energy for later. Come on. I have wine in the kitchen.”

She follows me into the main room, the clack of her heels as much of a torment as the jasmine perfume now clinging to my shirt.

Patience, I remind myself. 

“What kind of wine do you like?”

She slides onto one of my barstools, crosses her curvy legs, and regards me coyly across the expanse of the island. “What do you have?”

“Everything.”

It’s true. I try not to dwell on why I added twelve different bottles of wine to my weekly grocery order yesterday. It’s not like I won’t drink it all myself if I have to. So, really, it is for me…

“Pinot Noir,” she counters. “Please.”

Fuck. I like that word on her lips. I want it again—all night. And—damn her—I want Pinot Noir, too.

I clear my throat. “All right.”

Reaching for the rack of wine glasses and unused cookware over my island, I point my chin across the room to the record table under my TV. “Pick an album if you want. They’re all in the table.”

Part of me expects an argument, but she doesn’t seem quite as combative as usual. Maybe because I already have her where I want her. And she knows it.

Juliet wanders over to the music, offering me a mouthwatering view of the way her jeans hug her thick, tight ass. I pause halfway through uncorking the wine to stare before I remember myself.

All night.

That’s my goal.

By the time I pour wine, I hear the strains of a familiar Sylvan Esso song. Another of my favorites.

I hate how much I like it when our tastes align. And the alarming frequency with which they align.

When she returns, she offers me a small smile. “So, you like records instead of Spotify?”

“Not particularly.” I shrug, handing her a glass. “I’m just pretentious.”

That earns me another lusty laugh. “I know that, pinchao.” Her eyes sparkle with mischief. “Your suits were a dead giveaway. And now, all of this.”

She gestures around. Her expression takes on a teasing gleam while she eyes the pot rack overhead. “Dios mío, do you even cook?”

I almost lie. But I want another laugh. “Nope.”

Her giggle doesn’t disappoint. “Oh boy.” She shakes her head. “Shameful. Those pots and pans are works of art.”

“At least you like them,” I say. “You hate my suits.”

Juliet takes a thoughtful sip of her wine, raking her gaze down my body. “I like that one, actually. Purple is my favorite color.”

Purple. Huh. “You never wear it.”

Juliet’s wry smile sends a bolt of unfamiliar emotion into my gullet. “I look horrible in it,” she claims. “Or so Abuelita says. And she makes all my clothes, so.”

Well that explains why they fit her like a second skin. Still, I can’t help but look as impressed as I feel. “She makes clothes?”

“Yep.”

She expects me to sneer. As if I’m really that much of an asshole. But I don’t care what her grandmother does for a living. After meeting her father, I only have the utmost respect for the woman who raised Juliet. Clearly, she passed on her admirable work ethic to her granddaughter.

I offer my most charming smile. “So she’s to blame for me getting slapped in the elevator last week?”

Juliet’s black brows curve. “She would have slapped you herself if she’d heard your filthy mouth.”

I try to stifle a smug smile and fail. “It has its moments.”

A thrill ripples through her, but she tries not to let it show. Stubborn, beautiful woman.

Has it really only been a week?

It feels like I’ve always known her. Like I can’t remember what the fuck I was doing before I saw her standing there, in the black chasm of Grayson’s lobby, wearing her evil red dress.

She lifts her chin in that maddening way of hers. “Pinchao, put your filthy mouth to good use and order our food.”

Once I place our order, I lean my hip into the island and refill our wine glasses. “Alright,” I say, eyeing her over the rim. “Tell me.”

She takes a long sip, then licks her lips. Torturing me. “Tell you what?”

“About you.” Keeping my eyes fixed on hers turns my request into a challenge. I know she won’t back down if I dare her.

Juliet tosses her shiny curtain of dark hair back and narrows her eyes at me. “I told you. I moved here when I was six.”

I rotate my hands over each other, prompting. “And…?”

Her golden gaze flashes. “And… I came with my dad. We moved to Queens because that’s where his sister and mother—my abuelita—moved before I was born. He took a job at a bodega, and we got an apartment a few blocks from Abuelita’s because she used to watch me at the tailor shop under her place after school. I did homework while she worked. It always took me a few hours because⁠—”

She suddenly cuts herself off, then makes a small coughing noise before finishing, “Because I had to learn English as I went.”

I feel a stab of self-loathing for the time I made fun of her reading speed. “No one worked with you at school?”

She laughs. “Never been to a public school, huh, pinchao? The teachers pushed me through kindergarten and first grade, even though I couldn’t speak the language. They thought I was smart enough to catch up.”

My mind automatically pictures a pint-sized child version of Jules. She was probably fierce, even then; but it had to be scary for a kid to get dumped into a new school, in a country where no one understood her.

I ask the first dumb question that comes to mind. “How did you make friends?”

It’s not the right thing to ask. She keeps her head high, but the light in her eyes dims. “I didn’t.”

A painful twinge pinches my guts. I grimace as I drink more wine, deciding to change tacks. “What about your mom? She didn’t want to come?”

Her expression only gets worse.

Hell.

“She wanted to,” Jules mumbles, looking down at the counter as she fingers the granite. “It’s expensive to immigrate legally. They could only afford one adult and me. My father had family here, so it was easier for him to get the Green Card. He brought me here with plans to get a job, work for a year, and then pay my mom’s way over. Once we got here, though, he… changed his mind.”

Something cold grips me. I freeze with my drink halfway to my mouth. “Changed his mind?”

“Yes.” Golden eyes snap back to mine. “He put my mom off when he started meeting new women. At first, I didn’t understand who they were… But one morning, I saw him with one in our apartment, and it was obvious. He started taking me to Abuelita’s after that. Eventually, he just didn’t come back for a week… then a month. Once, he disappeared for almost three months before he turned back up, drunk, demanding I leave with him. Abuelita chased him out of her place with an umbrella and told him if he ever tried to take me from her again, she would shove it up his ass and open it.”

I don’t know if I’m closer to laughing or snapping my wine glass in half.

“I knew I should have punched that fucking swine when I had the chance.” I realize I’ve spoken out loud and pinch the bridge of my nose. “Jesus, sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she replies, shrugging. “He is a pig. What kind of man would abandon his wife like that? All she ever did was love and trust him.”

I hate to ask, but I have to know. “So what happened with them? Did she get a divorce and decide to stay in Colombia?”

Her wide, perfect mouth folds into a tight line. “No. When my father stopped calling or sending her money, she had to find another way to support herself. In Colombia, back then, the drug trade was horrible, and she needed protection, too. She had to do… some things… and got a police record. That makes it harder for her to get a Green Card on her own, even if we had the money. Which we will—as soon as I save it up.”

Holy shit.

I spend my life sulking because my father wouldn’t promote me while this woman put herself through law school to get a good job and pay for her mother’s immigration?

I look around my apartment. At the cookware I don’t use. The surround sound system I’ve never bothered to read the instructions for. Cashmere pillows.

How much money did I spend on stupid shit? Enough for a hundred Green Cards, surely.

My next thought escapes uncensored. “Can I help?”

Juliet inclines her head, tracing my face with her topaz gaze. “No, Graham,” she murmurs, quieter than ever. “I’m not your problem. And even if I was, the money isn’t an issue anymore. Mr. Stryker pays me well.”

I slug back the rest of my wine, agitated by my own uselessness. “Then what’s the issue?”

Jules sighs. “Her record. I don’t know if you read the papers, pinchao, but this country of yours has some outrageous immigration policies. It’s almost impossible for anyone to get in if they have a criminal history.”

What has always sounded like a sensible rule now seems heinously incomprehensive. How can they not look at these situations on a case-by-case basis? I have a hard time imagining Juliet’s mother as a violent criminal.

“But she didn’t hurt anyone, right?” I push both hands through my hair, thinking. “Maybe if we ask Grayson. He knows some senators. Or I’m sure I could figure out a way to get a meeting with the mayor, maybe even the governor. I was going to tell my father about the business thing tomorrow, but that can wait a few weeks. I can work some of his contacts⁠—”

The cool brush of fingertips over my forearm stops me. Juliet’s expression splits between surprised and stricken. “Even if you did all that,” she says softly, “No one would help her. Politicians won’t be linked to sex workers.”

A penny rolls around inside my skull, rattling in the sudden silence.

Oh.

When she said her mom had to “do some things,” I didn’t imagine… But it makes sense.

“I’m an idiot,” I announce. “I didn’t realize.”

Juliet gives one of her regal sniffs and straightens back to her usual forbidding posture. “Yes, well. It’s not the sort of thing a man like you would realize, is it?”

No. And I’ve never been more ashamed.

When we were kids, my father always said, “That’s just the way of things.” The tepid phrase was his go-to for videos of refugees on rafts; homeless people huddled for warmth in the dead of winter; and news of mass shootings. And it’s what I told myself when I witnessed women selling themselves to stay alive.

Now, I realize just how much I’ve used apathy in my own defense. If I didn’t care, I didn’t have to feel. I could go about my privileged existence without guilt or discomfort. It seemed like the only way to get by since I always assumed there wasn’t anything I could do to help.

But from the second we met, Juliet has made me want to fight. Standing there, absorbing the fire glowing in her eyes, I believe. As long as there are people like her in the world, things can actually get better.

Maybe even me.

“You’re right,” I finally reply, leveling gazes with her. “And that’s unacceptable. I’m sorry.”

Her beautiful face stills for a beat. I take the opportunity to re-memorize every little feature—the slope of her nose, the point of her chin, her high, wide cheekbones.

A slow smile pulls at her mouth. “That’s a first. You usually fidget when you have to admit you’re wrong.”

Right again. Damn her.

Frustrated with myself and desperate for her forgiveness, I snatch her glass and set it aside, closing the space between us in two strides. “Seriously,” I murmur, framing her face with my hands. “I’m sorry, Jules. About all of it. About your mom. And my clueless ass. The way I am—it’s not necessarily something I’m proud of.”

I think back on my whirlwind week. All the realizations I’ve made since meeting her—things about Chris, my dad, my friends, my future.

“I’m trying to change,” I add honestly.

She assesses my sincerity and seems to find it sufficient. “Hmm,” she hums, bringing her fingers to my jaw. “I accept your apology. But do me a favor, okay? Don’t change too much.” She lifts one brow. “I don’t know many men who could pull off those socks.”

I forgot all about my purple paisley socks. The mention of them makes me chuckle. “When I decide to go for it, I tend to commit.”

Heat bleeds into her eyes. “Oh, I hope so.”

Sexy and smart and strong. Bijou. I stare down at her upturned face, wondering why it suddenly feels like I’m holding the whole world between my palms.

How can I convince her one night will never be enough?

I lean down just far enough to brush her lips with mine and whisper, “Count on it, baby.”

Juliet sifts her fingers through my hair again, sealing her mouth over mine. I have the strangest urge to sweep her up and settle her in my lap so I could wrap my arms around her, but the intercom on my wall buzzes.

“Dinner,” I grumble, disengaging to stalk to the door. “Hold on.”

We eat at my island, which is novel for me, and she quizzes me about my family. I give her basic information only. My dad’s name and the fact that he lives on the Upper East Side. That I have a younger brother enrolled at NYU, who I see often.

I hope she won’t notice the omission of a maternal figure. But of course she does.

“And your mom?” Jules asks, looking at me askance before gracefully sipping curry from her plastic spoon.

What can I tell her? She left me here with my father when he brought his love child to live in our penthouse? She’s had so many facelifts we don’t even vaguely resemble each other anymore? I haven’t spoken to her since Christmas and probably won’t again until Mother’s Day?

“She lives in Connecticut,” I offer mildly.

Juliet’s eyes narrowed in her tenacious way. “You hate her.”

A startled laugh bursts out of me. “Damn. Don’t pull any punches on my account, Miss Rivera.”

She lifts her shoulder and offers a tantalizing glimpse down her blouse. Jesus Christ. Is that… lace?

“You can tell me,” she insists. “It’s not like I’ll ever meet her.”

She has a point. Even if I somehow convince Juliet to come back after tonight, I would never want her to meet the cold, bitter woman who fancies herself my mother three or four days a year.

“Okay, fine,” I huff. “You’re right. I hate her. She left me when she left my father and only comes back whenever she needs more plastic surgery. Now we only see each other for a couple of holidays. She’ll probably wind up reading about my company somewhere before I ever get a chance to tell her about it.”

Juliet considers my words for a second before her face cracks into a wide grin. “We are quite the pair, aren’t we?”

When she smiles like that, I have to smile right back. Besides, she isn’t wrong. “That we are.”

As we stare at each other, the energy around us shifts.  

This is it, I think. My one shot with her.

She keeps looking into me, and I let her. Every scrap of reason deserting me. Every ordinary feeling evaporating. Leaving just one behind: desire.

But I vowed to myself that I would take my time.

An idea comes to me. I hold my hand out to her, palm up. “Dance with me.”

twenty-five

“This is ridiculous.”

Standing in the center of his great room, I fiddle with my fingers while he changes the record on his turntable.

“Consider it foreplay,” he replies airily, adjusting the needle and tweaking the volume. “We can dance, and then I’ll take you. Promise.”

Since when does hearing a man say the word “promise” give me strange flutters through my abdomen? Am I losing my mind, or is it just him?

Graham comes toward me with his usual loping stride. His dark gaze glides over my face. Smugness twists his lips. “Unless you’re nervous.”

“I am not,” I reply, too loudly and too quickly.

He notices. His predatory smile sharpens. “Then let’s just do it.”

“Why?” I demand, still too shrill.

Bit by bit, his amusement fades. He steps up against me and lifts one of his hands to stroke my cheek. Earnest longing fills his eyes. “Humor me, bijou.”

Dios.

Why do I want to do things for him? What an absurd, down-right-stupid impulse.

An absurd, stupid impulse I immediately give in to.

Huffing, I kick my heels to the side and shoot him a glare. “Trust me, I’m removing them for your protection.”

A sliver of a smirk plays at his lips. “I trust you.”

The music starts off as static, but soon, I hear it. A quiet, sensual bossa nova track.

“Besides,” Graham adds, pulling me back into his body. “We should get used to this height difference before we go horizontal.”

A surprised laugh bubbles out of me. He has a point; I’ve never been in his presence without the advantage of high heels, and even with the platforms, he still towers over me.

Now, our natural statures almost seem funny. My face barely reaches his chest. The warm spice of cologne clinging to his collar tickles my nose.

“What now?” I ask, doing my best to keep my face impassive while I look up at him.

Instead of taking the clear opportunity to lord over me, he strokes his hand over my hair and gazes into my eyes. “All you have to do is come to me.”

The rough timbre of his voice sends a wave of goosebumps down my back. Everything in my center clenches tightly.

“I am,” I whisper. “I have.”

Graham winds one arm around my waist, bending it to cradle the length of my spine and thread his fingers into the hair at my nape. The other hand reaches low, resting on the juncture of my backside and my thigh. He folds me closer and starts to sway with me.

“I know, baby,” he murmurs, bending to lean his forehead against mine.

My rebellious instincts linger below the surface. I want to claw into him, shove him away, put him in his place. Because I can’t stand all of the feelings sloshing through me, battering my brittle insides like storm waves eroding walls of glass.

My fingers twitch, clutching at his shirt while I push down the uproar. He feels it anyway. The hand in my hair tugs gently, pulling my head back to put us face-to-face.

Turbulence shifts in his fathomless depths. For once, he speaks quietly. “Don’t fight me. You can rip into me all night. But just… give me this.”

No one has ever asked me for anything with such sincerity. And he didn’t even say please. How very… Graham.

I tuck my face against his throat, refusing to concede out loud. He doesn’t speak either, but his fingers massage my scalp in tender circles. My eyelids flutter closed. The hand on my ass glides higher.

On the miraculous occasions when we both manage to shut up, we have an innate sort of intimacy.

A foreign flood of heat sluices down my center, leaving a well of contentment in my chest while somehow stirring a molten roil of desire low in my belly. The heady combination weakens my knees.

Never one to miss a trick, Graham pulls my head back with another gentle tug. For one endless second, his midnight eyes are all I see. And then, his mouth seals over mine.

His tongue coaxes my lips open and skates along mine, rubbing me in slow, sensual slides that curl my toes. He dips his other hand into the back of my jeans. Just enough for me to feel his touch play lightly over the back of my thong. The sensation wrings a low moan out of me.

That sets him off. His fingers tense in my hair, yanking harder while he licks deeper. My palms smooth over his shoulders, feeling the strength he’s been hiding under his dress shirts.

Without any thought for what I’m starting, I push at his vest, wanting it out of my way. My fingers fly to his buttons next, unhooking them until the whole thing disappears.

I glory in the feel of his naked torso. His flawless skin stretches tight over every muscle—the ridges of his abdomen, the lean V bracketing his hips, his wide shoulders and long arms.

I stroke down his stomach, wanting to feel him everywhere. His lips find mine while I trail my thumb over the line of hair leading from his navel to his trousers. Once, twice—on the third pass, he snarls.

“I swear to God,” he mutters, running his open mouth down to my throat. “If I don’t have you now, I will go insane.” His hands find my wrists, spinning me toward the wall. “Get over here.”

I gasp, my chest heaving into his. He watches my breasts with dark eyes, lifting both of my hands over my head and restraining them with one of his, clutching tight. The other moves to grip my chin, holding me still for his intense regard.

Sparks ignite in his depths. “I’m going to fuck you until you beg me to take you more than once,” he vows, menacing and soft. “And I’m going to make you beg right now.”

Never.

I buck my hips into his body and pull at his grasp before letting out a frustrated snort. Graham’s black gaze glitters. The heat from his nude skin radiates over my chest as he presses his erection into me.

“If you want me to let you go, I’ll do it,” he tells me, his voice low and even. “Or I can take you. But you’ll have to ask me nicely.”

Ignoring the pulse between my legs, I grind my teeth together. “Graham.”

The fingers gripping my wrists squeeze harder. His other hand moves from my chin to my temple, tucking loose hair behind my ear while he burns his gaze into mine. “Say it, bijou. Tell me to let you go. Or say ‘please,’ and I’ll take you.”

Damn him. I don’t want him to let me go. And he knows it.

“Please,” I mumble, dropping my gaze to his mouth.

His feral grin flashes. “What was that, bijou? You’re muttering.”

I refuse to let him win, no matter how much I want him. Instead of repeating the word, I kiss him. I wait until he surrenders to my tongue teasing his.

And then I bite him. Hard.

He gives a jagged groan, instantly losing all patience and snatching me up. My hands fall to his bare shoulders, clutching the hard ridges as he lifts my body into his arms, settling my legs around his lean waist. He nips me back, then kisses me deep and hard while he carries me across the great room.

By the time he turns into his bedroom, I’m breathless. He breaks away to toss me onto his bed. “Clothes off, underwear on,” he demands, peering down at me in the unlit room. “I’ll be back.”

Walking stiffly, he makes for the door. Panting, I take a second to glance around me—another room with exposed brick walls and a large bed with some huge canvas hanging above the headboard. I shimmy out of my jeans and sit up just far enough to peel my blouse off.

Less than a minute later, Graham returns. His pants and socks are gone, leaving him in underwear that outlines his long, thick cock. Short, blue boxers—as silky as any expensive tie.

The thought of him wearing fancier underwear than me brings a smirk to my face. For a long moment, he stares. His hand reaches to the side and presses a switch on the wall. Soft light swells around us, bathing the room in a dim glow.

“I have to see you,” he rasps, stalking closer.

I catch a flash of red—my heels, gripped in his left hand. Before I can tease him about that or his ultra-short boxers, he surprises me by lowering to his knees beside the bed.

Never dropping my gaze, he reaches for my ankle, caressing up the length of my leg to tease the back of my knee before skimming his fingers back down.

The arousal pooling in my core leaks into my panties, dampening the center as he massages my instep, his midnight eyes glittering when they skim over my wet center. He pulls at each of my toes until my mouth goes slack. A small, satisfied smile plays at his full lips.

With deliberate slowness, he glides his touch up to my hips and hooks his fingers into the thong. “You’re going to take this off,” he tells me, even as he shimmies the lace down my thighs himself. “And put these on.”

Graham slips the shoes onto my feet before gliding his hands to my knees one more time, bending them so the sharp spikes of my heels rest on the edge of the mattress.

“Spread your legs for me.”

When I open myself to his wild gaze, he mutters roughly, staring. “Fuck. Look how badly you want my cock.”

I shiver as he slides his fingertips along my slit, parting me. He bends forward, just barely skimming his full lower lip over the top of my pounding clit.

That one touch has me grabbing fistfuls of his duvet cover. I barely resist the urge to tilt my hips up for him. Instead of giving me what I want, he pauses, raising his slashing brows at me. A cocky smile flirts with his features.

“I still didn’t hear the magic word.”

This smug bastard.

I swallow hard, ignoring the ache deep in my belly as I silently tilt my head, refusing to give an inch.

“Mmm,” he hums, gazing up at me. “I see how it is.”

A breath later, he slips his hand under my hip and flips me. Gasping, I land on my elbows, bent over the edge of the bed. Before I can even turn my head, his palm connects with the back of my ass, delivering a sound spank to the juncture of my thighs.

Once his hand lands there, he leaves it, rubbing a slow circle. I stifle a moan while every nerve in my core smolders.

“Now, tell me,” he murmurs, his voice black silk. “What is the magic word?”

Panting with outrage and maddeningly turned on, I cut him a severe look over my shoulder. “Fuck you.”

He spanks me again, sending another echo through my core. Inclining his head, his arrogant smirk deepens. “No, that isn’t it.” His eyes narrow, daring me. “Try again.”

“Graham, I swear⁠—”

Whap.

Something about the way he reacts—without a speck of hesitation—excites me. Restless from the wetness slicking my thighs, I shift, sticking my backside out further.

His mouth pulls into a grin, at odds with the dark heat burning in his eyes. “Is this what you wanted that day in the elevator?”

The first time I saw him, I thought I hated him. Is it really that I just wanted him so badly that it infuriated me?

The thought of Graham bending me over in the elevator and spanking my ass leaves me breathless. Still, I deny it.

“No.”

Whap.

I pant louder. His free hand reaches up, looping my hair around his wrist and pulling my head back. With my back arched, I see that he’s removed his boxers. His hard, naked body strains behind me. His solid length bobs every time he skims his palm over my rear.

“You know what I think, bijou?” he murmurs, his obsidian gaze following his fingertips as they trail down to collect the wetness seeping from my center. “I think you put up a good fight, but you like it when I win.”

Images blur through my lust-addled brain. The day Graham snapped me up and shoved me into the wall of Pod C; how he coaxed me into his arms when I cried in the stairwell; the fact that he convinced me to give him a whole night instead of a single hook-up.

Dios mío.

He brings his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean. He groans quietly while greed tightens his expression. “Christ, you taste good.”

A spark settles into his features, quirking his lips in the feral grin that scorches my blood. “I already knew that, though. I licked you off my fingers the first time I touched you.”

Recalling the way he reached up my skirt and swirled his fingertips over my pussy sends a clench through my core. My legs part of their own volition, tottering on my heels as I lean back to brush my ass against his erection, teasing him.

The fist in my hair constricts, pinning me with more force. Graham mutters curses under his breath.

Another stinging slap bites into my rear. I gasp, so turned on I feel dizzy. Without preamble, he snaps the back of my bra open. It falls onto the bed, leaving my tight, tingling breasts bare. A second later, two fingers plunge into my heat, curling the way I love. I moan into the mattress.

Whap.

Graham steps closer, pressing his scorching-hot hard-on into my hip. “Let me give it to you, baby,” he tempts, his voice softer. “All you have to do is say⁠—”

“Please.”

The word finally vibrates out of me, echoing through the room.

And then he’s on me.

Graham flips me with a hard yank. One arm snakes under my torso, positioning me close as his free hand flies to my aching breasts.

My nipples harden into points, pressing into his palm while he kneads each one in turn. He pinches them hard, rolling each peak until it lengthens under his touch. His eyes burn like hot coals, branding me as they loop over my bare body.

“Goddamn you,” Graham hisses, his lips finding mine. “You’re so beautiful.”

He is, too—all hard planes of muscle, lean and warm to the touch. I rake my nails down his broad back, enjoying the way his erection twitches between us. 

While he cups both of my breasts, I grip his length and give a gentle tug. “It’s all for you, baby,” he rasps. “Take it.”

For a beat, I just stare, mesmerized by his perfect package. The long, thick cock is shaved bare, giving me a perfect view of his entire shaft and the full balls drawn tight at its base.

My teeth sink into my lip while I imagine fitting him into my mouth. There’s no way that will work, but I’d have fun trying. While my mind races with the possibilities, I grip his naked length and stroke him. His head falls back on a gasp.

“Jules. Fuck. Go slow.”

I don’t let up, showing no mercy as I twist my fist over his wide, pulsing head. “Funny,” I say, piercing his gaze with mine. “I haven’t heard the magic word.”

My teasing snaps his control. His mouth catches mine with bruising force, biting my lower lip while his hands slide down to my ass, gripping it roughly.

I continue pumping Graham’s cock in and out of my hand, working him until a snarl tears from his chest. He snatches my wrists up, drawing my hands over my head like he did in his living room.

“You’ll ruin me,” he grits, settling between my thighs. “I knew it the second I saw you, but I had to have you anyway.”

He trails his lips and teeth down to my neck, nipping and sucking while I grind my soaked pussy along his throbbing erection. He adjusts his hips to press his length right against my clit, wrenching a broken moan from me.

Graham moves rhythmically until my core cinches with anticipation, desperate to feel the same thrusts inside me. Another cry floats out of my mouth as I realize that I’m about to come from those practiced rolls of his hips and nothing else.

“Yes, baby,” he praises, hoarse, biting at the tender slope of my shoulder. “You’re so wet. I can feel you throbbing. You’re going to come now, aren’t you?”

“Graham.” His name sloughs up my throat as my clit pulses, sending tingles through my core and arching my back.

His tongue teases mine in long, hot strokes that nearly make me come twice in as many minutes. Before I can help it, I whimper into his mouth.

I expect some version of the gloating grin I love so much… despite all my efforts not to. But Graham silently releases my wrists, entwining his hand with one of mine. His eyes close as he presses our foreheads together and dips his other fingers into my folds, earning another sharp breath.

“Christ,” he mutters, stroking into me. My pussy eagerly clasps itself around his fingers. “Juliet.”

My hands roam up his back, into his thick, overly-long hair. I comb the strands back to their usual order and tug on the roots as he touches me. When he has me trembling and mewling beneath him again, he suddenly rolls away.

Condom, I realize, hearing the slide of a nightstand drawer. He can’t wait anymore.

I sense he’s beyond the need to tease and torment. I am, too. Instead of denying him, I move further onto the mattress and open my legs eagerly, offering myself up.

With protection in place, Graham kneels between my thighs. He brushes the backs of his knuckles over my cheek in a surprising, tender gesture that sends a slick rush through my sex and a burst of wetness to my eyes.

“Like this,” he says quietly, grasping my left leg to hook my red heel over his shoulder, lifting my ass from the bed to align our centers. 

I stretch my arms overhead, finally surrendering to him.

Just for tonight.

It is all we can have. And I want it so badly.

With one last pass of his molten gaze, he locks eyes with me, wraps his strong hands around each of my hips, and pushes inside.

twenty-six

Heaven.

Delirious, delicious perfection that can only mean I’ve died, somehow, and found my eternal reward between the thighs of the world’s most beautiful woman.

I’ve never felt any swirl of sensation as wondrous as pressing my body into Juliet’s. The way her pussy grips me, her soft skin, the image of her bountiful curves laid out under me.

I shove myself into her again and again, savoring the plush cushion of her hips against mine. Her round tits rocking with every thrust. The way she moans and whispers to me. Saying my name, begging for more, telling me how much she likes my cock.

I’m sure I say things, too. I can’t focus on what comes out of my mouth. Juliet captivates my focus completely, holding me in her thrall while our bodies screw themselves together.

It takes some time, but I finally work myself all the way in. Flames climb up my spine while pleasure radiates from my center. I fuck her hard and slow, then faster. She unravels, her sighs and whispers mixing with moans, dipping into her native language.

I stroke my cock into her melting core as she loses herself. The tight clasp tugs at the head of my dick on every thrust until I can’t take anymore. Coming with an animal roar ripping out of me, I grip her ass, tilting her just so and driving into her harder.

Juliet cries out. Her body bows off the bed as another orgasm rolls through her, a series of spasms echoing through her body, milking me until I collapse.

I manage to part her luscious legs and flick the heels off her feet before I fall forward, landing in her softness and turning my face to the jasmine-perfumed crook of her neck. Her arms float from their position over her head, banding around my shoulders.

A deep vein of contentment floods my middle. Satisfaction dulls my mind. Gratitude and awe shimmer around the edges of my consciousness like carbonation.

For a blissful moment, I feel everything and don’t think about any of it. Then I hear it.

Silence.

The shell-shocked, loud-as-hell kind. It presses down around us, underscoring everything inside of me.

Gradually, my feelings sink through the haze of ecstasy. And, for a minute, I swear I actually hear my dismay ricochet through the soundless room.

Dear God. What have I done?

I fucked Juliet Rivera.

And now I’m in love with her.

I don’t sleep for shit.

Partly because I’m too busy having Juliet every way she lets me until well after three a.m. On her back, on her front, in my lap. Come morning, I can still taste her nectar and musk.

Every time was supposed to be the last.

Just one more. Just to prove to myself that I’m not in love with her—that it’s just her wet heat and her sexy-as-fuck curves, and that is it.

And every goddamn time, the riot of foreign feelings gets stronger as soon as we finish.

Juliet finally falls asleep in the wee hours of the morning. She refuses to cuddle, of course, preferring to present me with her naked back. Which is how I normally like to sleep with a woman when I have to.

Only, this time, I spend the rest of the darkness staring at the slope of her spine and memorizing the dangerous curve of her hip, wishing I had the right to roll closer and pull her into me. 

I doze off, but wake to the sunrise. More determined than ever.

Juliet and I can’t be a one-night thing.

I have to figure out a way to get her to come back.

Finding my boxers on the bedroom floor and my phone in the pocket of my abandoned pants, I trudge to the kitchen and set to work cleaning up our mess from dinner.

Moving around helps me think, so I decide to make breakfast. I figure it can’t be too hard. I have all the kitchen equipment.

And isn’t French toast just, like, bread and eggs? Easy.

Half an hour on YouTube later, I have butter browning in one pan and bacon in another. I sip my third cup of coffee and stare into the foaming fat, considering.

I can’t be in love, I reason, adding battered brioche to one pan. Maybe it’s infatuation. That’s a thing. Not a thing I’ve ever experienced after fucking someone, but I’ve heard about it happening.

It doesn’t seem likely that feelings as strong as the ones Juliet invokes could possibly die down, but perhaps that’s the point—something so brilliant can’t possibly blaze on forever. It will burn itself out eventually.

So I just have to buy myself some time. Long enough to learn her flaws and have my fill of her charms. Then, I can leave her alone.

I flip the French toast, marveling at the golden-brown crust. Well, shit. If I’d known actually cooking something would be so easy, I would have done it a long time ago.

I shake my head, appalled with myself. Why does it feel like I don’t recognize my own life anymore? One week with this woman, and I’m making French toast, starting my own business, and angling to extend a clear one-night stand.

I should be angry. Frustrated. Instead, I just feel… thoughtful.

Calm.

Jesus Christ.

I feel good.

Even with no sleep, after a night with Juliet, euphoria hums in my blood. And, even worse, cooking her damn breakfast is relaxing me. I look at my hands, disgusted and fascinated.

Is she a witch? A goddess?

I hear something over my shoulder and find Juliet hovering on the edge of the great room, wearing a lavender dress shirt she clearly pilfered from my hamper.

A slow, seductive smirk lights her features. “Good morning, pinchao.”

twenty-seven

I should be relieved to wake up alone.

But rolling over to find Graham’s place beside mine empty somehow feels like a betrayal. All the things we did last night… the way I felt.

We have a connection.

Which means I need to get out of here.

Wounded and alarmed, I drag myself up and shake out my hair, hoping to straighten my thoughts. At least he’s not watching me freak out.

I wonder if he left me alone on purpose—if he understands what I need because it’s also what he needs. After a whole night with him inside me, I can honestly say it’s uncanny how often our thoughts align.

So, sure, I feel the need to get myself together before I face the man. But maybe, just maybe, he feels the same way about me.

It doesn’t matter, really. Graham had his one night.

And he used it. And used it. And used it. To unwittingly tear down every last defense I spent the week building.

He took what he wanted. That part didn’t surprise me. Pinchao. He’s a confident, dominant man, clearly used to getting what he wants.

What did surprise me was how much he gave. Nuzzles, whispered praises, massages, and lingering kisses between every round.

Graham Everett can be sweet.

And—ayúdame, Dios—the memories bring an involuntary smile to my face.

After tiptoeing into his bathroom, I rinse my mouth out and run my fingers through my limp hair, smirking at the array of men’s grooming products neatly lined up between two black marble sinks. My reflection peers back from the room’s wide mirror, amber eyes flickering to the love bites clustered on my neck, my shoulder, and the top of my left breast.

Huh. I guess there was a lot of biting. Yet another thing he and I have in common.

Shaking my head, I use the hair tie around my wrist to knot my hair into a low bun. With my clean change of clothes all the way across the apartment, I settle for a lavender button-down I find tossed on top of his laundry hamper.

Buttoning the shirt and rolling the long sleeves up, I make my way out to the great room.

Where I stumble over my own feet, halting on the threshold.

Spoiled, overly coiffed Graham is… cooking? Breakfast? For me?

And he told me he doesn’t eat breakfast. The thought brings a smug twist to my lips.

“Good morning, pinchao.”

He cracks a crooked version of my favorite boyish grin. “Bijou.”

His gaze slides down my body, clearly filling in all my covered parts from memory. His eyes meet mine for a brief moment before he turns back to his work, flipping what appears to be a piece of French toast.

“Far be it for me to disagree with Abuelita,” Graham says mildly, not looking up. “But purple looks lovely on you.”

I recognize the strained undercurrent in his voice. Concern. He worries about the compliment, even as he gives it.

So do I. He shouldn’t be nice to me, and I shouldn’t like it.

But I drift into the room anyway, drawn by the sight of his hard body and silky underwear as much as the mouthwatering scents of bacon and strong coffee.

When I reach him, he pulls the pans off the burners and sets them aside. Grabbing his coffee in one hand and a matching stone mug in the other, he pivots to face me, leaning his hip into the counter, offering the second mug to me.

It’s very strong, bordering on abrasive. Just the way I like it. He watches me take a sip and then chuckles at my startled expression.

“You know me—never one for subtlety.”

I do know him. My eyes flash down to the bulge in his boxers. Very well.

“Hmmm,” I mutter, distracting myself from his package with another mouthful of coffee. “I must say, I’ve never hooked up with a guy who wears fancier undergarments than me.”

I feel his hot gaze trail over my face. “Not all of us can be connoisseurs of quality, I’m afraid.”

The quiet cadence of his voice takes the edge off his taunt. A second later, his fingertips graze my temple, sweeping a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

I resist the urge to jerk away. Affection after the fact is a strict no-no for me. It makes things blurry under ordinary circumstances… And whatever Graham and I have is already more muddled than any of my past hook-ups.

Overreacting will only show him how much he affects you, I tell myself, holding still as he skims his thumb down my jaw and touches my chin.

Brooding bewilderment roils in the black velvet irises staring back at me. “Will you stay for breakfast?” he finally asks.

My focus slides to the side, where a plate of French toast sits innocently beside the pan of crispy bacon. It really looks delicious…

“Yes.”

His perfectly impassive face doesn’t move, but the tumult in his eyes shifts. “And then you’ll go?”

My relief and dread roll into a tangle. I lift my chin and force my shoulders back. “Yes.”

Something about my bearing amuses Graham. His lips curve sardonically. “That was our deal, I suppose.” He turns to retrieve the food and nods at the dining table. “Let’s use that. I’ve never eaten there before.”

A giggle bubbles out of me. “Didn’t you tell me you’ve lived here for, like, two years?”

Graham shrugs one of his bare shoulders, muscles rippling down his back. “I don’t entertain much.”

If the array of work papers scattered over the wood surface is any indication, he doesn’t entertain ever.

I swallow my observation with another gulp of coffee. Helping myself, I stretch across the stove to grab the carafe off the coffee maker and refill my mug. Graham’s hot gaze follows my every move, glued to the backs of my naked thighs.

I have to tamp down a smirk, then a wave of self-loathing.

Carajo.

Since when do I like him leering at me?

Clearly, the man makes me lose my mind. I need to get out of here.

Graham retrieves two heavy stone plates that match our mugs. His silverware turns out to be gold. Of course.

I roll my eyes, and he catches me, flashing a sexy grin. “Fancy forks to match my fancy underwear.”

“You’re ridiculous,” I laugh. “I’ve never been more certain I chose the perfect nickname for you than right now.”

Graham sweeps half of the table’s worth of papers into a neat stack. “I noticed that nickname was nowhere to be found last night.”

He doles out our place settings and arranges the food. As we sit, he cocks an eyebrow at me. “Could it be that I pleased you somehow?”

A flush rushes to my cheeks. I focus on smoothing my napkin over my naked lap, sniffing as I reply, “You did fine, pinchao.”

We both know that’s an understatement of the highest order.

Graham gives a snort. “I seem to recall one round that lasted almost an hour. And I’m not counting or anything, but I believe you thought I was doing more than fine multiple times.”

As he serves me French toast, his fingers flash the number four.

Four times in one hour. Carajo. He’s right.

I wiggle in my seat. “So, you were counting, then,” I grouse, snatching bacon before he can offer me any.

He grabs his own and turns to frown at me, confounded. “If I am, it’s only because I’ve never experienced anything like it before.” He drops his eyes to his food as he starts to cut his breakfast. “But maybe that’s typical for you.”

Why would he ask that? Does he want to know if what we shared was… something? Why?

I study his profile for a beat. “No. Not typical.”

My heart gives a pang at the dash of vulnerability that darts over his features. He stares at his plate. “Noted.”

I feel him working up to another question. What if he asks me to stay? Or come back? Am I really going to walk out of here and never see him again?

Until I feel certain I can definitely turn him down, I opt to change the subject. Searching for inspiration, I glance to the side, skimming the nearest document.

A list in his bold, slashing handwriting. More chaotic than his usual work, with unnumbered items piled on top of each other and notations cramped into the margins. The first—and most legible—reads, “Insurance contract review.”

Gracias a Dios. Something I can actually talk about.

“What’s this?”

Graham freezes. His fork hovers between his plate and his mouth as he stares at the paper in my hand, obviously debating how much to tell me. When his features fill with rueful amusement, a silly flutter trembles low in my belly.

“It’s a list of all the business shit I don’t know anything about,” he admits. “Grayson suggested that the most important thing for my start-up would be recognizing when I need to ask experts for help, so anytime I start to think I’m in over my head, I write it down.”

He shoves a large bite into his mouth and talks around it. “Clearly, spending four years in business school accomplished fuck-all.” 

Chuckling, I make my way down his litany of unknowns. Items like, “Hiring—fuck me, I don’t know—non-compete clauses? Background checks?” and, “Drafting agreements for clients who don’t have thirty in-house lawyers like Stryker.” 

“Eight,” I correct absently, waving the list before flipping it over to read the back. “We only have eight attorneys in-house.”

“Which is eight more than most people,” he shoots back, biting into a strip of bacon. “I can’t count on all my clients having sexy lawyeresses for me to work with. I’m going to have to draft standard contracts for such mere mortals.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, warding off a giggle and debating the wisdom of the first reply that comes to mind. “You know… That contract I wrote will probably work in most cases. If you change the names and dollar amounts accordingly.”

I expect some measure of surprise, but Graham keeps eating without a flinch. “I know,” he says. “Your contract is exactly the sort of thing I need. But I would never dream of using your work without paying you for it.” He suddenly pins me in place with his bright, dark eyes. “Unless… you’d be willing to let me pay you for it?”

This is exactly the sort of thing I was afraid of. “I wouldn’t feel right, especially since Mr. Stryker already paid me to create it in the first place.”

Graham tilts his head slightly, his expression carefully blank. “Why not? You wrote it. It’s your work. If anyone is going to make money off it, it should be you.”

I can’t disagree. “If I were to sell it, I would rewrite the whole thing. Even if it winds up being similar, re-doing the work would keep my conscious clear.” Sensing the dangerous bent of our conversation, I add, “But, like I said, Mr. Stryker pays me well. I don’t need to do any freelance work.”

He bores his gaze into mine, undeterred. “But you could, right? Stryker mentioned that your non-compete doesn’t apply to me since I’m not a competitor.”

He’s feeling me out. I shove a big bite of French toast into my mouth to buy some time while I chew. “Even if it’s technically allowed, I bet Mr. Stryker would be less than thrilled by anyone working for another company on the side.”

Instead of looking discouraged, Graham’s lips turn up at the corners. Maldición.

“Not an issue. I spoke with him about it last week. He suggested Dominic, but I think I have the perfect person for the job right here. If past performance is any indication…”

The suggestive gleam in his eye is not lost on me. Nor is the strange somersault in my stomach.

Clever pinchao.

Devising a way for us to spend more time together in a professional capacity—likely because he knows I’d entertain a working relationship before I ever considered a personal one.

“Keep dreaming,” I snort, draining my coffee and rising to refill the mug.

Graham leans back in his chair, brows raised. “Why not? It will only take a couple of weeks to get everything I need sorted out. And I’ll pay you. A lot.”

Part of me—the thrifty, desperate part that still washes out plastic bags to reuse them—pauses at that.

How much? I wonder.

Would it be enough to hire an immigration lawyer immediately? I have a savings plan… but what if Graham’s money could get Mami here now? How could I say no, then? Especially if Mr. Stryker really doesn’t mind.

Staring down into my fresh cup of coffee, I realize he’s tricked me. The bastard.

Pissed, I shoot him a glare from across the room. “Do I seem like the sort of person who would abandon their principles for money? I told you that you could have one night and you’ve had it. We’re done. I’m not going to become your legal counsel concubine. I don’t care how much you offer me.”

Graham crosses his arms over his chest, bare pecs and biceps flexing. He narrows his gaze at me. “Who said anything about sex? I want to hire you. To work. Because you’re very good at what you do. And, sure, we fucked. That will always be there between us, I guess, but you’ve made your boundaries exceedingly clear. One night. And I agreed.”

He looks mad. “Do you think I’m the sort of person to ignore a woman’s boundaries? Or go back on his word? I want you, Juliet, but I respect you, too. We made a deal for last night, and we can make another if we work together.”

My teeth grind as everything inside of me splits down the center.

The louder—panicked—part sounds alarm bells. Like a cornered animal, I have the sudden, frantic urge to do anything to get away. It takes a moment for me to smother the voice shrieking at me to get out now.

After a few deep breaths, my rational side crowds in; and it actually argues in Graham’s favor.

He has a point, damn it. I do trust him. After spending the night with him, I’m more certain than ever about his capacity for goodness. He simply reserves those depths for people he cares about.

And I’m starting to suspect that I may be one of those people.

I think of the way he listened to my mother’s story. The shame in his expression, how he instantly tried to offer help, even though he didn’t know what that help might look like. The way he watched me while we were in bed together, paying close attention to my every cue. How he got up and made breakfast without complaint, with no expectation of anything in return.

I believe him; he does respect me. He won’t fight me on a firm boundary.

Which makes the practical part of me wonder—why can’t I work with him? As long as we agree not to break my one-time rule, I can still make a clean getaway.

It will just be a few weeks later, and I’ll be a few thousand dollars richer.

If I can resist him.

A little extra cash isn’t worth putting myself through the temptation. But if the money would truly make a difference in my plans, I’ll force myself to muster more self-control and soldier through.

So, I come back to the dining table and stand at the opposite end, locking gazes with Graham. “How much?”

His eyes turn to cool fire, somehow pinning me with smoldering sensual interest and businesslike detachment. “Two weeks. Fifty thousand dollars.”

Fifty.

Thousand.

My tongue feels numb and thick in my mouth. “I’m sorry—what?”

Graham’s gaze holds steady. “You’ll come here every night after work and maybe one afternoon each weekend for two weeks. Less if we finish up early. Either way, I will pay you fifty thousand dollars.”

The staggering amount sends my mind reeling. It’s almost half of my annual salary. More than enough to retain an immigration expert for Mami. Maybe even enough to pay for the entire Green Card appeals process.

Graham watches me decide. Triumph glimmers in his eyes. “What do you prefer, bijou—cash or check?”

twenty-eight

By all accounts, I am a very bad man.

In twenty-four hours, I’ve seduced a woman who has no intentions of pursuing a relationship with me, fucked her so many times I lost count, and bribed her into a business arrangement that can only be described as precarious, at best.

Then, after we finished our breakfast and she made her escape, I wasted most of the day sleeping instead of preparing for dinner with my father.

If I were decent, I would have spent my afternoon typing up an official list for Juliet to work from and finished inputting the damned account logs for Everett Alexander. I want to return all the books to my father over dinner, before I drop the bomb about leaving the business.

But the second Juliet breezed out my door, I all but collapsed from exhaustion.

Hours of sleeplessness left me depleted. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

Watching Juliet go without so much as a farewell kiss definitely didn’t factor into it.

Shut up.

After wasting half the day, I only have enough time to shower, dress, and do a cursory review of the delinquent Everett Alexander account books. In a disgusting display of sentiment, I actually start to put on the lavender dress shirt Juliet wore before I catch myself and chuck it back into the hamper.

Goddamn it.

The woman has me under some sort of spell.

I fight back, making a big show of leaving the button-down behind and choose a color on the opposite end of the spectrum—a yellow shirt with navy slacks and a navy-and-white striped bow tie.

Satisfied, I brew another pot of coffee and sit down to the green account binder.

Why green? I wonder.

I’ve been doing data entry for three years, and the only other green binders I’ve ever seen are my father’s personal files, in his office closet.

No time to dwell, though. I have just over an hour before I have to haul ass Uptown.

Turns out, I don’t need that long.

Because it only takes minutes for me to see it, this time.

Fraud.

Who knows why it suddenly makes terrible, perfect sense? Maybe my endless lust for Miss Rivera runs even deeper than I allowed myself to believe, and I was so distracted by wanting her that I couldn’t really focus before. Maybe, now that I’ve had her, I can finally see.

The numbers don’t make sense because they can’t make sense. Because they are wrong.

Worse than wrong.

False. Fiction.

Millions of dollars from two dozen different portfolios have been funneled into various high-yield IPOs… but the returns reported are significantly lower than the actual pay-outs should be. Meaning someone lied to several clients and skimmed the actual returns off the top.

And who knows if these books are the only ones? What about all the other green ones?

The ones Dad keeps.

His personal clients.

Locked up in his office.

The realization hits me with the accuracy and alacrity of a bullet.

My father is a con artist.

Hillstone boasts a dark, moody sort of ambiance, along with some of the best martinis on the whole damn island.

And thank God.

After my one night with Juliet and the shocking revelation that my family business is, basically, a criminal operation, I need a goddamn drink.

Or six.

I down two while I wait at the bar, trying to smooth my frayed nerves before I face dear old Dad.

I have no idea how to approach the situation. Should I jump down his throat immediately? Play it cool and act like I haven’t noticed anything at all? Let him go on his merry, duplicitous way and just jump ship immediately?

Could I go to jail for knowing about the fraud but not reporting it? Can I be implicated because, as CFO, I should have known all along?

What will happen if I do tell the feds? Will Dad… go to prison? Will Everett Alexander be mine?

Or will the whole damn business crumble into dust once people realize what my father has done?

And, for that matter, what has he done, exactly?

I only have one falsified ledger in my possession, but if his locked closet is full of the same sorts of books… The implications are staggering. He’ll lose everything. Unless he can pin it all on someone else.

When I looked closer, I saw that, although the clients were his, the trades weren’t done under his usual broker number. He probably used lower-level traders’ numbers when he planned to report false returns, just in case he got caught.

It makes sense, in a sick way. But, in that case, I’d expect him to change the broker numbers over time, in keeping with whoever we employed. Maybe he did, in the other books. Multiple innocent people could be implicated.

In order to find out for sure, I have to stay at Everett Alexander for a few days, maybe a week. Just long enough to get into the locked closet and look at the other binders.

If my father truly intended to pin the false books on an underling, it would have to be someone high enough within the agency to reasonably take responsibility. That really only leaves my dead grandfather.

And me.

Unless Dad used a random person’s number instead?

That seems… clumsy? Stupid?

Then again, how smart can the guy really be? He’s defrauded people in the stupidest way possible and doesn’t even possess the competence to keep it hidden.

My throat works, swallowing another martini in one go.

I need a plan, and I have no time to make one.

Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and wish, stupidly, that I could call Juliet. She’d have legal answers, of course, but it’s more than that. She’d also have the good sense to form a strategy.

My fingers twitch toward my phone, but a voice behind me interrupts the movement. “Hey!”

I resist the urge to cringe by reaching for my fresh drink.

“Started without me, huh?” Dad chuckles, slipping onto the stool beside mine. “It’s fine; I had two at the club before I came down here.”

He signals for a bartender and orders a scotch on the rocks. My usual drink. Another similarity we share. Today, it nearly makes me sick.

I have to choke down more bile when he claps me on the shoulder and starts jabbering about the menu. Listening to him debate grilled artichokes versus spinach dip doubles the queasiness seething in my stomach.

How can he just sit here? Blathering on? Acting innocent?

Jesus Christ. How many similar meals have I sat through without even a speck of suspicion? Have I ever gone out with him and one of the people he fucked over?

All of his bluster and bullshit start to make more sense to me as he goes on, oblivious. None of it—his reputation, his status, his relationships—is real. There isn’t any substance beneath anything he projects. No talent or character.

And I almost ended up just like him.

Luckily, he’s so obscenely self-absorbed, he doesn’t recognize my horror while I sit, marinating in newfound insight, staring at him.

He flashes the famed Everett grin. I almost gag.

“So what do you think? Artichokes? Spinach dip?” His smile widens. “Hell, let’s get both. You’re buying, right?”

twenty-nine

If I didn’t already feel guilty about accepting Graham’s deal against my better judgment—I do when I walk onto the executive floor and run right into my boss and Ella.

He cuts a formidable figure in his navy suit, even with his head bent over his fiancée’s. She looks tense. Her eyes are wide; her lips pinched around the small smile she offers him.

Mr. Stryker doesn’t buy it. He cups his hand under her face and traces his thumb over her mouth, frowning at her expression. “Ellie…”

“I’m really fine,” she insists, full of forced brightness. “I have things to do today, Grayson. I’ll be okay!”

She seems anxious. With the press practically stalking her, it’s a wonder she ever leaves her house.

Come to think of it, how didn’t I put that together before? Am I that out of sorts lately? From what? Graham?

Dios mío.

The man truly scrambles my brain. It’s a miracle I got through the preliminary prenup work I did yesterday.

Mr. Stryker’s thick brows furrow, but Ella turns toward me, relief passing over her face. “Oh look, it’s Juliet!”

Her obvious bid for a distraction brings a smile to my face. It really is impossible not to fall in love with Ella. I see why a man who could have anyone so clearly adores her.

She looks as lovely and oddly dressed as ever in bell-bottom jeans and a thick mustard sweater. A pair of clunky green clogs peek out from the wide denim legs of her pants.

For a moment, I’m almost jealous. The ugly shoes look very comfortable, especially next to the prospect of a long day in platform heels. Not to mention the trek to Graham’s after work.

“See!” Ella crows, waving one unpolished hand at me. “I told you she could help. Juliet knows how to choose colors. Look at that dress.”

Another of Abuelita’s creations. The fitted blush frock has sharp, exaggerated shoulders, long sleeves, and a tapered skirt. The slit up the back reminds me of Graham’s fingers trailing along the backs of my thighs. Flushing, I run both hands over the fitted sheath and look down to hide my overheated cheeks.

Thankfully, Mr. Stryker doesn’t even glance my way. His eyes narrow at Ella, glowering. “Ellie. You’re changing the subject. It won’t work.”

Ella pins me with a beaming grin that tells me it will, in fact, work. “Ignore him. He needs to get to work. And I need to make a final decision on colors for the wedding. I’m driving Alice crazy. Last week, I was sure I wanted to do shades of yellow, but now I’m thinking purples…”

Sighing heavily, Mr. Stryker tucks his babbling fiancée under his arm and finally faces me. “I’m just uneasy about leaving Ella alone when she’s feeling so anxious,” he explains. “And she thinks I’m being overprotective.”

Ella’s sapphire eyes roll. “Because he is. I have Marco following my every move. What kind of lunatic would ever want to take him on? That’s like starting a bar fight with the Incredible Hulk.”

Mr. Stryker and I laugh—me loudly, him with reluctance.

“She has a point,” I chuckle. “Marco will take good care of her, I’m sure. And wedding colors are important. They set the whole tone.”

Ella smacks my boss’s chest with the back of her wrist. “I told you so,” she says, then twirls back to me. “Jules, can I add you to my wedding group chat? I want your opinions on swatches!”

I think of Dominic breathing down my neck. I still have to catch up on all of the “work” he wanted me to come in for over the weekend. Since I denied him, he’ll probably be in one of his moods. Checking my phone will just make him angrier.

But my logic is no match for Ella’s genuine enthusiasm. At the sight of her glowing expression, I have to grin. “Of course.” My eyes slide to Mr. Stryker. “As long as my boss doesn’t mind me looking at swatches on work time, of course.”

Mr. Stryker shoots me a slight, grateful smile. “Project approved, Miss Rivera. If Dominic gives you any grief, tell him you’re working on another personal assignment for me. Send him my way if he requires further confirmation.”

He turns his face back to Ella. “You’ll stick close to Marco and listen if he tells you something is risky? And text me? A lot?”

She stretches up to kiss his cheek. “Yes. Promise.”

And then, I’ll take you. Promise.

Graham’s vow echoes through my mind. For a second, I swear I can feel his palm sliding against mine, pulling me into his arms for our dance. A tingle shivers down my spine.

Ella steps away from Grayson and squeezes my upper arm on her way past me. “I’ll add you to the group chat,” she bubbles, smiling before casting one last adoring, amused look at my boss. “Do try to keep him busy today, will you? If he keeps worrying like this, he’ll have gray hair in the wedding pictures.”

Mr. Stryker and I watch her stroll to the elevators. He’s still smiling widely when the doors slide closed. He shakes his head. “She’s not wrong.”

I reach into my work bag. “Maybe this will help. I finished the draft of your marriage contract yesterday. It’s in your personal portal, but I printed one out to drop in your inbox, too. Maybe you can give the hard copy to Ella and get it all locked down before your vacation next week.”

But Mr. Stryker grimaces as he takes the contract from me. “Can’t really say I’m happy to see this. We’ll spend all week arguing about it.”

Arguing? He’s basically gifting her half a billion dollars.

Images of Ella’s handmade sweater and hideous rubber shoes come to mind. The way she doesn’t have her nails done or carry a designer handbag.

“She doesn’t want any of it,” I realize out loud.

A deeply sardonic smile stretches across Mr. Stryker’s handsome features. “Not a blessed thing. I spent half my life worried someone would only want me for my money. And now that I have someone I want to give things to, she hates it. Ironic, right?”

I smirk. “Well, I hope she doesn’t give you too much grief. But at least you’ll have a week off to make up?”

Mr. Stryker’s green eyes light. “Excellent point.”

He holds the contract up as he starts back toward his half of the floor. He suddenly pauses. “Thank you for this, Juliet. I know the turnaround was tight. I really appreciate it. And thanks for taking the time to look at those color swatches. Ella admires your style, and I know she’ll value your opinion.”

He really is a great boss. A good person. Somehow, knowing he chose Graham as his best friend raises my opinion of the man.

Although, Ella does call him “shithead.”

thirty

The plan will work.

I’m about ninety-two percent sure.

I straighten my bright white tie—the same one I wore when I defiled Miss Rivera in Office Pod C—and refold my collar.

Damn.

Okay, ninety-five percent sure.

Because fuck if I don’t look good in pink.

Light pink, to be specific. With a rosy vest under the jacket and a striped pink-and-white shirt beneath that.

I usually reserve this outfit for annoying Stryker. Of all my colorful suits, he hates the pink one the most. I can’t understand why.

He used the word “obnoxious,” if memory serves.

In any case, the blush suit always pulls. Yeah, it’s flashy and maybe a touch unprofessional, but I know for a fact that I carry it off.

Plus, women love that shit. I’ve never struck out while wearing the pink suit.

“Good morning.”

I lean my hip against the desk in front of my father’s office, grinning at his assistant, Lacey. I let my eyes roam over her low-cut red blouse, feigning interest while my mind jeers at me, Not as hot as Juliet.

She truly isn’t. With forgettable blonde hair and an average figure, the woman’s singular appeal lies in her clear blue eyes. It’s easy to overlook the rest of her to focus on those.

I pretend to gaze into the molten honey irises I’ve grown so infatuated with and project interest as sincerely as I can.

“You look lovely today.” The words roll out smoothly, without a flicker of feeling. “Did you have a fun weekend?”

Lacey’s gaze goes wide as she gapes up at me. Shocked, no doubt, that I’ve suddenly taken an interest in her after months of treating her like another piece of office furniture.

“Uh… yeah. I mean, yes. Sir. Mr. Everett.”

I affect a charmed chuckle. “You don’t need to call me Mr. Everett. Graham is fine. And I’ll call you Lacey.” I tilt my head, regarding her as warmly as I can. “Deal?”

“Yes, sir. I mean, Graham,” she stammers, turning red. “Did you need help with something?”

I glance at her desk to see if my father’s schedule happens to be penciled into her desktop calendar. No such luck. Damn.

“I’m planning a meeting for later this afternoon and wondered if there were any prior commitments on our schedule,” I tell her, still grinning.

She blinks, then visibly swallows. A flash of fear moves through her eyes.

Bingo.

“Just a long lunch,” she mumbles, dropping her gaze. “We—He should be back by two.”

I had a hunch the two of them would sneak off at some point. They haven’t seen each other in two days. “Long lunch” is just code for fucking.

Just to be extra sure, I ask, “And do you have lunch plans as well?”

She thinks I’m asking her out. I watch her pause, considering her options—the elder, sleazy Everett with all the money… or me.

“Yes,” she decides. “I do.”

My lips twitch. Just as I thought.

I work to keep the smugness out of my smile. “Pity. Well, thank you, Lacey. Enjoy your lunch.”

Striding back up the hall, I send a text to the locksmith I hired this morning. He’s waiting for my instructions, ready to drop by at any point.

Staring at my inbox, my fingers itch to message Juliet. I try to come up with something professional but wind up going for droll.

So help me God.

I hope you left those red heels at home.

thirty-one

Despite my entirely shitty day, I almost laugh when Graham opens his door and our outfits match.

I swallow my amusement for two reasons—first, he looks way too good in that godforsaken pink suit. Even more wickedly sexy than any of his other ensembles. Maybe because it displays his unshakable confidence as much as it contrasts his dark, masculine features.

But second—and more importantly—I can’t so much as giggle once I see his face.

His skin looks ashen, his eyes solemn. He wears an expression somewhere between grim acceptance and true, helpless sorrow.

I’ve never seen him so serious. Raw, without a shred of his usual indolence.

“Juliet,” he murmurs, standing in the doorway, staring down at me. A flash of relief eases the tightness around his eyes for a moment. “I forgot you were coming, but I’m glad you’re here.”

He sounds sincere? Not taunting or flirting or insinuating anything. Not Graham-like at all.

I hesitate, suddenly unsure of myself. “I can go. I thought we had work to do.”

“No,” he replies softly. “Stay. I—God, I forgot dinner. Do you want food? I’ll order food.”

“I brought dinner,” I tell him, holding up my lunchbox. “Two of those sandwiches you liked last week. Abuelita made more steak yesterday.”

He seems so disoriented. I reach over the threshold to touch his arm, hoping to help him focus. “Graham? You look sick.”

Graham blinks. “Sick?” He glances down at himself, as though checking for some sort of stab wound before answering. “No. Not sick. Although…”

Without thought, my hand drifts up to cup his solid jaw. He’s shaved, but a thin layer of stubble still pricks my palm. Our gazes collide. His echoes the pain pulling at his features.

“Did something happen?” I ask him.

Graham’s eyes fall shut for a long second. I swear he leans his face into my hand slightly. “Let’s just say it’s a good thing I hired a lawyer.”

My stomach clenches. “Well, technically, you haven’t retained me yet,” I reply, trying for a teasing tone I don’t quite achieve.

Graham’s expression freezes over. He pulls my hand from his face and uses it to tug me into his apartment, locking the door behind us before dragging me into the great room. While I set all my things down in one of his chairs, he reaches for a slip of paper on the island and presents it to me. “Here.”

A check. For fifty thousand dollars. Made out to me.

I balk. “You don’t have to give me the full payment to retain me! What if I die before your work is finished? Or if I quit? Or do a bad job?”

Graham’s face doesn’t even flicker. “I told you I trust you. So take it. And don’t die. Because, believe me, you’re going to earn this money.”

“Graham.” Glancing nervously around the room, I scan for signs of a grisly murder or another heinous crime. But the only new addition is a file box in the center of his coffee table. “What did you do?”

A sudden burst of manic energy twitches through him. He starts pacing, spinning his phone in his palm while he mutters, “Not me. I didn’t do anything. I don’t think. I mean, if I did, I didn’t know about it. What is that called—plausible deniability? So, I have that, at least. Except, maybe not anymore since I know now. You’re the lawyer. You’ll have to tell me.”

He suddenly stops cold and rotates to face me. As soon as our eyes meet, all of the fight drains out of him. He slumps forward, pressing both hands into the edge of his white stone countertop.

“My father has committed fraud,” he finally says to the granite. “Multiple times. For three years, at least. I found one book he cooked, and I thought maybe it was a fluke or a mistake. But today, I got into a closet he always keeps locked, and there are⁠—”

He swallows, his gaze flitting back to the file box over his shoulder. “Dozens,” he rasps, squeezing his eyelids shut and shaking his head. “Dozens of falsified accounts.”

My mind whirs, trying to process. My criminal law knowledge is theoretical, but I studied many such cases over the years. I know the right questions to ask. And actually—much to my own surprise—I have answers.

“You had no prior knowledge of these accounts?” I verify. Though, even before he nods, I believe that. “Then you can turn him in under whistleblower protections.”

I state the fact immediately, without really thinking it through. When my brain catches up to my mouth, I bite my lip.

Turn his father in? For dozens of counts of stock fraud? Amounting to millions, probably… Surely enough to close Everett Alexander down.

What if he doesn’t want to report it? What if he wants to act like he’s never seen it?

“Or”—I choose my next words very carefully—“are we having a different conversation?”

Graham straightens, pinching the bridge of his nose. He only does that when he’s reached the end of his rope. “Jesus. I don’t know. I’m leaving the company either way. I guess I could just… slip away? And not tell anyone? But then, am I complicit if he ever gets caught by somebody else?”

My empty stomach heaves. We’re discussing how to let his father continue defrauding people. So he can make a clean getaway.

I have a difficult time deciding how I feel about that. On the one hand, greedy men like Mr. Everett deserve no mercy, in my opinion. And what Graham is proposing would allow his father to continue stealing from people indefinitely.

But I’m a lawyer, and Graham is my client. His interests have to be my priority. Legally. I’m obligated to answer his questions honestly and forbidden to breathe a word of our discussion.

After a deep breath, I reach for my phone and type a quick message into my notes app.

Are there cameras or recording devices in this apartment?

He reads it and blinks at me, visibly thrown by my train of thought. “No,” he replies aloud. “Neither.”

Gracias a Dios.

It never occurred to me to ask about a camera when I stripped both of us out of our clothes on Saturday night. Swallowing, I delete the words from my screen and force myself to focus.

“If you’re asking me how to get out of this situation without repercussions for yourself or your father, then we will have this conversation one time and never speak of it again.”

Graham’s jaw hardens. “I don’t know if that’s what I’m asking you. But I want to hear how it would go, should I choose that route.”

I nod. “All right. But, like I said, I’m only going to say this once, so pay attention.”

With a sigh, I look over at his box of files and then down at the phone in his hand. “If you’ve used your phone, laptop, or work computer to Google any of this, it’s too late. If you’ve texted, emailed, or spoken with anyone else about it, it’s too late. If you’ve implied to your father that you know anything, it’s too late. But if I am truly the only living soul who knows, apart from you, then you may not have to turn him in to save yourself. You could pretend you never saw anything.

“If you go that way, you will return the materials you found to their original places—after wearing gloves and wiping them down to destroy any fingerprints you may have left on them. You will destroy any copies you made, as well as any notes.

“You will go to your father and tell him your plans to leave the company. You will never tell him you know about the fraud. You will never imply that you know. You will follow his company’s usual termination practices and return all his accounts to him.

“I would advise leaving as quickly as possible without arousing suspicion—two weeks is the standard amount of time. I would also advise avoiding any work for clients from Everett Alexander in the future—just to keep things clean. We could say it’s an integrity move—not wanting to take clients from your own father.

“If you’re ever questioned, you will tell them you had no knowledge of any of it. Never saw the books. Never touched the accounts. Never brokered any of the deals. You will act appalled and make it clear you always intended to open your own firm for personal reasons unrelated to your father or his business practices. Then you plead the Fifth. Forever. And I mean refusing to answer a single question. There will be no evidence to incriminate you. So as long as you don’t implicate yourself, they won’t be able to charge you.”

Graham and I stare at each other. An endless silence stretches between us, thick and heavy. I watch the gears turn in his mind, processing.

His throat works on a swallow. “And if I want to report him?”

A wave of relief washes through me. My knees tremble with the force of it. I grip the nearest barstool, hoping I don’t look like I’m about to wilt.

“If we want to go to the FBI and tell them you want to blow the whistle on Everett Alexander, we have to work fast. You’ve done nothing illegal—yet. You only become complicit if you sit on the information. How long have you known?”

Graham’s jaw hardens. “I got the original tainted file last week, but I didn’t realize what I had in front of me until yesterday. I didn’t know about the other accounts until today; after I took them out of his office closet, copied them, and reviewed the results.”

A chill runs through my blood. “Did you scan them or photocopy them?”

“Photocopy,” he mumbles, picking lint off his sleeve. “I used our oldest copier in the back storeroom. It’s from the nineties. It doesn’t even hook up to a computer. No virtual copies, and it doesn’t store memory.”

He’s smart. I tend to forget that when I think of his flashy clothes, gorgeous face, and general nonchalance. All of that pretty packaging hides an exceptionally sharp mind.

But I’m sharp, too. I quickly spin through both scenarios, looking for loopholes and pitfalls alike. One stands out above all the rest.

“If you blow the whistle,” I tell him. “And the FBI finds out you started your company after you knew about the fraud, they could claim your new business and its profits as fruits of the poisoned tree. At the very least, it would taint your reputation to future clients and put you on every government watch list for the next two decades.”

His posture deflates slightly. “Goddamn it. How is that even fair? I haven’t done anything.”

I know how he feels, having been screwed over by my own father’s pitiful choices more times than I care to count. I have to rein in the part of me that longs to rail against the injustice of it all in order to think clearly.

“Unless you can prove that you planned to start your company before you had any knowledge of the fraud. If we had a witness or some paperwork to show that your plan was already in motion before your father ever assigned you the original account review, then we could show that your choice to leave Everett Alexander has nothing to do with any wrongdoing.”

Graham shakes his head again, the motion stiff. “No. I don’t have anything to prove that because it isn’t true. The truth is: I did decide to leave before I knew… but after he gave me the fraudulent ledger. And I did originally hire you to help me with my new company, not this issue. Even if all the timing looks suspicious, my story is true. They can give me any test they want.”

“This isn’t CSI,” I say gently. “They won’t polygraph you. If they can’t prove you’re lying, they’ll just try to screw you. Watch you. Possibly forever.”

Graham’s mouth rolls into a tight line. “Waiting for me to fuck up... Not to mention, I’ll have one hell of a time finding anyone who will hire me after all of Manhattan finds out my father’s been lining his pockets at his clients’ expense.”

My entire being cringes away from that concept. “So don’t tell anyone.”

Some color finally returns to Graham’s face. He scowls. “And he just gets away with it? For the rest of his life? While I go on pretending I can still look at him without wanting to retch?”

“No,” I snap back. “While you go on to have a successful career and make your own reputation, separate from his. I don’t⁠—”

I don’t want you to suffer.

I catch myself in time. It’s an unprofessional thing to say to a client.

And why do I want to argue with him?

In favor of his father?

I blow out a breath as quietly as I can. “You’ll have to make your own decision, of course. I can advise you either way.”

Graham crosses his arms over his chest, glowering. “But basically, my options are to tell on my father so he gets punished, possibly ruining my own future in the process, or let him continue to steal from people while I do my best to distance myself from his shit and possibly live a long and very wealthy life without anyone finding out I ever knew?”

“Yes,” I admit.

Graham’s tense features tighten. “But if he gets caught later and I’m implicated, then all of my work in the interim will be taken from me?”

A pang of pain shoots through my chest. “Yes,” I whisper.

His color drains again. He drops his arms to his sides and stands there, in his pink-striped shirtsleeves and socks. In his gorgeous apartment. Looking desperately adrift despite all his charms.

Our gazes lock again. And though his expression seems eerily still, his eyes are turbulent. His voice cracks. “How much time do I have to make my decision?”

“I’ll have to research some precedent,” I mumble, more to myself than him. “But I would say—off the top of my head—two weeks sounds reasonable.”

He seems like such a solitary figure all of a sudden. I wonder why it’s never occurred to me to ask if he has any other good friends, aside from Grayson. He obviously isn’t close to his family the way I am. And, if he was close to them, he likely won’t be anymore.

When Mr. Stryker gets married and—one way or another—Graham leaves Everett Alexander, he probably won’t have anyone to turn to. No one to comfort him or stand by his side.

And he could lose everything… even his own name.

The pressure building at the back of my throat reminds me of the last time I shed tears. That day at work, in the stairwell. When Graham offered me his handkerchief and insisted on comforting me.

Before I know what I’m doing, I step toward him. My heels click on his wood floors as I close the distance between us.

Throwing my arms around his neck, I catch the flash of disbelief on his face before pulling myself into his chest. He holds me instantly, squeezing so tightly, I can’t move. A gust of breath ruffles my hair as he tugs me closer and exhales into my neck.

“God,” he says softly, bringing one hand up to hold the back of my head. “Jules.”

He starts to shake, so I stroke my hands down his back. “Shhh,” I whisper, hoping to calm him.

His body shudders, and I wonder if he’s eaten anything all day. Or had any water.

“Come here,” I tell him, my tone brokering no argument. “Sit. I’ll get our food.”

I know Graham must really be in bad shape when he does as I say. Without arguing or trying to undress me. Although, when I grab the plates and turn back, I find him blatantly staring at my body.

He sighs. “You really are beautiful, Jules.”

My eyes roll. “So are you, pinchao. I think it must be the pink.”

Within seconds, I set his plate down and unpack our dinner. “Now, eat. This is a fine mess you’ve gotten us into, and I, for one, will not suffer a weak partner in crime.”

The ghost of a smile tilts his lips. “Fair enough, bijou.”

thirty-two

I gave Juliet a key to my place in case drinks with Jason McAllister ran long Tuesday night.

A purely practical decision that, of course, brought out the fight in her.

We went seven rounds about the goddamn thing, with her claiming it had some “unspoken significance” and calling it “egregious,” while I argued, over and over, that it was a temporary measure to keep my neighbors from thinking I left my women standing around in hallways.

She, naturally, objected to being referred to as “one of my women;” I pointed out that, like or not, she is.

Stubborn bijou.

Even after eating our incredible sandwiches in silence and working quietly on my couch for two hours… even with my mind so clouded with issues and my gut full of fear…

I still wanted to fuck her the second that little chin tilted up.

I managed to rein my impulses in long enough to talk her down. “It’s just a key, Jules,” I growled, pressing it into her palm for the tenth time. “A meaningless sliver of metal. And look, it even has a monogrammed fucking keychain on it. GE—Graham Everett. It’s mine. My spare key. Not yours. You’re just using it for one night.”

She finally took it and left in a snit, muttering about me in Spanish.

I want to ask Grayson for a list of curse words—ones I know I won’t find in any respectable dictionary—but think better of it. Any weird questions like that might give us away.

We decided to wait until after his vacation to tell him about our working arrangement. Better to inform him after he spends a week in his fiancée.

I mean, in Aruba.

Drinks tonight did, in fact, run long. So, I’m feeling particularly smug when I shove into my apartment…

And all haughtiness evaporates.

At the impossible sight of a gorgeous woman—dressed in my clothes, blasting music on my speakers, barefoot—in my kitchen.

Holy. God.

What have I done?

Juliet’s ponytail swishes as she tosses a look over her shoulder. A loud laugh bursts up her throat.

“Ay Dios mío, pinchao. You should see your face.” She shakes her head and turns back to my stove. “Worth it.”

I can’t tell if she means that making dinner is worth the look on my face, or if she’s promising that her meal will be worth the panic running through me at the sight of a girl in my kitchen. In my clothes.

Either way, her cocky little remark makes me smirk. “For someone who didn’t want the damn key, you certainly used it to help yourself.”

I toss my own keys onto the island and lean my hip into the counter, crossing my ankles as I stare at her backside. She’s a sight for sore eyes, even in my burgundy joggers and black T-shirt. She had to roll the ankles on my pants to her knees and tuck the back of the T-shirt into the waistband, but she still looks adorably small and soft engulfed in my clothing.

Jules moves from the stove to the mess of chopped vegetables on the nearest stretch of counter. Using the back side of a blade, she scrapes them off the cutting board and into the stock pot, where they make a satisfying hiss. With a slight shrug, she points the knife over her shoulder. “I didn’t want to wreck my dress.”

I’ll be damned.

The red fucking dress.

My cock goes from semi-erect to stone as I spot the garment draped over the edge of my sofa. Her matador’s cape. She wore it to work again. Then wore it in my apartment.

And took it off.

Torture.

I have to clench both of my fists to keep from snatching her up and pinning her to the counter. “Naughty girl,” I comment, forcing an even tone. “You knew I wanted to take that off for you, and you did it without me.”

She laughs again. “Keep dreaming, boy.”

For the first time since Sunday morning, a wide smile pulls at my face. Some unfamiliar swirl of satisfaction and gratitude whirls in my center, warming me.

Christ.

She is so beautiful. And funny. And brilliant.

And here. With me.

Cooking?

After giving her veggies a good stir, she turns and faces me. For a long moment, her eyes work up and down my body. Liking what she sees. Her luscious thighs press together.

“You wore the purple again,” she comments. “After my stroll through your closet earlier, I thought you had a new suit for every day of the year.”

I stalk a bit closer before stopping myself. “And I thought you had a different dress for every workday. Guess we’re both outfit repeating.”

Juliet cants her head, her shrewd gaze staring me down. “Fancy that.”

I nod to the food behind her. “What is it?”

She throws back a word I don’t understand, then grins at the confusion on my face. “Ah-yah-co,” she repeats, taking mercy. “It’s Colombian chicken soup. For truly bad days.”

Bad days.

I bark a laugh. “Got anything for bad weeks? Bad lives?”

A flash of sympathy tightens her fine features. “This will help,” she replies, almost gentle. “It’s my favorite when something shitty happens.” She winces at the pot. “Abuelita usually makes it. But I had a hell of a day, and I figured you did, too, so you’re stuck with my version.”

I hate the idea of her having a hellish day. “What happened, bijou?”

My nickname seems to soften her. Her lips fall into a slight frown while she bites the inside of her cheek and spins away, hiding her eyes.

“Dominic,” she grumbles.

My fists tighten. “I’d love to kick that guy’s ass. He’s such a prick.”

That earns me a sly, amused look over her shoulder. An expression that’s quickly becoming one of my favorites. I wish I had a picture of it.

“Marco and I think he has penis problems.” She smirks, adding a pile of pulled rotisserie chicken to the pot. She pours a whole quart of chicken broth on top and backs away from the range.

With a sigh, Juliet floats over until we stand face-to-face. For a second, my impulses get away from me; I reach up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Tell me what he did,” I murmur, refusing to let it go.

Her posture stiffens. “I can handle him.”

My fingers have a mind of their own. They trace a slow path from her ear to her chin. “Never said you couldn’t,” I reply mildly, examining her beauty up close. “But I want to know what he’s up to.”

Her topaz gaze narrows. “Why?”

She’s probably worried I’ll go running to Grayson. Most women would try to take advantage of my connection with their boss. For some, it would be a major point in my “pro” column. But Juliet obviously considers it a mark against me.

She wants to make her own way. And she will. I’d never take that away from her.

My touch glides up her cheekbone and back to her hair. I blow out a long breath, loathing myself for what I’m about to say.

“Because I care.”

Her face becomes so wary that it feels like an affront to my character. “You care?”

I almost laugh. “Yes. And it disgusts me.”

That seems to mollify her. A dazzling grin lights her features. “Why does that make me so happy?”

I don’t know, but her delight delights me. I find myself smiling widely, too, even as I push back. “Your gorgeous smile will not get you out of my question.”

She composes herself within a second, smoothing her face back into a stunning mask of stubbornness. “It isn’t anything major,” she lies, flicking her ponytail back. “He's just an asshole who doesn’t want anyone to upstage him.”

I think back over the few times I’ve interacted with Dominic Carter, including the meeting where Juliet’s cool competence made him look like a pedantic moron. “And you upstage him all the time, I bet.”

She hasn’t pulled away from my touch, so I take a small step closer and slide my hand around to massage the back of her neck. Another fleeting spark of vulnerability softens her expression.

“I don’t mean to,” she mumbles, looking down at her bare feet. “I just want to do good work. I’m trying to learn as much as I can, you know? And the best way to do that is through experience. So when Mr. Stryker gives me something new to do, I jump at it. But Dominic feels threatened.”

Fucking piece of shit.

What does he care if Juliet flourishes? I flatten my lips, actively holding in a stream of expletives.

Juliet goes on, staring at her toes while they draw circles on my floor. “He told me that I’m not allowed to contact Mr. Stryker directly anymore, and I have to route all communication through him. So, I sent an email to Mr. Stryker letting him know that I’ll be doing that, in accordance with ‘the new policy.’”

She throws up air quotes and snaps her fiery honey eyes back to mine. “I didn’t even mention Dominic by name because I had a feeling Mr. Stryker would be annoyed with him if I did.”

But I know Grayson. He saw right through that shit, I bet.

“What did Stryker do?”

Juliet deflates. “He’s angry with both of us now. He spent ten minutes nailing Dominic to the wall of his office and then called me in to ‘clarify the chain of command.’ I could tell he didn’t like that I obeyed Dominic’s orders when they contradicted his own. I guess that was stupid. I —” She breaks off mid-thought.

“You what?” I demand.

Her eyes darken, along with her expression. “I was intimidated, okay?” She spits it like I’m responsible, somehow, then rants on. “I didn’t go to Harvard or Yale or whatever, Graham! I don’t have fancy business clothes or debutante etiquette training. My only previous work experience was waitressing in high school and restocking shelves at a Rite Aid in college.

“Dominic and all the other guys in my department are, like, fourth-generation attorneys who went to Ivy League schools and started temping at firms the summer after they graduated from high school! They have credentials I will never have. And despite all of that mierda, on my good days, I know they’re all idiots who are full of hot air. But when I make a mistake or they get in my face like Dominic does, I start to wonder if maybe I’m the one who doesn’t belong.”

I start to step up against her body, but she shoves at me with both hands. A hot knife of chagrin stabs me.

Embarrassment turns to defensiveness. It bleeds into my concern. Both roar through my blood, pounding in my ears, begging me to snatch her hands and haul her into my arms. But I just glare at her.

Seething.

Yet another similarity we seem to share: we both get mad when we feel vulnerable.

I understand all too well. Sometimes, true weakness seems like an unforgivable sin. And Jules is a fighter, like me. She’ll claw and snap to protect her pride.

She isn’t mad at me. And I know what she really needs.

Reassurance that I didn’t lose respect for her after her outburst. That I still find her formidable, despite her weaknesses. That I’ll always think of her as the mysterious, wondrous creature who kept me up all night on Saturday… and every night since, if I’m honest with myself.

After my revelations last night, I get it. I want to know if she still wants me, still thinks of me as a worthy opponent.

I slip my light gray jacket off, meeting her eyes with a challenging look. “Your shirt. Give it to me.”

Juliet’s chest heaves, and color rushes to her cheeks. “What?”

“Your shirt—my shirt, rather. Take it off.”

Golden flames flash at me. “Why would I do that?”

I yank on my tie and toe my socks and shoes off before stalking toward her, leaning my face down into hers. “Because you want me to flatten you on this island and ram my cock into you until you forget all about your shitty day. Because I’m going to show you how powerful and beautiful and brilliant you really are. So fucking perfect that I can’t keep my hands off you, even when I should.”

We stand chest-to-chest. She swallows hard, glaring up at me. “You are the cockiest, most spoiled, insensitive, vulgar son-of-a-bitch who’s ever lived.”

I smile, knowing it’ll goad her. “And you hate me, right?”

“Yes,” she spits.

“Then say no.”

She won’t. Because she already has my button-down fisted in her little hands, tugging it out of my pants. Her fingers unfasten it, along with my alligator-skin belt. She whips the latter off my waist with a flourish.

Grabbing it from her before she gets any ideas, I snap it once before stepping back against her. “Let me show you,” I whisper, grabbing her chin roughly. “How crazy you make me. The things you make me want to do.”

She tilts her head back, silently panting while we lock eyes. Her eyes spark. “Make me.”

thirty-three

The smoldering sensuality in Graham’s dark gaze is too much for my self-control.

Because he’s right. I do want him.

The way he looks at me when I argue with him—like some fearsome goddess he wants to fuck senseless—does make me feel powerful.

He doesn’t waste any time. Within seconds, he has my top on the floor, along with his pants and shirt.

Black silk boxer briefs showcase his erection. The thick bulge runs down his inseam, so long I catch a glimpse of his cockhead before he tugs my body against the length of his lean hardness and kisses me deeply.

It occurs to me, in some distant corner of my mind, that I should be freaking out. I’ve never hooked up with a man more than once. But the second I ask myself why I don’t feel panicked, I immediately know the answer—that same piece of my subconscious accepted, even before the first time, that there would be more.

There has to be more—as long as I keep Graham in my life.

Our tongues slide together, sending tingles to my breasts and a liquid ache between my thighs. Graham breaks away too quickly and turns his hot gaze down to my body. He groans at the sight of my red demi-cup bra.

“Was this under that dress in the elevator?” he rasps, tugging the cups down. My breasts spill out. His expression turns black. “You know what? I think I hate you, too.”

He has a way of making me want to laugh and claw into him at the same time.

Insanity.

That’s what it is. What it has to be.

He makes me insane.

His throbbing cock presses into my belly and I don’t care. Can’t care. With his cologne filling my nose and his hands roaming over my nakedness, it gets harder to think by the second.

Turns out, I don’t need to. He has other plans for me.

“Your hands,” Graham says, brandishing his belt once more. “Put them out in front of you.”

I start to argue, but then he snaps the leather again. The sound instantly takes me back to Saturday night and the slap of his palm when he punished me for denying him. A burst of wetness spreads through my panties. I stretch out my hands.

Grinning, he gives one last crack of the belt. “I’ll have to remember this trick. It seems to have quite the effect.”

His smile disappears as he loops the strap around my wrists, knowing just how to fasten it into a restraint. I pull at the binds to test them, but I can only move my arms slightly before leather bites into my skin.

He takes a step back, looking me up and down, obviously committing the image to memory. Picturing what he sees, I wish I had on cuter panties.

The self-conscious thought makes me shift on my feet. His eyes instantly snap to mine and he frowns.

“Hmm,” he murmurs to himself. “All right then.”

Hooking his index finger through the looped belt, he tugs me into his arms. One hand falls to my ass while the other reaches for something on the island. He leans down, close to my face, like he’s about to kiss me, brushing our lips together until my nipples pebble. Teasing me.

“Not yet. Turn around.”

He spins me toward the island before I can argue. Maybe I should be pissed, but I love his impatience. It shows me how much I affect him.

He’s right—even though he’s the one in control, I feel more powerful than ever.

Graham’s hard warmth flattens my hips into the counter’s edge. His arms come around me to wrap his purple paisley tie through my makeshift belt cuffs. The ridge of his dick rubs over my ass when he stretches up, pulling my hands over my head. He knots the tie around the rack of pots and pans overhead and steps away, leaving me tethered, with my body bent over the island and my back arched.

“Jules,” he growls from behind me. “You look so fucking hot. I’m never going to be able to eat at this island without getting hard again.”

His hand follows the slope of my spine in a long caress. “What do you think?” he hums, pressing himself into my hip and nuzzling my shoulder. “Can you take it like this?”

“Yes,” I say, too breathy. “Stop playing and give it to me already.”

He smiles against my neck. His voice is low. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll leave you here while I have dinner.”

The pans clatter while I pull at my restraints, gritting, “Graham, so help me God…”

He bites the place below my ear, making me hiss. His cock twitches against me.

He’s as stubborn as I am. If I want him to take me right away, arguing won’t help. I have to entice him.

Sticking my ass out further, I run the front of my right foot over the back of my left calf. The motion sends my hip swaying into his groin. He nips me again, punishing me for goading him, then swirls his tongue over the sting.

Graham’s hand slips into the front of my panties, feeling my wetness. With a growl, he starts pawing at the raggedy cotton with both hands, pushing it off. He spins me, once more putting my backside against the island. Above, his rack rattles.

“This way,” he grunts.

Graham sinks to the floor and tears my panties away from my ankles, leaving me bare. With his hands wrapped around the backs of my thighs, he caresses up to my ass. All while staring at the juncture of my thighs like it’s all he can see.

I wish I could run my fingers through his hair. When I inadvertently tug at my bound hands, Graham’s black eyes leap up to mine.

I expect him to gloat or look away, but he doesn’t. He lets me stare right into him, making his point without words.

I’m the one tied up. But he’s on his knees. For me.

“Do you see?” he asks, holding my gaze.

Before I can form an answer, he plants a kiss on each of my hip bones and turns his attention to my pussy. He skims his lips over my clit so lightly that I huff in frustration.

Graham’s grin curves, taunting me with the prick of his stubble. I grumble louder, and his fingers clutch me tighter. He gives me another teasing kiss.

“Gorgeous.” Kiss. “Impatient.” Kiss, kiss.

I try to push myself closer, but he holds me in place.

“Stubborn,” he mutters. Kiss.

His fingers slide around to spread across the tops of my thighs. His thumbs skim over my folds, rubbing me before parting my lips, revealing me to his hungry eyes. With a quiet snarl, he tilts his head and sucks the swollen bud into his mouth.

Sensation spirals through my core, arching my spine as I cry out his name.

He likes that. Yanking my legs apart, he slings them over his solid shoulders and pulls me tight against his open mouth, licking with a muffled curse.

Graham’s tongue slips into my opening, tormenting me with short, shallow strokes and then spearing deeper. My body spasms around him, right on the edge. A second later, he breaks away.

“You’re so slick and ready,” he murmurs. “Tell me you want it.”

My pride refuses to beg him. But then, he burns his midnight eyes into mine and bends forward to blow a cool stream of air right on my clit. Squirming, I pull on my bound hands. His pots and pans ring out again.

With a self-satisfied smile, he lifts me down from his shoulders. Standing, he grinds his silk-covered erection against my trembling pussy.

He steps back and shucks his own underwear, then grabs my left hip and flips me around again, bending me over the island. I nearly convulse when he presses his bare package against my ass. Reaching around, his hand cups my mound.

“Say it,” he demands hoarsely, pressing the heel of his hand against me. “Tell me.”

Delirious, I buck against him. “Graham.”

He moves his hand just out of my reach. “Say. It,” he rasps again.

The heat of him feels like a brand. Everything between my thighs pulses, needing that steely length to quell the ache. “I want it now,” I bite out, pushing back against him. “Please.”

He gives me more pressure against my clit while his other palm smacks my ass with a loud whap. “I want to hear that again.”

Just like the belt snapping, the sound arouses me. I moan, beyond shame. “Please. I want it now.”

Another whap—and this time two of his fingers plunge into me. “Again, Juliet.”

Ay Dios mío.

What is he doing to me?

Trussed up, nude, panting and wriggling, literally begging for him. Shameless.

I can only feel the ecstasy he pushes through my veins with each pump of his hand. His thumb slips over my clit while he fingers me. The rack clangs above. My thoughts scatter.

Mindless, I plead, “Please, Graham. I need your cock now. Please.”

A feral sound tears out of him and he goes still for half a second before disengaging. I almost cry at the loss of his fingers, his body heat. A drawer opens and slams shut behind me, where I can’t see.

“I wish I could feel you,” he mutters but holds a condom out long enough for me to see it. I hear the foil rip and feel his blunt head press into the cleft of my ass a second later.

The completely insane part of me wants to tell him to take the rubber off. I’m on the pill—and I want to feel him, too. Much to my dismay.

I shove all such insanity aside and swish my ponytail while I sway my hips, silently taunting him. Graham curves his body against mine until every line of my back touches the planes of his torso. His arms band around my torso. He spreads one hand over the base of my throat. The other rolls my nipples in turn.

A long, keening cry escapes me. His cock twitches at the noise. His fingers stroke over my breasts again, eliciting a whimper this time.

“Shhh,” he whispers, tugging them again. “You like that?”

Too much. So much that a foreign ache throbs somewhere near my heart. “Graham,” I moan, out of finesse. “Please. I need you.”

His erection pulses against my ass. “Mmm,” he murmurs quietly, running his open mouth over the nape of my neck while he holds me closer. “Yeah. I definitely hate you.”

But it doesn’t feel like hatred. It feels tender and erotic and precious. A lot like⁠—

His hands float down my body until he grips both of my hips. With one tug, he pulls me back and bends me forward, open to him. Before I take my next breath, he shoves in. Deep.

We both call out—me with a broken wail, him in a vicious curse that echoes off the high ceiling and curls my toes.

Groaning, Graham works his hips, stretching and filling me completely. With one more yank, he positions me so his balls slap me every time he thrusts inside, striking my swollen clit with just enough pressure to drive me crazy.

Then he really starts to move. Pumping like a piston, he holds me in place while he takes me higher and higher. Relentless. Maintaining a tight, insatiable pace, never letting up for even a second.

I can barely breathe. With him clutching my hips and my hands tied above me, I almost feel weightless, soaring closer and closer to my climax.

When I’m seconds away from coming, he suddenly pulls out. I scream in protest, but he just delivers another hard slap to my ass.

“Hush,” he whispers, rubbing away the burn.

A second later, he lifts and spins me once again, putting me on the counter to bring us face-to-face. His expression sucks all the air out of my lungs. It’s fierce. Feral. Beyond the realm of ordinary lust.

He pushes between my open thighs and fists my ponytail, pinning me where he wants me. His other hand starts stroking his cock.

“This is what you do to me,” he thunders, roving his hungry black eyes over my body while I strain to get closer to him. “Even when I have you in knots, you fucking own me.”

Graham slides my ass to the edge of the granite and runs his fingers down the front of my body, to the pulsing bud at the top of my folds. As soon as he touches me, I moan again. My head falls back into his hand. He pulls my hair harder, peering into my eyes.

“I’m going to shove back into you and come instantly. I don’t want to. I’m not ready. But I won’t be able to stop because it’s you. Do you see, Juliet?”

He starts to slide into me, but I can’t look away from the roiling depths of his gaze. The velvet turmoil. His fingers whirl over me. “Do you see what you do to me?”

“Yes,” I cry, not sure if I’m agreeing or praising. Not sure of anything except him.

Yes—yes to Graham.

That’s all he wants. Slamming forward, he thrusts deep. The thick length of him is enough to end me. I come hard, nearly sobbing his name.

Graham holds me immobile, watching, working me over the edge. When my body gives a final clutch around his cock, he sloughs out a desperate breath and loses control.

His fingers tighten, and his head falls back on a groan as he finishes. He pulls me into his chest right away, squeezing me tightly before reaching up to unfasten his necktie.

My arms feel like dead weight. Still cuffed together, they fall over the back of his neck. His own hands follow, chasing the tingles with kneading fingers.

And he’s still inside me.

It all feels so good, I can’t stifle the whimper in my throat. Without a sound, Graham bends to put our foreheads together. He rubs his nose along the length of mine.

Our gazes hold. In the quiet, I hear everything he doesn’t say. See that he feels every bit as lost and awe-struck as I do.

My instincts recoil, begging me to shrink away from the intimacy. But I hold still.

I won’t back down if he won’t.

The meaningful silence stretches on, and Graham doesn’t blink. His swirling eyes memorize mine, shifting with all the words neither of us say. A searing flash of clarity tears through me.

This is more than sex. He means something to me.

And I hate it.

After years of swearing I would never form any romantic attachments, I can’t believe I’ve allowed myself to develop such true feelings for any man. But especially a man like Graham.

Shame fills my eyes. Fear, thick enough to choke, swells in my throat.

Graham’s expression breaks. Consternation streaks through his gaze. “Hey,” he murmurs, seeing my tears. He holds me closer, running both hands down my back. “Was I too rough, baby?”

I do my damnedest not to cry. But his simple, honest affection unhinges some part of me that I’ve kept welded shut for a very long time. I sniff the tears back, pinching my lips to stop them.

“No,” I blurt. “I have no idea what’s happening. Just ignore me.”

Graham gives a grim smile. “I think I’ve demonstrated that’s impossible.”

He slides his hands up my forearms and unloops the belt, letting it fall behind him without a care, bringing my prickling fingers to his lips for a series of soft kisses. His face grows more solemn by the second. “I’m sorry, Juliet. We made a deal, and I pushed you anyway. This isn’t what we agreed to.”

I hate his apology even more than I hate losing control. I don’t want to be something he regrets. Not when I can’t quite manage to summon any real remorse.

With another sniffle, I toss my lopsided ponytail back and do my best to brazen it out. “I’m not,” I tell him honestly. “We wanted each other. And we promised we wouldn’t ever pretend, right?”

Graham sighs heavily, dropping our entwined hands to my lap. “Do you have to argue with me about everything? I upset you, and I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry about it. Let me be sorry.”

“No,” I refuse, scowling at him. “I don’t want you to be sorry.”

He moves to grip the edge of the counter on either side of my bare thighs, leaning down into my face. “Well, I am,” he replies, earnest. “So I guess you don’t always get what you want, bijou.”

The foaming urge to fight rises inside me. “I do.”

Amusement sparks in his black eyes. “And how, exactly, do you plan to make me stop feeling sorry?”

I kiss him. Hard. Slipping my hands up his neck and into his hair, I bring our naked bodies together. When he gives a frustrated grunt and tries to pull away, I bite his lower lip hard enough to taunt him.

That does it.

Graham grabs me, clutching my arms with bruising force, holding me as if he doesn’t know whether he should push me away or pull me closer. I deepen our kiss, sliding my tongue in and then sucking on his.

I know I have him when he lets out another groan and moves to frame my face with his long fingers, positioning me just so. Between us, his cock comes back to life. I stroke both hands down his abdomen, resting them lightly over his groin.

He suddenly tears his face away. Panting, he glares and rubs his thumb over my mouth in an angry swipe. I open my lips just in time to suck it into my mouth and lick the pad before nipping it.

A shudder runs through him. Under my hand, his dick hardens into stone.

“Are you still feeling sorry?” I ask, trailing my fingertips down his length.

His obsidian depths glitter. “You’re the devil, woman.”

“But you’re not sorry anymore, right? You want to do it again?”

Graham exhales through his nose. “Yes.”

I slide down from the counter and out of his reach. Knowing he’ll watch my naked ass, I bend to pick up our clothes. “Then I win.”

thirty-four

Juliet leaves me standing in the kitchen with a second hard-on and a pot of soup boiling over.

After the initial shock, I have to admire her technique. She’s right—I no longer have a shred of regret. If what we just did means I get to keep fucking her, I don’t want to take any of it back.

Who am I trying to fool? I’d shuffle across hot coals on my hands and knees to have her. Of course she knows that. I’m the one struggling to accept it.

Muttering curses at myself, I trash the condom and put my boxers back on. Fuck the shirt. I’ll work in my underwear.

I’m in my own goddamn apartment, after all. And all professional decorum has gone out the window. Clearly.

I kick my rumpled suit into a pile beside my bedroom door and turn the stove down before stirring the contents. It looks good.

Broken ears of corn bob on top, surprising me. I’m poking at one when Juliet emerges from my room, having clearly washed up.

Her bare face makes my heart seize in my chest. She is so fucking gorgeous, it hurts.

I tug her into my side and drop a kiss on her forehead. Juliet’s troubled expression seems more pensive than upset, so I decide not to ask.

Her brooding starts to make sense as questions flood my mind. She broke her one-night rule; is this really the first time? What does that mean? Will we keep having sex? Maybe just while we work together and then we’ll stop?

Can we stop?

And if we do, then what? I won’t see her anymore? The thought depresses me.

But what’s the alternative? Never stopping?

Also, why do I want her more every time I have her? Infatuation doesn’t work that way, in my experience. Sex usually dulls desire over time. Until, eventually, it dies off.

This feels like the opposite. Each time she looks at me, smiles at me, gives herself over to me, I just want more. And then more of that more...

Christ. My own thoughts don’t even make sense.

Wordlessly, Jules ladles her soup into two bowls and spoons sour cream and capers on top of each. She tops both of them off with half an ear of corn.

“Mmm.” An appreciative grunt escapes me before I can stop it. “Damn, Jules. This is amazing.”

She smirks around her second bite. “Not as good as Abuelita’s, though.”

I shovel another scoop, pondering how I might get an invitation to eat some of her grandmother’s food in person. The lady must be a marvel. Just like her granddaughter.

With a stomach full of warm comfort food, my mind clears. I remember why she’s in my apartment in the first place.

“So, did you find any precedents to tell us how much time I have?”

Juliet exhales. “A month. Maximum. But there are more favorable outcomes for whistleblowers who wait less than three weeks.”

“Jesus.” I have a guillotine hanging over my head. With a timer on it.

Her spoon clatters into her empty bowl, drawing my eyes to her tense expression. When she speaks, her soft voice doesn’t carry a hint of judgment. “Which way are you leaning?”

I don’t have an answer. My self-protective instincts tell me to take all the dignity I can and run to higher ground without raising any alarms. It would be cleaner and way easier. Not to mention all the motherfucking money I stand to earn with an untainted reputation.

Truly, the notion of getting some twisted revenge from turning my father in doesn’t appeal to me nearly as much as getting the hell away from him.

“To the left,” I deadpan, not having any other answer.

Jules’s lips twitch, hiding mirth. “Graham.”

Damn her. This beautiful woman can scold me any time she likes. I can’t keep scowling when she looks so amused and disapproving.

A grin breaks over my face. She surprises me when she brushes her warm fingertips over my cheek, tracing a laugh line.

She sighs, shaking her head. “You are handsome, pinchao, I’ll give you that.”

Her compliment only encourages my smile. “I’m aware.”

“Walked right into that one,” she mutters to herself, rolling her eyes. Then, louder, “Should we work? I do have to go home eventually. And you already paid me. A lot.”

I hate the thought of her trekking back to Queens late at night, alone. Especially in that red dress. Unfamiliar anxiety claws at my stomach. “I’ll call you a car.”

Another eye roll. “I can hail my own cab, Graham.”

I stand and gather our bowls, balancing them in one hand while the other tugs lightly on her ponytail. “You’re doing it again,” I point out. “And I didn’t say ‘taxi.’ I said a car. As in, I’ll call my service.”

Fire snaps in her eyes; the same blaze that stole my breath the first time I saw her. “Doing what again?”

I set our dishes in my sink and lift my bare shoulders, shrugging. “Arguing with me for no reason.”

Juliet’s lush lips flatten. For a long moment, she stares back at me, warring with herself. “I don’t mean to,” she finally admits. “I think I do it when I feel off-balance.”

Now we’re getting somewhere. “So apologies and chivalry put you off-balance. What else?” I want to know, but I work to keep my tone offhand.

She seems weirdly skittish. Glancing down at her hands, Juliet mumbles, “I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.”

“Why?”

I’ve been wondering since the night we all went out for drinks. She told me it was easier to just have one-night stands, but she never explained why.

Her thin black brows crease while she glares at her fingers. “I always figured that sleeping with someone wasn’t the problem—no offense, but most men can’t fuck their way out of a paper bag. I knew I wouldn’t have any issues walking away from that. It’s all the stuff after. So, I made my rule. To avoid… drama.”

She almost says “love,” but she stops herself. It makes me wonder.

Does she not believe in that sort of thing at all?

I can’t ask her, but I can ask myself.

My stomach drops. Well, I didn’t, two weeks ago….

But is that really true?

I think of the way Grayson looks at Ella in her hideous boots. How she always knows exactly what to say to get my hard-ass friend to laugh at himself.

It’s real. I just assumed it wasn’t for me. Like flu shots and emotional support animals—something that other people rely on that I’ve never seen the need for.

Until now.

I tell the hissing voice in the back of my head to shut the fuck up.

I am not in love with Juliet; I’m infatuated.

More infatuated every fucking second.

thirty-five

I wake up with pictures of Graham blurring through my brain. Graham wearing his pink suit, almost unfairly handsome. Graham’s serious frown while he worked with one hand and massaged my feet with the other. Graham’s sexy body in those short silk boxers.

Ludicrous. Always so infuriating and unexpected and audacious and colorful and just⁠—

Graham.

Perfectly natural, I coach myself while applying my makeup. He’s hot. He wears nice clothes. He has a great smile. Any woman would feel this way about a man like him.

But the lie chafes. Because my heart knows that its flutters aren’t just about his appearance or his money or even his sharp tongue.

No.

It has something more to do with how he always cups the back of my head when he holds me. Or maybe his insistence on slow dancing before we hooked up for the first time. The handkerchief? Or last night’s foot massage? Maybe his French toast?

Ay Dios mío. My blood runs cold. Do I like it when he’s… loving?

To avoid panicking, I put on the first black dress I can find and distract myself by braiding my hair into an intricate bun.

Marco pulls up to the curb to wait for me. When I slide into the passenger seat, his brown eyes snag mine. One look says it all.

I’m in for it.

Marco is a former cop. Answering his questions all the way to Manhattan without arousing his suspicions might be impossible. My queasy stomach lurches.

As he puts the white sedan in gear, he grunts, “So, tell me.”

Pouting, I cross my arms over my chest and fall back into the leather seat. “Tell you what?”

I have to be careful not to give too much away. Marco is quick and intuitive—a human lie detector. Loyal to his work, too. I assume as soon as he knows about Graham and me, Mr. Stryker will know also. Then again, he did delete that elevator video for me…

Marco’s suspicious face grows more intense. “Jules. Abuelita called me last night at nearly midnight, asking if I knew where you were.”

I really need my own apartment.

“It was nothing. I had a…” Can’t say work thing, because he’ll ask why it wasn’t on the Stryker & Sons schedule… “date that ran long.”

His brows bounce up. “Like a date-date? You?”

“Yes,” I snap, fidgeting with my hem. “I’m a twenty-five-year-old woman! I can go out with a man if I want to!”

I remember Abuelita’s scolding when I came home in Graham’s sweats, adding, “And if I want to borrow some sweats so I don’t have to spend the forty-minute ride home in my work clothes, then I will!”

Marco slips on a pair of aviator sunglasses, blocking my window into his thoughts. “Huh. Okay. So you were in the city, not Queens. Forty minutes away from Abuelita’s puts you in… Midtown? No, it was nighttime. No traffic. So lower. Lower East Side, if you were driving. The subway would have taken way longer at that hour. But you would never call a cab or an Uber for yourself when you could take the train, so he must have called you a ride. Lower East Side, hired car⁠—”

He stops right in the middle of his sentence and snaps his head to the right. Even with his sunglasses on, he looks furious. I don’t even want to know what his eyes are doing.

“Jules,” he growls. “No.”

He knows. I know he knows. The snarl on his face tells me as much.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I mumble to my lap.

“Graham. Everett.” Marco scowls ferociously. “He lives in The Ludlow. He has a car service. And I know you two worked together after that elevator incident. Jules—tell me I’m wrong.”

What’s the point? He’s figured it out. All from one lousy sentence.

“Don’t tell anyone,” I reply. “It’s just a temporary work thing. He’s starting a new company, and I’m doing some contract work for him.”

Marco clutches the steering wheel with white-knuckle force. “Contract work? That requires you to take off your clothes?” His thick jaw ticks as he stares out the windshield. “Damn it, Juliet. I thought we talked about this. Now I have to tell Stryker.”

Panic leaps into my throat. “No, you don’t,” I insist. “It’s nothing. Just a—” Can’t say one-night stand. Can’t say friendship. “Fling.”

That word doesn’t fit at all. Flings are supposed to be light and carefree. Things between me and Graham are more complicated.

I broke the rules for him.

My own, my company’s. And I don’t even know why. Until I’m in a room with him. And then it all miraculously makes sense again.

“There’s no reason for you to mention it to Mr. Stryker,” I go on. “It’s not like we’re in a relationship.”

Marco guffaws. “Great. Perfect. So you’re sleeping with Graham Everett and working for him on the side, but I shouldn’t concern myself because you’re just screwing and not dating at all? You’re right. I feel so much better now.”

Well, when he puts it like that…

“No wonder Abuelita freaked out,” he mutters, frowning at me. “And she’ll tell your mother. And my mother. Carajo. You’re smarter than this. What happened?”

I can’t tell if he wants to know why I stupidly wore Graham’s clothes home or why I’m even with Graham in the first place. I don’t have an answer apart from another silly, fluttery flip in my chest.

“He’s”—Different. Fun. Brilliant. Good…? To me, anyway—“not what I expected.”

Marco casts me another sideway glance, still shielded by his Ray-Bans. “What does that mean?”

I want to groan. Because I don’t know. I don’t want it to mean anything, but I know it does. “I’m still figuring that out.” 

Considering my face, Marco purses his lips to the side. “How many times?”

My face heats while my brain starts to tally. “I’m not telling you that.”

My cousin nods once as if he expected my reply. “So more than once. And do you guys talk? Or eat meals together?”

“Yes.”

Marco’s lips twitch. “And you actually get work done amid all the other stuff?”

I nod, hoping my face won’t register my own surprise. I assumed we wouldn’t get anything done once our clothes came off last night, but Graham proved me wrong once again. He’s a hard worker, dedicated to tasks once he sets his mind to them. And he reads faster than anyone I’ve ever met.

With a deep sigh, Marco loosens his grip on the wheel. “Does he make you laugh?”

I recall his insane velvet slippers. His witty banter. “Yeah…”

He blows a breath out of his nose. “And he respects you? Your thoughts? Your wishes and… preferences?”

Heat blazes over my face. “Yes,” I grit, mortified. “What’s with all the questions? I’m telling you, he and I are not a big deal.”

The lines between stern cop and protective older cousin blur all over his face. “I’m trying to determine if he’s decent, prima. If there’s going to be a man in your life, I want to be sure he makes you happy.”

“He isn’t ‘in my life,’” I sneer, every bit the brat. “He’s just⁠—”

“The man you’re falling for,” Marco states. Like a fact.

When I open my mouth to argue, he glares over the top of his shades. “Don’t bullshit me. I used to interrogate people for a living. And I know you. You like this guy.”

Carajo. He’s right.

Choking fear stabs my gullet. Pissed at myself, I cross my arms tightly over my chest and turn to peer out the window. Queens streaks past as I blink frustrated tears out of my eyes.

“Juliet.” The quiet stillness of Marco’s voice makes me look back at him. I find his sunglasses gone, his brown eyes on mine. “It’s okay to like him.”

Only it isn’t okay.

Because falling for a man always leads to trouble. It did for my mother and our grandmother. Marco is just about the only trustworthy guy I know—and even he can’t hold down a relationship.

“Where could it go?” I blurt, asking myself as much as I ask him. “It’s not like people actually stay together, happy.”

His voice drops to a whisper. “My parents did.”

That’s true. His Colombian mother and Syrian father met at an immigration office. They didn’t speak the same language or know any of the same people. They didn’t even know where the other came from, but they spent the whole morning staring at each other across the waiting room.

Six months later, they got married. They stayed that way until his father died three years ago.

I swipe at my watering eyes, irritated. “Yeah, but they were, like⁠—”

A fairytale.

“They were just people,” Marco tells me, interrupting my reverie. “Two people who found each other.”

I sniff back all my feelings. “They were so different.”

Marco’s smile looks sad. “People always assume that. I guess because they were from such different places and spoke different languages. But really, they always made perfect sense to me. Their hearts were the same.”

The depth of his simple statement strikes me. All my anxious musings and stomach flutters and doubt come to a screeching halt.

Their hearts were the same.

The thought closes my throat.

Panic must be written all over my face because Marco shoves his hand through his hair. “Look, I’m sure it’s nothing if you say it’s nothing. I’m probably wrong about everything. As you know, my knowledge in this area is purely theoretical.”

Marco’s lone-wolf attitude is a notorious thorn in Abuelita’s side. She constantly tries to fix him up and marry him off. It usually amuses me, but at the moment, I can’t even feel my own face.

He clears his throat and murmurs, “I won’t tell Stryker, Jules. I can’t do that to you. But keep it out of the office. And just… think about all of this, okay? Because if you and Graham get together, then our boss is going to find out eventually.”

thirty-six

I feel like an over-wound toy. Tick, tick, ticking with every hour that passes.

My entire life has become an ongoing muddle of anxiety and dread. I feel physically ill every time I consider the decision hanging over my head.

And, in the rare moments when I’m not consumed by all that shit, I worry about Christian.

Last week, he called me twice in four days. But now, I haven’t heard from him in seven.

Does that mean he’s okay? Better, maybe? Or much worse?

I really don’t know.

Tick, tick.

In all the uncertainty, I have only one thing to look forward to.

Counting the minutes until Juliet walks into my apartment keeps me sane. I find myself tracking them way more than I should.

Sometime around lunch, Grayson texts asking if I want to go out for drinks tomorrow and informs me that Ella planned a “girls’ night.” The thought of not being able to run home to Jules after work pisses me off. I tell him I’ll get back to him and spend the rest of the afternoon stewing.

By the time work ends, I’ve gone from angry and anxious to exhausted and depressed. I shuffle from the elevator to my door, not even bothering to pick my feet up off the ground. I secretly hoped Jules would be here again, in my clothes, humming to the music she chose and stirring some new, amazing food on my stove.

Instead, cold silence greets me.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

I stand on the threshold of the great room for a beat, looking at all of my shit, feeling hollow inside. Aside from the mad dash to get out the door for work every morning, I haven’t really been alone in my place since Saturday. Without Juliet invading my space, the apartment seems as empty as I feel.

“Graham?”

Instant, blessed relief erupts through me. Juliet stands behind me on my threshold, looking polished and beautiful in a simple black dress, her raven hair swept up in a series of shiny braids.

Spinning blindly, I scoop her into my arms and flatten her back to the wall of my hallway before the front door swings closed behind her. Letting her bag drop to the hardwoods, she melts into me without hesitation. Like she knows I can’t take a fight.

Or maybe she can’t, either.

Our mouths meet that same second, open and desperate for each other. Jules’s moan vibrates against my lips and sends a bolt of lightning down my spine. Our tongues slide together. My cock hardens and pulses.

Her hands curl into my hair while mine roam up her body and fit around the swells of her breasts. Even through her dress and bra, I feel her nipples tighten.

Wild for her, I shove her coat down her arms and fumble for the zipper at her back. Her panties hit the floor. She unloops my tie and shucks my jacket and vest. I push her dress down to pool around her belted waist and lift her higher, wrapping her legs around my naked torso.

A groan rumbles in my chest when her wet heat grazes my abs. “Juliet,” I whisper, nearly delirious. “Thank God.”

She runs her fingers through my hair again, softly this time. Her next kiss comes slower than the last.

“I’m here,” she murmurs, somehow understanding everything I can’t say. Her fingertips trail lightly over my brow. “I want you. Get inside me. Please.”

With an incoherent growl, I reach between us to find her soaked center and rub my thumb over her until she gasps. A burst of molten wetness slips over my fingers, and I fumble for my wallet—specifically, the condom stashed inside it.

Juliet splays her fingers over my naval, halting me. “You don’t need it,” she whispers. “I’m on birth control. And I just went for a checkup last month. There hasn’t been anyone else.”

Our eyes meet for one breathless moment as her meaning sinks in. She wants me bare, without anything separating us.

She trusts me.

I hate to deny her. And myself. But I haven’t been as careful as her. Sure, I think I’m clean. I’m not one-hundred percent sure, though. And as much as I want what she’s offering, I absolutely refuse to risk her health.

I lay my hand over her fingers, staring into her. “Next time,” I murmur back, “I promise.”

I’ll go to a clinic in the morning. The city has dozens of same-day testing sites. I can get tested and write a donation check to cover every patient they see tomorrow.

Juliet seems to read my thoughts. She bites her full bottom lip but doesn’t argue. “Okay,” she whispers. “Do you want me to turn around?”

That would be easier to maneuver. Ordinarily, I’d drop to my knees to lick her, then flip her around to take her from behind.

But that thought doesn’t appease the pulsing ache in my chest.

I want her close.

“No,” I confess, staring into her eyes. “I don’t.”

If I ever worried we weren’t on the same wavelength, I never will again. She knows exactly what I mean. Understanding flashes through her features, leaving her eyes wide and her lips trembling. For a moment, she hesitates, on the cusp of shrinking back.

I’m not exactly a godly man, but I find myself praying she won’t, this time.

Because—ah, hell—I need her.

Not her body. Not her pussy. Not her perfect curves.

I need Juliet.

Her face. Her eyes. The way we connect when she looks into me.

She gives me all of that and more, gazing at me as she lightly brushes her lips over mine and then takes the condom from me without another word.

The warmth of her fingers gliding up my shaft nearly makes me pant. I clench my teeth, trying to get a grip before slamming into her.

Juliet’s touch skims over my tense jaw next. “Hey,” she says quietly. My gaze flickers back to her molten honey depths. “I’m here, Graham. I’m right here.” Her cool hand caresses my face, gentling the riot inside me. “I want it like this, too.”

I can’t breathe. My lungs tighten to the point of pain while I position myself. A ragged groan tears out of me when I push inside, finally bringing us together.

Juliet cries out, arching her body into mine. “Graham,” she gasps, gripping my hair to tug my mouth back to hers. I kiss her deeply, rocking into her with the same desperate urgency that made me grab her in the first place. When I strum my thumb over clit, her moan breaks our kiss.

Our torn breaths mingle. I press our foreheads together and watch her face, reading her cues while I stroke her.

Tension evaporates from her brow. Her lips fall slack. I know I have the right spot when her pussy clamps around my cock with every plunge.

She murmurs something against my cheek, slipping into her native language. I love that. I take it as the highest compliment that I can fuck her right out of her mind. Even though I don’t understand most of it, I catch one word clearly. She says it melodically, sighing while her eyes flutter closed.

“Amado.”

It sounds sweet. I nuzzle my nose against her temple and press on her clit. Her body tightens down on mine while I murmur my own endearment back to her. “Bijou. Christ, you’re so beautiful. You make everything better.”

My voice sounds strained. From the delirious pleasure licking up my spine or the hoarse lump in my throat? Both, probably.

A second later, it doesn’t matter. Juliet rears up slightly, moving to adjust the slide of my cock. I feel her quicken instantly and go wild, surging into her snug heat again and again.

She sobs out more unfamiliar words as she comes. Unable to tear my gaze from her face, I fuck her until she goes limp in my arms, then push in as deeply as I can and lose myself. 

The feel of her stroking my hair brings me back to Earth. I realize I’ve buried my face into her neck when the warm spice of jasmine fills my nose. My lips brush over her skin, unable to stop kissing her.

Because I love her.

For the first time, the revelation doesn’t make me recoil or panic. I nestle deeper into Juliet, letting her hold on as stillness washes over me.

I love her. So damn much.

I’m complete and crushed all at once. How did this happen? Do I have to tell her?

I lean back just far enough for us to look at each other. Glowing gold eyes roam over my face, seeing more than I bargained for. Her lips roll into a tight line and she casts her gaze to the floor. “We should…”

Right. I’m still in her.

Disengaging, I lower her to her feet and roll the condom off before re-doing my fly. While I stalk into the kitchen to toss the rubber, Juliet rights her dress.

She leaves her heels among the wreckage and floats into the kitchen after me. “Could you…?” she mumbles, presenting me with her open zipper and a glorious glimpse of her naked back. Wordlessly, I zip her up, bending to drop a kiss on her nape before the gold clasp seals fabric over it.

For a second, she seems nervous. Almost like she can sense everything I’m not saying, despite my best efforts to keep the intrusive thoughts from my features.

But then, my bijou returns. Hard as stone, sharp as glass. She tosses her head back and lifts her stubborn little chin at her work bags.

“I have arepas for dinner if you’d like some,” she informs me, all business. “I’ve written a few very rough drafts for you to review. I’ve also brought over research on various topics. It’s a lot. I probably should have gone to a print shop. I felt bad using Stryker & Sons’ ink for all of it.”

Equally impressed and exasperated by the way she reverts to crisp professionalism, I snort. “I think Stryker can afford it.”

In fact, I know he can. The money I invested for him a mere five days ago has already appreciated by about four percent. Four percent of five million dollars amounts to quite a chunk of change.

Rubbing my palm over my forehead, I shut my eyes. “That reminds me, I have to do some broker work tonight. Adjust some of his holdings and lock in tomorrow’s trades. Jason McAllister has finally agreed to sign with me; I have to finalize the plan for his portfolio, too.”

Juliet smiles widely. “As in, The McAllister Group? Nice job, pinchao. We’ll work on his contract first.”

The pride beaming in her expression nearly weakens my knees. Christ. I need a drink.

I grab two glasses, only allowing myself one word lest my voice give me away. “Wine?”

She nods absently, moving to fetch her things from the threshold. “Maybe a Cabernet?”

As I uncork the bottle, Juliet kneels in my living room and carefully unpacks her files, laying them in straight piles spread over the rug.

I find myself wondering what my life would be like if I kept her here with me. Would we spend all our nights like this? Drinking wine and bouncing work issues off each other, loudly making love all over the apartment, and then sharing our meals in quiet contentment?

She would move her clothes into my closet, and we would probably end up fighting about that. We would argue about a lot of things, I suspect. And she’d just keep blowing me away with her brilliance and her fire.

Would she eventually let me hold her through the night instead of turning away? Would I tell her about Christian? Would she let me help her mother? Meet her famous Abuelita? Would we make family meals here, together?

God, I want all of it. So fucking bad.

Still shirtless, I do my best to keep my stride loose as I deliver her wine, dangling the glass over her shoulder. “Here, baby.”

Thankfully, she doesn’t glance back and see the yearning all over my face. She accepts the glass right away, without mentioning my casual pet name. “Oh, perfect.”

I lower myself to the floor, drinking down half of my glass in three gulps.

Mellow out, I tell myself. You don’t want to scare her off.

When I near the bottom of my drink, I find it a little easier to breathe.

Juliet sets to work laying out our arepas, placing three foil-wrapped bundles beside me. She sips her wine and licks her lips, oblivious to the way I stare.

Because, you know—I love her.

Fuck, this is a mess.

“Okay,” she starts, grabbing the stack of paper closest to her. “The first order of business…”

thirty-seven

I wake with a bubble of warmth in my chest.

The same feeling that simmered inside me the entire night—from the moment Graham joined me to work on his floor all the way back to Queens.

Every time I remember Graham’s intensely focused frown, his quick smiles, his very capable fingers drumming over the side of his wine glass or scratching notes into margins, I smile into my pillow like a lovesick idiot.

Like one of those insipid singing princesses.

Ayúdame Dios. I want to sing.

In fact, I have to actively stop myself from humming while I brush out my hair and apply my makeup. But the songs still play in my head, running on a loop. My foot taps while I flick through my work dresses. I choose the sunniest one—a long-sleeved yellow sheath that reminds me of Graham’s tie last night.

When I close my eyes, I see the way he stared at me before he took me against the wall. In that moment, I knew in my soul that he’d never looked at anyone else that way. The completely insane part of me hopes he never will…

Even Abuelita appears to be in a good mood. Yesterday’s upset seems like a thing of the past. She smiles at me when I come into the kitchen. “Que linda, muñeca.”

Usually, Abuelita stews for days. Much like me, her temper burns so brightly that it takes a while for the flames to die down once she gets heated. And even longer for the residual smoke to clear.

I pour my coffee and silently debate which coat to wear. A moment later, a breakfast plate appears in front of me.

Empanadas. My favorite. And not necessarily easy to make.

Surprise turns to suspicion. “Abuelita… is something going on?”

She pauses just long enough for me to know I’m on to her. “Ack! No thing go on!” she snaps, acting offended. “I make for you.”

I cross my arms at her. “Yesterday, you were mad at me.”

She waves a dismissive hand. “No I was.”

“Wasn’t,” I mutter automatically.

“Is what I said!” Abuelita retorts. She starts scrubbing a pan in the sink. When I look over her shoulder, I realize it’s already clean.

“Abuelita, que está pasando?” I demand, plucking the soapy brush from her hand.

She scowls at me. “No things,” she repeats, digging her heels in. She whips a roll of foil out of a drawer and starts to wrap up my breakfast. “You has work. Vamos.”

I don’t want to leave, but she has a point. Marco can’t drive me, and my train leaves in twelve minutes. I gather my things, rolling my eyes when she changes the subject.

I spend the forty-minute ride to Midtown resisting the urge to text Graham. I don’t have anything to say, really. I just⁠—

Miss him.

The impossible truth makes me shake my head. No. Absolutely not.

But when his name appears on my screen a minute later, I have to bite my lip to stave off a grin. I swipe open a video, along with a text message:

Pinchao

All your fault, bijou.

The clip starts off as a shot of a bowl of cereal. I recognize the granite counter, the gray stone bowl, the gold spoon.

He’s eating breakfast, I realize, unable to stop my smile.

His phone pans over a short strip of countertop. Colors blur from white to tan. Muscled tan thighs. Then silky red. His underwear.

Specifically, the huge bulge in his underwear. My lower belly thrums at the image.

His camera flips, showing a glimpse of his wry smirk while he shakes his head, appalled with himself. Before I can squash it, I giggle.

Wasn’t I just doing the exact same thing? Shaking my head at myself because I can’t believe what he’s done to me in a matter of weeks?

I type back, dodging fellow commuters on Madison Ave while I reply.

Which part? The breakfast or the boner?

My phone buzzes in my hand.

Graham…

Calling me?

The second I pick up, he replies to my text without letting me say hello. “Both.”

The city bustles behind him and all around me. It makes me feel closer to him, somehow. A new burst of happiness shimmers through me.

“That was quite the video, pinchao. I may have to review it again later.”

His laughter warms my bones and gives me chills at the same time. “Review away, Miss Rivera.”

My heels pound the pavement, releasing some of my jitters. “So this is new,” I comment, hiking my bag up my shoulder. “I usually spend my walk to the office reading The Wall Street Journal headlines.”

“God. I knew you were the perfect woman,” he flirts. “I’m calling because I won’t see you tonight. Girls’ night and whatnot, right?”

Why does it feel like my answer holds more weight than it should?

“Ugh. Yeah. That. I’m always making plans to do fun things and then regretting it.” I pause to consider why. “I think I work too hard, and then I’m exhausted at the end of the day.”

“You do work too hard,” he agrees. “You should definitely blow Ella off and come to my place instead.”

As smooth as his boxers. No wonder my stomach keeps doing flips.

“I told you I’d make up the work this weekend,” I reply as airily as I can. “And you have the contracts you need for McAllister, right?”

A rueful edge creeps into his voice. “Work is not what I had in mind, baby. Although…”

Dios. The man makes me smile like a moron. And why do I like it when he calls me “baby?”

He’s becoming my boyfriend without permission, and I like it.

Wanting to retaliate, I shoot back, “Careful, Mr. Everett. If you make me wet, I’ll have to take my panties off before I get in the elevator.”

He answers with a growl. “Christ, Juliet. I’m going to start tracking how many erections you give me every day and then spank you accordingly. By my count, you already have three strikes against you today.”

“Three?” I laugh. “The breakfast boner and right now would only make two.”

A horn blares on his end of the call. “There was one when I woke up that I’m blaming you for, too. You spent half the night at my place and the other half running through my dreams,” he replies conversationally. “Took care of that one myself, though.”

I instantly picture him fisting his big cock. My insides do another somersault.

And I’m blushing.

On Madison Avenue?

Carajo.

My phone beeps, alerting me to an incoming call from Mami. I hesitate, but send it to voicemail just as Graham teases, “What’s the matter, bijou? Have I finally stunned you into silence?”

“Not at all,” I shoot back. “I’m just wondering why I got a video of your cereal when you could have sent me the sausage.”

Graham laughs harder than before. “I swear to God,” he chuckles. “I almost spit coffee on myself just now. Which would be a travesty because this suit is Italian merino.”

“What color?” I ask, wanting to picture him.

“Blue. Like that suit you wore the first day we worked together. The one with the slit up the back. Goddamn it. I’m going to be hard all day, aren’t I?”

Stryker & Sons looms up ahead, distinct from the other buildings around it because of the inspired concrete garden gracing its grounds. “Definite possibility,” I return.

Graham grumbles. “I can’t have that, Miss Rivera. I have work to do, decisions to make…”

My heart pangs. I don’t want to stress him out, though. I want to give him a reason to smile. “Lucky for you, you’ll be free of me all evening. Plenty of time to think and wrangle your boners.”

My joke doesn’t land. Instead of chortling, Graham grows quiet. I think I hear a sigh. “I might miss you,” he finally murmurs.

Damn it.

Me, too.

By the time Tris asks me to grab sushi for lunch, I’m truly having a kick-ass day.

I should know better.

But, because I don’t, we bounce into the lobby at noon, oblivious.

I don’t see my father at first. He’s standing off to the side again, facing the glass wall, looking out at the street. My heels screech against the black marble floor when I jerk to a halt.

Tris has been babbling about which bar we should choose for girls’ night out. She stops in the middle of a sentence and follows my gaze. “Someone you know?”

Not really, my mind jeers.

In the years since he left me with Abuelita, my father has gradually grown into a stranger. Greasy and haggard, he appears to sway on his feet while I watch.

When he leans too far to the left, I see he isn’t looking out at the street around the building, but down at someone with him.

Someone small and round… dressed in a red maternity dress.

My insides lurch when I put the situation together.

He brought her here.

The baby mama.

But why?

“I’m going to have to take a raincheck on lunch,” I tell Tris, speaking through numb lips. “I’ll see you upstairs later, okay?”

Tris’s smooth porcelain forehead crinkles between her auburn brows. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

I shake my head, inhaling deeply through my nose. “I’ll be fine.”

My new friend frowns but gives my forearm a slight squeeze. “If you say so. How about I bring you something to eat? California roll?”

My appetite has vanished, but I agree and wait for her to make it to the doors before I turn back to my father.

A burst of fury slams into me. I told him last week that I was done with his manipulation. Abuelita told him to fuck off, too.

Abuelita.

Her strange behavior at breakfast makes sense now. She knew there was a chance he would show up, and she felt bad.

How dare he come back here? With her?! The audacity of parading his pregnant mistress right in front of me. At my job.

I should simply walk out of the building without so much as glancing at him. But that revelation doesn’t hit me until it’s too late. He’s already seen me coming, and he smiles.

“Mija!”

There was a time when I spent days staring out of Abuelita’s apartment, waiting to hear my dad call that endearment from the sidewalk below. Before I understood that he left me there by choice; when I still believed that he loved me and would always come back for me.

Now, the word leaves me cold.

I step up to the unwelcome pair, refusing to speak either of their names. My mind won’t stop repeating hers on a loop, though, trying to attach the sunny word to the worn-down woman in front of me.

Lucia. It means “light.”

Ironic.

My father was correct. She looks young enough to be one of my friends. Young, but definitely not a typically carefree woman in her twenties.

This girl is small, with raggedy brown hair, sallow skin, and terrible posture. As I take her measure, she draws back slightly. Her hand falls to the pronounced bump under her grubby red dress.

“This is Lucia,” Papi says. “She’s going to give you a baby brother.”

The rage roaring in my ears trickles down my back, leaving my neck hair standing on end. Instead of staring at his girlfriend, I focus on him. “I told you not to come back here. You both need to leave. Immediately.”

His face pulls into a sneer. “Not without what I came for, mija. Didn’t you talk to your mami?”

How does he know about the missed calls from my mom? And so quickly? It hasn’t even been an hour since I saw her voicemail…

Fear joins the anger and revulsion pounding through me. “No,” I grit. “Not yet. I texted to tell her I would call her after work, and she said that’s fine. Is she okay?”

He laughs. “She’s fine, mija. I spoke with her so we could catch up. We talked about your fancy job and all the money you’re making. She agrees with me about the best way for us to use it.”

It feels like someone sucked my insides out with a vacuum. “No,” I mumble. “You didn’t call her. You never call her.”

“She calls me once a week,” he gloats, as if it’s a cute thing—like a child who draws him pictures at school. “I know she doesn’t tell you. She thinks it will upset you. I usually can’t answer, anyway.”

I don’t want to believe him, but it sounds like Mami. She knows I disapprove of her abiding devotion to the man who abandoned her. And I know that my opinions have no bearing on her feelings toward him, despite everything he’s done. It isn’t hard to imagine her secretly calling him, even if he never answers or gets back to her.

“So, this time, you picked up?” I demand, crossing my arms at him. “Why?”

He tilts his head, regarding me as if I’m obviously absurd. “I need her help. To convince you to do the right thing. Once I explained Lucia’s condition, she agreed right away. She wants you to give me the money instead of saving it for her.”

It must be a lie. My mom knows how hard I work for her. I often tell her about my mission to find the right immigration experts and all the costs. I just told her about working for Graham a couple days ago, and how I’ll be able to save up much sooner than we thought⁠—

Did she… did she tell my dad about the fifty thousand? And offer it to him?

“No,” I insist, hearing the tremor in my voice before I feel it wrack my body. “You’re lying.”

My father’s smile turns indulgent. “Oh, mija. I knew you wouldn’t believe me. That’s why she’s been calling you, to tell you herself.”

It makes sense in a horrible way. My father is clearly desperate. After I turned him down twice last week, he went to the one person he knows he can manipulate without fail. The only person who could ever sway me in his favor.

“Well, your little plan backfired,” I hiss. “If I wasn’t giving you any money before, I’m definitely not giving it to you now that you’ve upset Mami and tried to use her against me.”

He has the nerve to act affronted. “No one is against you, Julieta,” he drawls, looking wounded. “I only told her Lucia’s happy news. And your mami decided she no longer wants to come here.”

That makes sense, too. I barely understand my brand-new feelings for Graham, but if he knocked up another woman under my nose, I would never want to be in the same room as him again. I can only imagine how I would feel if I’d loved him for half my life and spent decades believing we would somehow find our way back to each other.

For a moment, I think my chest might actually cave in. My hand flinches toward my purse; I need to call Mami immediately. But then, my father stops me in my tracks.

“She told me about the fifty thousand.”

Betrayal pricks at my throat. My brain refuses to accept the information. But my heart knows. It heaves painfully, laboring my breaths.

“I think that should be more than enough,” my father continues. “Since your mami doesn’t need it anymore, she wants me to have it. She’ll tell you so herself.”

Pleased with himself, Papi snakes his arm around his girlfriend’s waist. She, at least, has the decency to look embarrassed. Her eyes remain on the floor between our feet.

I want to scream at her. How can a woman sleep with someone else’s husband and then condone him shaking his own daughter down for cash?

She must be desperate.

It enrages me, but it also makes me wonder. How did she end up with a man like him? She isn’t a great beauty, by my estimation, but she isn’t hopeless. Why would a young girl shackle herself to a forty-something alcoholic loser?

“Do you have anything to say?” I ask her too loudly.

A man walking past shoots me a glare. Carajo. If I’m not careful, we’ll have security all over us. Including Marco.

Lucia casts my dad a lost look. “Julio said you’d want to meet me,” she whispers. “He told me we would all go to lunch.”

Exhaling through my nose, I work to keep my tone even. “He lied to you, Lucia. He probably also told you he could provide for you and that baby. I bet he didn’t mention it would be my money, not his. Maybe he also neglected to mention that he’s still married to my mother. Or perhaps he’s told you that but made it seem like you two could show up here and all would be forgiven. Either way, he’s a liar. I told him last week I would not give him a dime, and I meant it. I don’t care how much he tries to manipulate my mother. I won’t be giving you any money.”

Lucia’s chin shakes as she gazes up at my dad. “Julio?”

A spiteful expression twists my father’s face. He speaks to Lucia instead of replying to me. “I don’t know what we will do, amada. If my daughter will not help us bring her brother into the world, it might be best for us to give the baby up.”

My body jerks, physically balking. Lucia’s features crumple. “No!” she shrieks, hugging her belly. “He’s already—I already—How can you say that, Julio?”

My father pins me with a vicious smirk. “It isn’t right to keep a child if we can’t provide for him. If Julieta won’t give us the help we need to get back on our feet, I really don’t see any other option…”

Stomach seething, eyes stinging, I stagger back a step. I want to yell and stomp and rage, but at the moment, I can’t even breathe.

Lucia whirls on me with tears streaming down her face, looking every bit as horror-struck as I feel. For an awful second, our eyes meet.

I feel so ashamed and disgusted, I swear I’ll be sick. My hand flies to cover my mouth. They both stare at me—Lucia sobbing, and my father just… waiting.

Because he knows he’ll win.

I can’t even look at him. But I also can’t walk away.

“How much do you need?” I ask his girlfriend.

When he opens his mouth, I wave my hand in his face to silence him. “Not you, cerdo.” Staring the other woman down, I whisper, “Her. Lucia, how much do you need?”

She blinks twice before catching on to my meaning. My father tries to pull her against his side again, but she stays firmly planted with her arms around her belly. “I—I don’t know. Julio said—I’m not sure how much I would need.”

My entire body shakes. I know I don’t have much time before I completely lose it. “Figure it out,” I mutter to her, “and then come find me. Not here. Come to my grandmother’s, please. Julio has the address.”

Without sparing my father another glance, I spin, blindly striding to the exit. I only make it twenty steps away before my legs give out, and I fall.

thirty-eight

“Graham?”

I go from scowling at my phone to scowling at my dad. “What?”

He gives me an assessing once-over. “You’ve been looking at your phone since that conference call ended twenty minutes ago. Is everything all right?”

No, damn it. Because I’m supposed to be acting normal and evading suspicion, but I haven’t heard from Juliet in six hours.

“Yeah.” I quickly weigh the risk of mentioning a woman versus leaving him to conjure up his own reasons for my distraction. No contest. “There’s just a girl I’m hoping to hear from.”

That perks him right up. He grins his charming, deceitful, son-of-a-bitch grin. “Got a hot one on the hook?”

Ugh. I hate that he thinks we’re bonding. Over Jules, of all things.

Doing my best to hide my cringe, I sit back in his uncomfortable chair and cross one ankle over my knee. “She’s very hot,” I allow.

A perverse gleam lights his eyes. “Got a picture?”

My jaw snaps shut. “No.”

Dad shrugs. “I’ll believe it when I see it, then. You know, you’ve never been one to bring ladies home. If I hadn’t seen you in half a dozen tabloids with various socialites, I might be worried.”

I pick at my sleeve and try not to take the bait. But I’m not quite able to resist. “Worried? Why? Because I might be gay? Would that be upsetting somehow?”

A trace of pink creeps up his neck. “Well, no, but…”

“But?” I know I’m being rude, but I don’t give a fuck. Why hasn’t Jules answered me?

“I don’t mean ‘but,’” Dad argues. “I don’t—all I said was⁠—”

Suddenly unable to stand him for another second, I push to my feet. “I’m just screwing with you,” I mumble. “See you tomorrow?”

Making my exit, I stalk down the hall, summon the elevator… and glance at my phone again.

Goddamn it.

It isn’t like her not to answer at all. For the first few hours, I figured she might be in a lunch or a long meeting. But half the day? I even sent a work-related question I already knew the answer to—just to see if she’d reply in a professional capacity. No dice.

I force myself through a workout and a protein shake. I call Christian and try not to panic when his phone rings seven times and then tells me his voicemail is full.

By nine, I give in and text them both one more time. I tell Christian to call me and ask Juliet if she’s okay.

When my cell vibrates ten minutes later, I jump. But the number scrolling over the screen isn’t familiar. I answer anyway, not wanting to chance missing a call from Chris or Jules.

“Everett.”

A tense pause swells over the line. “Good,” a deep voice clips. “This is Marco Amir, Grayson’s head of security.”

And Juliet’s cousin.

Overwrought by anxiety, I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I know who you are, Marco. Christ. What’s wrong? Is it Grayson or⁠—”

Helpless panic rises, inflating my chest like an over-filled balloon. I don’t want to out our relationship without Juliet’s permission, but I need to know if she’s all right.

“Grayson is fine,” Marco cuts in brusquely. “I’m calling regarding a personal matter. Have you spoken to Juliet this evening? Is she with you?”

Panic morphs into full-blown horror. Stifling silence presses all around me, highlighting how very alone I am.

“No, she’s not here. What the fuck happened? I’ve been trying to reach her since noon.”

Another sickening pause. “I was hoping you might have an idea,” Marco admits. “None of us know where she went.”

“What do you mean?” I practically shout, pacing. My mind reels, whirring through our texts, searching in vain for something amiss.

“She was perfectly fine this morning! I spoke to her on her way to the office, so I know she got there safely. Her asshole boss wasn’t in, so it can’t be him. She said she had lunch plans with Tris.”

Hearing my alarm, Marco’s voice thaws. “Yes, I know. Miss Dunn was the one who alerted me to the situation when Juliet didn’t return this afternoon. She found me first instead of reporting to Mr. Stryker. She said they were on their way out the door when Juliet saw someone in the lobby and sent Miss Dunn along without her.”

I freeze mid-stride. Her father. That fucking bastard.

What did he do this time?

Before I can ask, Marco goes on. “Mr. Stryker then informed me that he had received an email from her about some sort of family emergency. He granted her the rest of the day off, but I’m not aware of any family emergencies, so I reviewed the lobby security footage. She had some sort of altercation with her father, walked out, and never came back.”

I can’t imagine it. “She wouldn’t do that,” I mutter. “Unless something was very wrong. He came to the lobby last week, too. She got upset, but she still went back to work.”

Marco’s grave tone implies that he agrees. “I know this is out of character for her. When I called our grandmother, she insisted Juliet must be with ‘el pinchao.’ That’s you, right?”

My heart sinks at Jules’s taunting nickname.

Where would she go? Why didn’t she come to me?

“She had a girls’ night tonight,” I tell him. “Otherwise, she would be here, with me.”

He grunts. “I just drove Ella home from their girls’ night. Juliet didn’t show. I’ve tried tracking her cell phone, but she’s turned it off.” He blows out a frustrated sigh. “I know she’s been with you most nights, so I thought⁠—”

“She should have come here,” I growl, torn between outrage and fear. “She has a key. She knows she can come to me.”

Fuck. I’m giving away too much, but I can’t bring myself to stop. I don’t care if I have to marry the damn woman tomorrow, with Marco holding a shotgun to my back; I need to find her.

Closing my eyes, I do my best to think like Jules. She was on her way to lunch with a friend when she changed course. She probably didn’t have any of her work with her.

She wouldn’t do well sitting idly when she felt she should be working. And if she didn’t return during office hours because she didn’t want anyone to see her upset, there’s a chance she went back after the others left to get her stuff…

“Do you have access to Stryker’s cameras right now?”

“I always have access,” Marco grumbles. “Why?”

“Look at the ones in the legal department,” I direct.

He grunts again. “The building is closed. The elevators stop running to the executive floor after six unless you have a key card. Besides, she left.”

All of that makes sense for a normal, non-workaholic. But I have a sneaking suspicion she wasn’t trying to avoid her work when she stormed out of the building; she wanted to be sure no one at the office saw her distraught. Besides, I know for a fact she isn’t above taking the stairs after what happened the day we met.

“Just look.”

I hear him tap at his screen. A second later, he exhales loudly. “I’ll be damned. There she is.”

My lungs expand for the first time in minutes. “Thank God. Is she okay?”

“She’s working.” Marco sounds dumbstruck. “Just like you said.” His ragged sigh fills the receiver with static. “I’m going down there.”

“No,” I decide, reaching for my coat. “I am.”

thirty-nine

I’m not sure how, but I knew he would come.

That was the real reason I stayed here, I think. Even though I told myself I had too much work to catch up on, too many documents to draft, too little strength stored for the call I knew I had to make to my mother.

But none of that was true.

I know it the second I feel a charge zip down my spine and look up, across the dark executive floor, and find him standing in the shadows.

Graham.

The blue suit he described this morning is gone. Replaced by joggers and a Colombia University T-shirt under his fancy coat.

It doesn’t matter. He still looks like he belongs here, somehow.

Or maybe it just feels that way.

Our gazes clash, his dark irises glinting in the low light from the emergency stairwell. Which is when I realize—he climbed all fifty flights. To get to me.

An ache blooms in my chest, followed by a sharp slice of fear. Why would he do this? Come here? It’s not like he knows⁠—

“What happened?” Graham asks, the low words carrying across the round, open space.

Which is when I realize—he may not know what happened, but he knows me. And when he couldn’t find me, he figured this was his best bet.

He’s… worried. I see it in the grooves around his scowl.

When I don’t answer, he comes closer. Never dropping my gaze or slowing his steps. Until he’s at my desk, bending forward to cup my jaw in his hand.

“Marco called,” he rumbles, running those deep eyes over my expression in loops. “Told me your dad turned up, stirring his shit. Tell me what he said, bijou.”

Something at the very core of me starts to tremble. Because this? Him, here? Caring? This is everything I didn’t want.

And it also might be exactly what I need.

Fear makes me want to fight. I jerk my chin up and rear back, out of his hold. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I snap.

Graham presses his hands to the desktop, glowering at me over my keyboard. “Too damn bad.”

He has this… steadiness to him. I saw it last weekend, when he had me for the first time. And again the night he tied me over his kitchen island.

I might think I keep him in line, but he lets me be in charge because he respects me—and Graham Everett’s respect is hard to come by.

This is different, though. Like the day he overheard my father and I arguing, then whisked me into the stairwell to help me compose myself; he knows I’m spiraling.

So he won’t take no for an answer.

Why does it feel like that means more than any stupid gift or flirtatious flattery ever could?

Why do I love it as much as I hate it?

The thought of him being so kind is somehow terrifying. I grit my teeth to keep my voice from quivering and pin him with a glare. “You can’t make me tell you.”

A spark ignites in his midnight eyes, his lips flickering up. “Can’t I?”

Carajo. He probably could…

Whatever look he sees on my face makes his soften. He rounds the desk and reaches for my arm, pulling me up into a hug before I can protest.

“Bijou,” he sighs, quiet. “You know you can tell me.”

I really do know. And that’s the problem.

Still, the warmth of his body melts the tension from mine. I sway and he holds me closer, one of his hands reaching up to smooth over my hair.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” he mutters.

I’ll have to tell him eventually, but for now, I shut my eyes and whisper, “Not now. Please.”

That word he loves to wring from me—usually as a plea for mercy or request for more—sounds so broken. His fingers flex against my scalp. He blows out a hard breath.

“All right. Fine. Not now. But soon.”

I huff an exasperated laugh at his brusque tone. “Your negotiation skills need work, pinchao.”

Graham smirks, too, but his arms tighten, cuddling me into his tall frame. His voice drops to a murmur again. “Will you at least tell me what you need?”

It’s a good question, actually. I came back to work because I needed a distraction from my feelings. But now that Graham is here, that may be impossible.

I turn my head, eyes falling on Dominic’s empty office. A dark thought occurs to me and I give a bleak laugh. “If there weren’t cameras, we could make a mess of Dominic’s desk.”

Graham’s body stiffens. He snaps his head up to stare down at me. Gives a slow, dazzling smile.

And then I’m over his shoulder.

I shriek and he slaps my ass, turning on his heel. “You’re in luck, Miss Rivera. Marco turned off the cameras on the executive floor when I told him I was coming to get you.”

Graham feels me go still as he strides over the threshold—into Dominic’s office. He chuckles, “He also said they’d only be down for twenty minutes. Like that would be a deterrent for us. Poor bastard clearly doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.”

I want to argue, but with the way his palm draws a circle at the juncture of my thighs and my ass… he might have a point.

“We can’t do it on my boss’s desk,” I protest, watching as he sweeps all the items on the desktop to the side. “Someone will know.”

Graham sets me on the edge of the smoked glass, bracing his hands on either side of my hips to put us eye-to-eye. Something deliciously dangerous moves through his gaze.

“Good,” he growls. “I hope that bastard does know. I hope he can sense that I’ve had you in his chair. I want him to sit here and know that I made you come all over his desk with my mouth. Then bent you over his keyboard and fucked you raw.”

Oh God, that’s right. He got tested today. No more need for any barriers between us when he takes me.

A breathy sound escapes before I can swallow it. Graham’s eyes blaze brighter, his thumbs stroking the outsides of my thighs while he waits for an answer.

I should say no. I have to say no… but the thought of finally feeling him… Just his bare skin with nothing to separate his heat from mine⁠—

I grab the lapels of his coat and shove it down his arms.

“That’s my girl,” he groans, finding my mouth and gliding our tongues together.

But I can’t let him get away with calling me his girl. I nip at his bottom lip, biting hard. His hands instantly fist my skirt and start to bunch it up. When he hits my panties, one fist tugs sideways—snapping the thin G-string right off me.

“Fuck you and these tiny scraps you call panties,” he mutters against my mouth. “Are you trying to kill me?”

I shove at his joggers, loving and hating the posh, luxury material in my way. “Don’t think I haven’t considered it.”

His lips brush mine again as he smiles. “You’d miss me.”

And… Dios. I think maybe he’s right.

forty

I feel like a jackass, but I practice what to say all the way to Jackson Heights.

“Hola, Señora. Yo soy Graham Everett. Juliet es mi amiga. Está ella en la casa?”

Looking like a stooped, creased version of her granddaughter, the elder Rivera stands on the other side of her apartment’s open door, flicking her eyes over my three-piece suit. She fixes me with a scathing scowl.

Hell. I should have changed after work. But by the time I decided to ambush Jules, I figured I better go before I lost my nerve.

Not now, she said last night. And I listened, damn it. Through three orgasms, multiple rounds of defiling Dominic Carter’s desk, and all the way downstairs, where I put her in my hired car and hailed a cab.

But today, she’s been much too quiet, only messaging to tell me she felt exhausted and needed to head home after work to catch up on sleep.

If she thinks I’m just going to disappear without helping her through whatever her father pulled yesterday—or accept fucking on a desk as some sort of resolution—she’s about to learn a lesson.

Graham Everett doesn’t surrender.

Although, with Abuelita glaring at me? I’m about as close as I’ve ever been.

I look down at my own clothes, examining the fine black fabric and red pinstripes through her eyes. I chose this suit because it matched the cursed red handkerchief folded in my breast pocket, along with my crimson velvet vest and an onyx shirt and tie.

And, well.

Fuck.

I look like the rich, arrogant supervillain from a comic book.

Instead of insulting me, the elder Ms. Rivera purses her lined lips and asks, “You suit—it is silk?”

If she feels self-conscious about her broken English, it doesn’t deter her ferocious frown. I raise an eyebrow at her. “Sí, señora.”

But she doesn’t smile back. She pinches at my shoulder and makes a tsk sound. Her silver brows fold together as she waves me in. “You come. I fix.”

It seems like she knows exactly how to throw me off my game. Like her granddaughter. “Um…” I stifle a chuckle and force myself to nod. “Sí, señora.”

Yes, ma’am seems like a safe response to most things. I say it again when she wrestles me out of my jacket and once more when she points to a seat at her kitchen table.

As she busies herself with my suit, I take a moment to soak in my surroundings, hoping to find more clues to understanding the woman I can’t seem to stay away from.

Juliet’s jokes over the weekend about her entire apartment fitting into my living room weren’t exactly an exaggeration. The place starts in a pressed stretch of hallway, cluttered by a coat rack. It ends in a small rectangular room with a low ceiling.

A partial brick wall stands opposite the entrance, cabinets filling the space. On the other side of the partition, I spy a living area just big enough for a loveseat and a small TV.

I sit at the scarred wooden table pushed into the wall across from the kitchen. My fingers glide over its edge, imagining what it would be like to grow up with a family table. Did they sit here and tell stories? Was it always just the two of them?

Less than five minutes after taking my jacket, Abuelita returns, holding out the garment with an impatient flourish. Before I slip it on, she grimaces and pinches my shoulders again.

“This. Un problema,” she fusses. “You no eat. Tall man. Necesita comida.” She passes the jacket to me. “Put in. I fix.”

Blinking, I do my best to interpret her words. Put on? I slide my jacket back on, and she gives a firm nod.

The fit feels better already. She’s altered it in five minutes, against my will—talented and bossy, just like her granddaughter.

“Gracias,” I tell her, meaning it.

A second later, cabinets start to open and close with rapid-fire determination. Before I know what’s happening, she has food out. Tons of it. Beans and beef and eggs and an array of produce, all laid in haphazard piles.

She spares me a look over her shoulder. “You fuerte,” she tells me. “Here.”

In French, forte means “strong,” so when she waves a meat mallet in her hand, I figure she has some sort of manly kitchen duty for me. I shuck my jacket for a second time and start to roll up my shirtsleeves.

When I take three steps and reach the place beside her, she whips an apron off a hook and tosses it at me. “Silk stain. No está bien.”

Not good.

See? I can do this.

I smile while I don the apron. Silk does stain like a bitch.

“Plátanos,” she says, shoving a stack to me. They look like small, oddly shaped bananas. Plantains, I realize.

“You cut. Mash. I fry.”

Simple enough. I get to work, peeling and cutting the plantains into chunks before squashing each piece with the mallet. I’ve done half the pile before I realize I never got an answer about whether Juliet is even home.

I chance a glance at her grandmother—who works twice as fast as me, turning a heap of fresh herbs into precisely minced mountains in minutes—and ponder my next question carefully, choosing words I think I can get right.

“Cómo está Juliet?”

That’s all I really care about, anyway. I don’t need to know where she is every minute, but I need to know how she is.

Abuelita slows her knife and gives a small, discouraged shake of her head. “She sleeps,” the woman murmurs quietly.

Shit. Juliet isn’t one to crawl into bed and hide. She must be in serious pain.

Her grandmother notices when my face registers shock. She sighs. “She work toda su vida. And now”—she slashes her knife through the air in front of her—“Nada.”

It takes me a second to comprehend. My chest clenches. Her mother. Whatever her father said must have something to do with her lifelong plan to bring her mom to America.

I hit the next plantain with unnecessary force and utter a word I ordinarily would not say in front of a distinguished lady. Abuelita’s soft, wrinkled hand flies up, grasping my chin and turning my head.

I brace for a dressing down. But she simply tilts my face one way and then another, her dark eyes narrow and sharp as they trace my features.

“Un pinchao,” she grumbles. “Pero tu amas a Julieta.”

There’s my nickname again. I still don’t have a precise definition, but it doesn’t matter anymore. It’s Juliet’s word for me; I’ll always like it.

I’ve grown to accept that I may never understand the meaning. But I can’t understand anything else Abuelita said, either.

Seeing my confusion, her expression melts into compassion. She pats my cheek softly. The maternal gesture touches a place inside me that I never even knew existed.

“Julieta,” she murmurs, “you love.”

She still has my face in her hand. It’s not like I can lie.

And I don’t really want to. Just like Jules, something about her grandmother inspires me to be an honest man.

“Sí, señora.”

If I expect some sort of welcoming embrace, I’m doomed to disappointment. She drops her weathered hand and keeps frowning.

For a long moment, she stares. Then she taps her chest. “Abuelita. You call me.”

I bite back a victorious smile. “Sí, Abuelita.”

Twenty minutes later, we have the food prepped and on the stove. Abuelita snatches my apron and sends me back to the table. I watch her make coffee and listen as she tells stories about Juliet as a girl.

She speaks a dizzying mix of Spanish and English, but I follow better than I expected, possibly because her inflections make her easy to read.

Sometime halfway through coffee, with seven different pans sizzling on the stove, Juliet appears.

Everything inside of me sighs, simply relieved to see her. I grin when I recognize my black T-shirt hanging off her petite shoulders.

With her hair clipped up against the back of her head, spilling over the side of a claw, and a super tight pair of yoga pants, she looks as disheveled and gorgeous as she did the morning she woke up in my bed. When she steps into the light, though, I note the swelling around her eyes and the red lining their lids.

My smile vanishes. I jump to my feet instinctually, forgetting we aren’t alone until I’m half a foot away from her. Her eyes flash to her grandmother, then glare at me.

“It’s okay,” I reassure quietly. “I haven’t totally screwed anything up yet. She even let me mash plátanos.”

Juliet’s brows lift. “She let you help?”

My bijou looks cold. I wonder if I could touch her without incurring Abuelita’s wrath. “Yes. She asked me to.”

“She literally never—never—lets anyone help her,” Juliet mumbles. “Marco tried once, and she swatted him with her metal spatula.”

I know my sexy lawyeress. When she says “never,” she means it. Another swell of fondness rises in me as I smile at her grandmother’s profile. “It’s not my fault that the Rivera women seem to take a particular shine to me.”

Her mouth wobbles, torn between amusement and disapproval. “What are you doing here, Graham?”

She doesn’t use her endearment for me, and I notice. My fingers twitch while I repress the urge to reach out to her. “You need me,” I reply, looking into her gold eyes. “So I came to you.”

Juliet lifts her pointed chin, even though it trembles. She looks ready to fight through her pain, but the second our gazes connect, she stills.

Her eyes widen. Her skin blanches. For a moment, her guard slips. And she looks so lost; pain stabs my heart.

Before I can stop myself, I take her hands in mine and bring them to my lips, drawing her closer. “Whatever it is,” I vow against her knuckles. “I’m going to help.”

Fire snaps in her eyes. I give her a severe look, halting an argument before it can begin. “I came all the way to Queens. During rush hour. In my silk suit. Do I seem like a man who will leave without getting what he came for?”

She presses her lips and her thighs together at the same time, then nervously flicks her gaze to her grandmother again. It doesn’t seem likely that the elder understands my double entendre, but I take the hint.

With one last crooked grin, I tug Juliet over to the table and pull out a chair. She drops into it with an indignant huff, never taking her wary eyes off my face.

Even with a little old lady in the room and ready-to-bolt rigidity stretched taut through Juliet’s posture, sexual tension still crackles between our seats. I can’t keep myself from reaching for her hand again. “I have no idea what we’re making, but it smells amazing.”

Apprehension seeps into her features as she runs her eyes over mine. “Bandeja paisa.”

Abuelita bursts into the conversation, waving her spoon and firing off a stream of Spanish so fluid I realize she majorly dumbed it down for me before Juliet came in.

My bijou listens. The corner of her lush lips pulls up in a reluctant smirk. Then she gives me a wry once-over.

“She says you’re too lean for your beautiful suit, and you need to eat more. Apparently, she told you ‘in plain English’ that she would fix it.”

“The suit?” I clarify.

Her lips twitch again. “No. You.”

I try for another teasing smile. “Many have tried, and many have failed. But if anyone could do the impossible…” My eyes slide over to her grandmother, cooking up a storm. “My money’s on you two.”

Juliet tilts her head, hair swishing to the side. “Seriously,” she whispers. “Why are you here?”

I’ve already told her the truth, so I try to explain. “The week is over. And as soon as I walked out of the office, there was only one person I really wanted to see.”

Because I love you, woman.

She honestly can’t believe me. She tries, but even as her eyes widen hopefully and her lips fall slack, those thin black brows pucker more. “That’s it?”

“Sí, señorita.”

A giggle bubbles out of her. “Your accent is awful.”

Abuelita’s laughter surprises us both. Our heads swivel in unison, turning to witness the stern old lady erupt in hearty chuckles.

Juliet’s beaming smile melts the last of my stubborn pride. I’ll be the butt of any joke if I get to see that smile. And, in that moment, with the marvelous Rivera women mocking me, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.

forty-one

Abuelita is secretly overjoyed.

Graham not only eats his entire platter of Colombian delicacies but half of mine as well. I don’t mind. I have trouble shoveling food in my mouth while translating our entire conversation both ways; though, after her outburst, I suspect maybe Abuelita understands a lot more English than she lets on.

After all, they got along without me for who-knows-how-long before I woke up…

I still can’t believe she let him in.

I can’t exactly blame her for falling under his spell, though. In his pinstriped pants, velvet vest, and rolled shirt cuffs, Graham looks sinfully handsome.

His hair is combed back the way I love. A week’s stubble darkens the sharp slash of his jaw…

Truly, the man is as dark and charming as the devil himself.

A devil who does dishes.

Without any prompting, he suddenly whisks our plates into a stack and carries them to the sink. He pushes his sleeves further up his muscled forearms and starts cleaning.

Abuelita’s jaw drops. She blinks at his back, astonished. It occurs to me that he’s done the dishes every single time we’ve eaten together at his apartment, too; including the morning he cooked for me.

He clearly isn’t the spoiled misogynist he pretends to be. He knew where to find me last night when no one else did. He knew I needed support today. He even knew how to get on Abuelita’s razor-thin good side.

By all accounts, he truly cares for me.

But I’m sure my mother once thought the exact same thing about my father.

Moving with his usual slouchy elegance, Graham scrubs the dishes and arranges them on the drying rack. Abuelita eventually turns to me, her face conveying a wealth of meaning.

She doesn’t want to like Graham, either.

But she does.

As soon as he finishes his task and returns to the table, she makes a big show of covering a supposed yawn. “You fed,” she says, using her stilted English. “Bed now.”

Graham bites the inside of his cheek, holding back laughter at her unintended innuendo. Glowering at him and my grandmother, I argue, “Abuelita, it’s only eight.”

She shrugs, stands, and touches her shoulder. “I old woman. Need sleeps.” She pauses between our chairs and fixes Graham with a sharp look. “You go soon, pinchao.”

Graham’s devastating grin always gives me a little buzz, even when it isn’t directed at me. “Sí, señora. Thank you for dinner. And fixing my suit.”

Her eyes flick over his outfit, then over to me, and back again. “El traje es hermoso. Debes cuidar las cosas hermosas.”

My heart squeezes. She pats both of our cheeks and shuffles down the hall to her room. I notice she’s left her door ajar, and my lips curve even as my chest throbs.

Graham’s midnight eyes meet mine. “What did she say?”

“That your suit is beautiful,” I sigh. “And you must take care of beautiful things.”

He stares into me steadily. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Before I know what hits me, he grasps both of my wrists and tugs me onto his lap. His arms envelop my body, pulling me tight to his torso.

I’m too confused to fight him, especially when it feels so good to turn my face into his neck and breathe in his cologne. He arranges us comfortably and skims his hand up my spine to cradle my nape.

“What happened, baby?” His low voice sends a flurry through my abdomen, settling in a pool of heat between my hips. His fingers begin kneading the base of my skull. “Tell me.”

I’m weak. Weaker than I ever thought possible. As his other hand finds the curve of my jaw and his lips brush over my forehead, I sink right into him.

“My dad,” I reply, not bothering to stem the tears clogging my throat. “He came to the office again.”

“Marco told me,” Graham murmurs. He rests his chin on the crown of my head. “What did your dad say?”

I can’t even be mad at him for talking to my cousin behind my back. I know he only did it out of genuine concern. And, at the moment, the comfort he’s offering is just about the only thing holding me together.

I spill the whole sordid story, rehashing it all word for word, including my father’s insistence on getting the fifty thousand. 

Beneath me, Graham’s body stiffens. “I’m assuming you told him to go to hell?”

“Yes,” I whisper to his collarbone. “But he threatened⁠—”

His fingers clutch me tighter. “You?”

I shake my head. “The baby. He basically implied that if I didn’t give them money, he would make Lucia give it up. And she looked horrified. She’s got to be almost to term; they’ve picked out a name for him already.”

I huff. “I know I shouldn’t feel any sympathy for my father’s mistress, but it isn’t just her—my father is acting like his own child is a dog he can rehome because he doesn’t want to pay to feed it anymore.”

The same way he treated me. Like a pet he could desert at the pound.

“So, give him the money,” Graham growls. “I told you I’ll help your mom. Hell, I’ll help your dad, too, as much as I hate the bastard—and then you can keep the money you’re earning for yourself.”

His generosity touches me. I sniffle again. “Thank you for offering, but it’s not necessary.”

A tremor sneaks into my voice. “I thought she wanted to move here to be with me, but now I understand—she wanted to be with him. And she knows if she comes now, she’ll have to watch the man she loves raise a baby with someone else...”

The sad, stark truth sends a shiver down my back. Graham chases it with his hand, murmuring one question. “She’s not coming, is she?”

Crying in earnest now, I barely choke out, “No, she’s not,” before collapsing into sobs.

Tears soak into Graham’s fancy shirt and vest. And I don’t stop. I weep into his shoulder like an absolute loser, and I can’t even feel embarrassed about it. Because Graham holds me with fierce protectiveness and hums calming words the whole time.

When I finish, he releases the claw clip from my hair and combs through the tresses. Eventually, he gives a gentle tug and brings us face-to-face, pressing kisses over the tear tracks wetting my cheeks. His dark eyes roam across my features, consternation clear in their depths.

“I’m sure I look great,” I mumble, snorting back snot.

Graham’s sensual mouth quirks into a ghost of a smile. He pitches his voice low for privacy. “You are truly the only woman who could cry for half an hour and still look beautiful enough for me to fuck senseless.”

He always knows what to say to put me back on my game. A watery laugh escapes me. I tip my chin up to meet his eyes. “Is that a promise?”

Heat sparks in the black pools, but the rest of his expression remains wry. “Here? Abuelita would beat me to death with her spatula.”

He has a point. Yet—even without the remote possibility of sex—he dragged himself all the way out to my borough, after a long week of work and in the midst of his own personal crisis. Gratitude rolls over me. My fingers grip his velvet vest.

“Thank you for coming out here.”

Graham flashes a wide, white smile. “I like it here. The food is fantastic.” He fingers a strand of my hair. “Nice view, too.”

He considers me a moment longer. “You look tired, though.” His face softens while he skims his fingertips under my left eye. “Come on.”

Holding me in his arms, he stands so suddenly that I have to swallow a squeal. In five strides, he crosses into my bedroom. There, he pauses and looks around.

“Huh. I thought it would be purple.”

No mention of the fact that it’s smaller than his master bathroom. Or how none of the furniture matches. Or even my yellowed lace curtains.

He carries me to my bed, depositing me on it before pulling my covers over my lap and perching on the edge of the mattress. He gives a bone-deep sigh and a shake of his head. “I can’t believe I’m tucking you in without even copping a feel. Who am I?”

That’s a good question. Because he isn’t the man I met in the elevator anymore.

He holds me when I cry, washes my dishes, and listens to every word I say with an intensity that makes my heart skip.

But, on the other hand, he’s still every bit as intriguing as that dark-eyed, audacious stranger. The suits, the feral grins, his impatience and dominance.

How will I ever send him away? Do I want to anymore?

I don’t have any answers for myself, but I know exactly what to say to him. Picking up his hand, I bring it from my lap to my boob, raising an eyebrow at him. “You’re Graham Fucking Everett.”

The very best version of his smile—a boyish, heart-stopping one—spreads over his face. His fingers curl around my breast, giving me a sound squeeze. “Bet on it, bijou.”

forty-two

I have no idea what I’m doing.

I mutter curses at myself while I rush around my bedroom, looking for the gold earrings I think I want.

Or maybe the hoops. What if I wear my hair down instead of up? Maybe. But the ponytail looks good because of the zipper?

Seriously. What the fuck am I doing?

I mean, really. A date?

I do everything in my power to avoid dating. More importantly, to avoid what dating means.

And this one means… something. Graham said as much last night when he tucked me in.

“So, I got tested yesterday,” he told me. “You know there’s no one else. I met your grandmother…”

He trailed off, clearly implying what neither of us could admit out loud: that this mess—which could end both our careers and cost Graham his best friend—has started to look a lot like a relationship.

Pissed, I’d narrowed my eyes at him. “And?”

Graham brushed my hair back one last time and then stood. He did that thing where he picks at his shirt, indicating his unease. “And I’ll pick you up tomorrow at eight.”

I started to protest. “Graham⁠—”

Having unfolded his sleeves and re-buttoned them, he focused on me so intensely that the look sucked all the air out of my lungs. “Jesus, woman, give me a shot.” He tossed in a crooked grin for good measure. “Let me take you out. If you don’t want to do it again, we’ll… revise our terms.”

Then, having thoroughly obliterated all my plans for ending our relationship—and, somehow, conned me into making the whole thing even more legitimate—he walked out.

I thought I would wake up to a hangover of regret, but I didn’t. And as Saturday bled from afternoon to evening, I actually felt… excited.

Jesucristo.

Now, with two minutes to go, I pose in front of my mirror and admire the way my dress’s gold zipper molds to the curve of my back. I know Graham will like that—it’s basically an arrow to my ass. I imagine he’ll also approve of the hot-pink hue and the way the stretchy material hugs every curve from the middle of my thighs to my shoulders.

When I step out of my building, he’s already there, leaning indolently against his town car with his ankles crossed and his phone in his hand.

He looks too handsome, again; this time, in a gray suit so fine the threads shimmer, lending it the silvery quality of a storm cloud. His tie stands out against the lavender shirt underneath—an eye-catching pattern of deep purple and bright-pink poppies.

Dios. The outfit makes me want to laugh and jump him all at once. And we almost match. Again. Why doesn’t that utterly mortify me?

When he hears my heels on the pavement, he glances up and freezes. His dark gaze snakes down my entire body and then up again. Before I can take another step, he charges.

Right there, with faded twilight overhead and the Heights bustling on the sidewalk around us, Graham locks me in his arms and dips me into a stage-worthy embrace. Cradling my head in one hand and my ass in the other, he suspends me over the ground and ravages my mouth with a mind-melting kiss.

Too soon, Graham rights us, glaring at my face. “Infuriatingly gorgeous,” he rumbles, piercing me with his black stare. “How am I supposed to sit through dinner when you look like this?”

I see an opportunity to get out of the date without sending him away altogether. “We could just skip dinner and go to your place.”

The hunger in his gaze flares. “Dangerous woman,” he mutters, reaching for my hand. “We’re going on a date. Even if it kills us both.”

I make a face, and Graham smirks. “Yeah, I know. It just might.”

forty-three

Jules’s dress goes well with the rosy velvet booths and blush up-lighting at Make Believe.

The trendy bar has some of the best drinks in lower Manhattan and they’re doing the Lord’s work—sometime between her second and third drinks, Juliet even lets me take a picture of her.

The second I capture the moment, I know it’s a photo I’ll never delete. Holding her coupe glass in one hand, eyes shining, with her head tilted and a sassy smirk on her lips…

She’s perfection.

“Any good?” she asks, sipping her drink some more.

“It’s”—Everything—“great.”

She doesn’t seem to care much. I know a lot of girls who would demand to see the picture. They’d critique it and themselves, obsess over posing and preening.

Jules simply shrugs one of her shoulders and looks into her half-empty glass. “These are dangerous,” she mutters. “I almost just asked to take your picture.”

I discover that tequila makes her flirty. The botanical concoction of añejo, orange liquor, and pineapple juice has her rubbing her foot along my calf. I get my revenge a moment later, stretching my arm across the back of the booth and brushing my fingertips against the exposed nape of her neck until she shivers.

We torture each other all through drinks, in the short ride a few streets over, and during our dinner at Dirty French. We also laugh a lot. Juliet has a dozen hilarious anecdotes about her grandmother. Images of little Abuelita slapping butchers and railing at men who gawked at Jules on the subway crack me up, but they also touch me. The Rivera women have spent so long taking on the world together—it’s clear their bond runs deep.

After hearing about her childhood, I’m in awe of everything Jules has done for her family. While I was taking bong hits and scoring sorority girls, she had two jobs to save for law school and a third gig babysitting to send money to her mom.

The fact that such a noble, brilliant woman sees anything worthwhile in me is humbling.

Yet, she does.

She asks endless questions about my career, specifically the ins and outs of a broker’s day-to-day tasks and the way I try to predict market trends. Every time her brows arch or her mouth falls open, triumph surges through me.

Jules also loves my stories about Europe and asks specific questions—she’s clearly read a lot about travel but has never been anywhere. I want to fix that one day.

She argues with me over the check, just enough to get my blood up. I finally get the leather booklet away from her long enough to slide five hundred-dollar bills into it. That shuts her up, though she seethes all the way to the door.

The tension follows us out of the restaurant and into the wintery air blustering down Ludlow Street. With an agitated movement, she shrugs her sparkly coat on but doesn’t belt it. Before I can smooth things over, she takes off toward my apartment.

Goddamn it. My usual methods for dealing with her attitude won’t work out here, on the street… will they?

Something has to. I still have a whole plan set up for her at my place.

“You’re going to get cold,” I comment, taking a few long strides to catch up.

Her pissy expression pinches. “It’s not even two blocks.”

I shrug. “Still. You should close your coat.”

She looks up the road and then back at me. Her stance reminds me of our elevator encounter—the way she stuck her chest out and tipped her head up. The heat simmering in her eyes.

“You gonna make me?”

Once she throws that down, I can’t even fucking think. I only know I have to have her. Now.

I bend and lift her over my shoulder, hauling us both into an alley and sliding the length of her body down mine. Jules doesn’t even bother to put her feet on the ground. Instead, her ankles lock together at the small of my back while she fists my lapels and pulls my mouth to hers.

I can’t blame her. Three hours of non-stop teasing, a decent buzz, and days without her body have me on edge, too. I’m obviously not the only one stretched past the limits of my control.

Grunting, I flatten our torsos together. Even in the cold, I feel the damp heat from her core. My hands glide up the back of her skin-tight skirt, finding the bare, bountiful curves of her ass and⁠—

A G-string? Fucking hell.

This woman is going to kill me.

Her earring brushes my forearm as I tug on her ponytail, licking into her mouth until she moans and tightens her legs around me. She reaches between our bodies to tug on my fly.

I lean back just far enough to let her, panting, “You want it now?”

My disbelief makes her smile. She likes throwing me off. Without a word, she unzips my pants and slips her hand into my boxers.

Fuck me. Her touch feels incredible. Burying my face against her throat, I bite a tender spot while her fingers rub up my shaft. When I start to pulse in her hand, she strokes me harder.

“Jules,” I groan. “If you don’t stop, I swear, I’ll fuck you right here.”

“Do it,” she dares, skimming my jaw with her teeth before biting my lip. “Please.”

I weigh our options, knowing I should do my best to hold off until I get her home. I want to make her wait, drive her wild. I have surprises for her, a whole plan of attack. And someone could see us here.

Grayson’s already going to kick my ass and—possibly—rescind his investment when he finds out about us. Do I really want my best friend to see a picture of me fucking his employee in some tabloid before I manage to tell him?

If I manage to tell him…

While I waver, my phone starts buzzing in my back pocket. I ignore it, but the ringing picks right back up a second after it cuts off. With a frustrated growl, I rip the cell out and glare at it.

Damn it. Christian.

I grind my teeth together and force myself to set Juliet down. “I’m sorry. If it were literally anyone else, I’d ignore it. But I really need to get this.”

Worry crowds into her features. The smoky sensuality in her eyes evaporates. She fusses with the front of her dress and the belt of her coat while I step back to answer.

“Chris?”

Static fills the line, followed by an ominous silence. A chill prickles my blood, cooling it. “Christian?” I try again. “It’s Graham. Are you there?”

Street noise swells behind him. “Graham?” he slurs, then groans. “I think I—ughhhh. I need help.”

“Help?” My back straightens. I take two more steps away from Juliet. “Where are you?”

“Dunno,” he mumbles, “It’s code.”

Cold. Outside. “Okay, look around you. What do you see?”

“I can’t see. It’s cold. It hurts.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’ve already sent my car away. Needing a taxi, I grab Juliet and drag her out to the street. She catches on quickly; her hand flies up to hail the first cab she sees.

“Can you send me your location? Go to the Maps app.”

“It hurts, Graham. It’s not supposed t-to hurt.”

He means the drugs. Fuck.

“I’m coming to get you,” I promise. “But I need a location.”

I hear him fumble with his phone while we get into the cab. “Street-t,” he garbles. “Near sc-school. On Th-th-third.”

It sounds like the phone hits the ground. “Christian? Chris!”

Panicked, I pull the screen away from my face and blink down at it, trying to think. Juliet’s hand falls on my forearm, but I barely feel it.

“He dropped the phone,” I ramble, opening the Maps app and zooming in on NYU. “I need to find him. He said he’s on Third?”

She glances at my screen, then over to the rearview mirror. “Head toward the Village, please,” she tells the driver, all business. “We’re in a hurry; it’s an emergency.”

The car glides forward. She refocuses on me. “Okay. He said Third. He goes to NYU?”

When I nod, Juliet’s features tighten. “Does he think he’s near campus? Maybe the East Village?”

Hell, it’s as good a place to start as any. I nod, and she gives the driver our updated destination. I try to call Christian back twenty times, but the phone keeps ringing to his full voicemail inbox.

Juliet doesn’t question me or try to make conversation. She keeps her hand on my leg, silently offering support while we speed across town.

The cab spits us out on Avenue C and she takes charge, leading me up Third Street, constantly glancing around as she tries to get her bearings.

“We’ll find him,” she mumbles, frowning at our surroundings. “Do you think he’d be in one of these empty buildings? There are half a dozen on this block. Maybe if one of them is abandoned or condemned, people might use it to meet up…”

She makes sense, but I can’t think. Panic obliterates all my wits. An ambulance screams by us, driving slower than most.

Going somewhere close by.

And, deep down, I know. It’s for Christian.

forty-four

I sit hunched in one of the only hard, plastic chairs available. On one side of me, a homeless man snoozes with his mouth hanging open; on the other, a woman wipes at her bleeding chin, looking like she lost some sort of fight.

I drop my face to my hands, bending over my own lap. Even when I squeeze my eyes shut, I can’t get certain images out of my head. The flicker of the burned-out streetlight across from the alley we found Christian in. The way his arms bobbed limply when Graham hauled him off the pavement. The tint of his skin—blue from the cold, bathed in flashing red ambulance lights.

I hailed another cab to follow them to Mount Sinai, despite Graham trying to push his keys into my hand and send me home to wait for him comfortably. I couldn’t bear the thought of him waiting in the hospital alone, especially if his brother doesn’t make it.

The EMTs believe he was dosed with fentanyl, an illegally-manufactured opioid that dealers often try to pass off to junkies. Apparently, fentanyl ODs are more deadly than other narcotic overdoses.

Graham comes striding out of one of the triage rooms, wild-eyed. His beautiful suit is ruined, with dirt and alley sludge ground into the knees and something else smeared over the jacket’s shoulder pad. He rushes up to the front desk and starts emptying his wallet, flinging cards and cash onto the counter. I hustle to his side, hurrying to block his wad of cash from the rest of the waiting room.

“Dios mío, pinchao, the last thing we need is for you to get rolled on our way out.”

“I can’t find the goddamn insurance card,” he growls, ripping out more cards. “He doesn’t have his ID—I don’t know if he’s an organ donor and⁠—”

I place my hand over his, stilling him. “Shh. It’s okay. I can look through your wallet for the insurance card, but there’s a chance you have it on your phone already. Did you call your dad? He might know about the organ donation thing.”

Graham grits his teeth through multiple deep breaths. His eyes snap shut. “If he finds out about this, he’ll stop contributing to Christian’s tuition.”

Curse words explode in my head, but I hold my tongue. With a nod, I gather his cards and cash, scanning through them. “Here.” It’s an insurance card; no way of knowing if it’s expired or if it covers his brother, too, but it’ll get the administrators off his back. The nurse at the desk takes it before turning away.

“What did the doctors say?” I ask.

Graham pushes both hands through his hair and pulls on the back of his neck. “His heart stopped,” he rasps. “Twice.”

“Oh, Graham.”

I throw myself at him without thought, winding my arms around his neck and holding him close. He squeezes all the air out of me, murmuring into my hair.  “They have to put him under for a while to give his brain time to rest. The doctor told me to come back in the morning. Emergency room’s overcrowded, so after I’ve given them his info, they want us to go home.”

Us. Home.

He means his place. I don’t even want to correct him.

We don’t speak the whole way back to the Lower East Side. When his front door closes behind us, I finally take a deep breath.

I don’t know when or how, but Graham’s place has come to feel like our shared reprieve from all of this insanity. At the island, I kick my heels off and unhook my earrings while he slides out of his jacket, vest, and tie.

“Does that big tub in your bathroom work?” I whisper.

Graham seems distracted. He frowns at his cufflink while he tries to undo it. “I’ve never even tried it, but I assume so. You want a bath?”

I sweep my hair over my shoulder, presenting him with my zipper. “We’re both amped up and stressed. I thought we could take one together; unwind a little before we try to sleep.”

My dress gapes open at the back. He slips his hands in, roaming them over my sides and wrapping his arms around my middle. His forehead falls to my shoulder. “That sounds like heaven.”

In short order, I fill his tub, add some bath oil, and lay out a stack of towels. He joins me in the bathroom, wearing only a pink pair of his signature silk boxers.

He pauses on the threshold, drinking in the sight of me in my panties and bra. “One day,” he says quietly, coming closer. “Will you wear that outfit for me again? I want a chance to strip you out of it properly.”

I run my hands over his naked chest, up to his shoulders. “Yes,” I whisper, enjoying the broad strength under my fingertips. “Unhook me?”

He unclasps my bra and watches me shimmy out of my panties, his gaze hot despite the tense lines marring his forehead. When I lower myself into the foamy water, he strips and climbs in behind me, pulling me into his lap and nestling my ass against his erection.

One arm curves around my belly while the other hand spreads over my throat, tilting my head to give him a place to rest his. He murmurs into the crook of my neck.

“Thank you for coming out with me tonight. And being here, now.”

I sigh. We have so much to figure out. His brother and my father. My changing living situation. His company hanging in the balance. My job. His friendship with the Strykers.

How will I tell my boss? Maybe Graham will want to tell him alone? Or with me? I know we have to say something now that Graham and I are… whatever we are. But do I really want to, if it’s going to cost me my career?

For the moment, I just want to breathe. I know Graham needs that, too.

His lips brush over the top of my shoulder as his fingers find the indentations my thong left in either hip. His thumbs rub over the marks in gentle circles. When I shift on his naked lap, he rumbles.

“Jules,” he grunts quietly. “Stay still.”

I almost dare him to “make me,” but I don’t want to bait him while he is down. Instead, I turn my face to snag his gaze.

One strong hand slips back up to the column of my throat. It tightens slightly as he stares back at me. An unfathomable look fills his eyes.

“What?” I ask.

“Tell me, sexy lawyeress,” he murmurs. “After the events of tonight, if I say something crazy, do I get to plead temporary insanity later?”

I can’t quite squash my smile. “Possibly. Depends on exactly how crazy it is.”

He matches my half-smirk. “In that case, I don’t think I’ll take my chances. I’ve had hellish luck this week. And this”—he hugs me closer—“is one thing I’m not willing to gamble on.”

Joy shimmers through me. The flurry of sparks melds into the thick cloud of apprehension crowding my lungs. Filled with a bittersweet slurry, I press my forehead into his.

“Me neither.”

forty-five

I wholeheartedly object to Juliet putting on one of my T-shirts after our bath, but it’s nearly three a.m., so fuck it.

My adrenaline has finally drained away, leaving my mind a bottomless blank and my extremities full of lead. I groan while I collapse onto my pillow.

Jules crawls into the other side of the bed and arranges herself the same way she did last week. I want her closer, but after everything she’s done for me already, I decide not to push it. Instead, I drop a soft kiss on the back of her head.

“Good night, bijou.”

The room falls into silence. For some reason, it takes that long for everything to hit me. Memories from the alleyway—my brother slumped on the concrete like he was garbage—wash over me. I do my best to fight them back, but one particular moment clings to me.

After Christian coded for the first time in the ambulance, they used shock paddles to get him back. When the jolt hit his chest, his body bowed off the gurney. His eyes flew open and rolled back into his head. And I believed, in my soul, that I was watching him die.

No. He’s not going to die.

I breathe deeper, tamping down my emotions.

He’s not going to die.

But no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop picturing his eyes, lolling sightlessly.

Fuck.

I refuse to cry like a bitch while lying in bed with the sexiest woman alive. My eyes water anyway. My next breath shakes.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Graham?”

Juliet’s face appears, hovering over mine. Her eyes rove over my features, glistening in the low city light filtering through the curtains. Pain streaks through her gold irises.

She opens her mouth to comfort me, but I can’t take it. I know if she says one kind word, I’ll break. So I touch my fingertips to her lips, letting my eyes tell her what I don’t dare say out loud. Her gaze pierces mine, seeing everything I don’t want to confess.

I love you.

I almost said the words, earlier, in the bathtub. I know she sees it now. And I swear I see those flames reflected back at me.

She blinks away a sheen of tears and slowly laces her fingers into mine, moving my hand to the side of her face. Instead of speaking, her lips brush mine. Sweet and enticing. Irresistible.

Juliet kisses me until I can’t think of anything but her warmth melding into my cold middle. I caress her back, her hips, her ass. Losing myself in the feel of her skin, the way her curves fill my palms.

Our mouths and bodies communicate without words, giving everything we have and taking what we need. At some point, I strip her shirt off and pull her on top of me. She clutches herself closer, stroking my hair. Her tenderness makes my chest ache along with my cock.

“God, baby. I need you.”

That spurs her on. Juliet pushes my boxers off and rolls onto her back, guiding me on top of her. She lifts her arms over her head and stares up at me, offering submission. Giving me exactly what she knows I love.

A burst of raw need erupts inside me. I kiss her possessively, wrapping my hands around her wrists. Eating at her, I align her hot, wet pussy with my erection. 

She moans, tipping her hips up to let me in. “Please,” she whispers. “Please, Graham.”

Pressing my cheek against hers, I nuzzle her face. “What do you want? I’ll give you anything.”

“You,” she murmurs. “Just you.”

Flattening her arms under my hands, I slowly push the first inch of my cock inside her. I’ve never felt anything so amazing. Her pussy is everything perfect about her body, concentrated in one place—her heat, the plush softness, the way she pulses for me.

While I pant against her temple, her head tips back on a groan. Hearing her abandon frays my patience. Cursing roughly, I thrust all the way in, screwing my hips into hers. A jolt of pleasure rocks down my spine.

“Graham,” Juliet cries. “Oh my God.”

I almost smile. No Spanish yet. That means I have work to do.

Rotating my cock inside her with every plunge, I gather her wrists in one hand and roam the other down to her breasts. Rolling her nipples between my fingers earns me another sharp cry. She grinds her snug heat over me, a perfect counterpoint for each of my drives.

I reach for her clit next, finding the bud swollen and wet. Circling my fingers over it, I graze my teeth against the cords of her neck. She moans out a stream of unfamiliar words as I bite just hard enough to leave a mark. Her pussy grips my cock tighter.

Suddenly, I just want her to hold me. I slip my hand from her wrists, releasing her. Dropping to my forearm puts us face to face. I curl my bent arm around her head, brushing her hair back. She lifts her face to kiss me. Without prompting, her touch skims over my back. Her nails bite into my shoulders when I thrust into her and press down on her clit at the same time.

More words tumble out of her mouth as she comes. My own orgasm builds—a persistent pressure at the base of my dick. But I don’t lose my grip until Juliet hugs me close, burying her fingers in my hair while I groan into the crook of her neck.

Pleasure pulses through and out of me, filling her. She brushes kisses over the side of my face, gentling me after I shudder in her arms. Her legs lock around my body, keeping me buried in her as I collapse.

With every last one of my defenses lying in rubble, I close my eyes and let her hold me. The next time I open them, sunlight fills the room.

And Juliet is gone.

forty-six

I tap my foot while the people in front of me slog forward.

Going to a trendy, upscale coffee shop is never my first choice—but I needed a reason to get out of the apartment, and a coffee run seemed as good an excuse as any.

I woke up naked and warm, nestled up against Graham. For one blissful moment of half-consciousness, I couldn’t believe how happy I felt.

It all came back a second later.

Christian will wake up soon…I hope. What will I tell Abuelita when I get home? I should probably call her if I’m going back to the hospital with Graham to check on Christian. Who knows how long all that could take? And what do I say? I slept over with my…boyfriend?

I am with Graham, aren’t I?

I’m going to get fired when Mr. Stryker finds out.

What if Marco gets fired, too? Grayson wouldn’t do that. Would he? No… but he might fire Graham over this. And then Graham won’t be able to open G&C.

Maldición. What if he turns his dad in and no one will work with him? What will he do for a living?

And what the fuck am I going to do when my dad comes back around, sniffing for his handout?

My restless anxiety carried me into Graham’s massive closet, where I found a pair of burgundy joggers and a Columbia hoodie buried in the bottom of his built-in drawers.

How very like him to hide his casual clothes, even from himself.

I took my borrowed set of keys and my cell phone, stuffing both into the hoodie’s pocket and sneaking out of the apartment as quietly as I could.

By the time I make it back to his place, almost an hour has passed. I breeze in and freeze, surprised to find Graham seated at his island with his head in his hands.

As the door closes behind me, he bolts upright. “Jules. You’re back.”

Oh. He thought I just… left? Do I seem that heartless?

I scowl at him. “Of course I am. I just went out for coffee.” And a casual panic attack. “You thought I’d left without saying anything?”

He scrubs his hand over his face. “I don’t know. Maybe?”

We stare at one another, both wary and wounded. Clearly, neither of us know how to do this. As a peace offering, I hold up the bag of croissants and the lattes. “Café au lait, right?”

He visibly swallows. His voice sounds rough and sexy from sleep. “Yes. Thank you.”

I push the cup toward him, along with the pastries. He keeps his eyes on my face as he accepts both. “I think it’s obvious I have no idea how to do this,” he admits. “Probably should have mentioned that before I talked you into letting me try.”

I toss my hair back and give a sniff. “Well, I’m not exactly a relationship expert, either, so.”

Something about my face makes his lips quirk. “I do have something for you—if you want to see it. I planned on showing you after dinner last night, but that got derailed.”

He throws on some sweats and wraps us both in coats before gathering our breakfast and leading me out into the hall. When he opens the door to the stairwell, my brows knit. Why would we walk upstairs? He lives on the top floor.

Sure enough, we only go up one flight before Graham balances our lattes in one hand and pulls a key card out of his coat pocket with the other, swiping at the electric pad beside a big metal door. With a subtle beep, the slab gives way, revealing the rooftop.

“Graham,” I gasp, stepping out into the bright, chilly air. “What did you do?”

The setup occupies an entire corner of his building’s roof. A large oriental rug, covered in pillows of every shape and size, laid out in front of a projector screen.

He takes my hand and tugs me forward, picking our way through the burned-out Moroccan lanterns surrounding the whole arrangement. He gives one of his signature shrugs. “I meant to surprise you last night, but we never made it.”

Speechless, I follow him into the middle of the semi-circle. He sits on an artfully arranged stack of cushions and pats the place next to him, offering half a grin. “You’ll have to sit close to stay warm. That was part of my evil plan.”

I can’t even roll my eyes as I drop down next to him. I keep blinking at the scene, sure it will shimmer like a mirage. “Graham… This is…”

Way too much?

If being called his girlfriend terrifies me, then this certainly should, too. Only, I don’t feel even a pinch of panic. Only awe.

I can tell he thought out every last element. The brilliant fuchsia-and-violet rug; sumptuous velvet and satin cushions; a fluffy comforter rolled up beside us.

“It’s really beautiful,” I whisper, taking in the details. My gaze trails up to the blank projector screen. “What were we going to watch?”

Graham casts me a wolfish smile. “Beauty and the Beast.”

My throat feels thick. He brushes a piece of hair behind my ear. “You said the other night that you’ve always hated fairytales. I thought I’d see if I could change your opinion.”

Sitting here, surrounded by his grand romantic gesture, watching how the sunshine lights his dark eyes, I feel like I can float. “You still might. The day we met, I swore I hated you, but you have a way of changing my mind.”

“Because I’m Graham Fucking Everett, baby.” He winks, and I wonder how he’s the only man in New York who can pull off such a cheesy move.

With an eye roll, I settle myself closer and start on my latte. Graham tips his head back as he watches the sky overhead, his expression contemplative. Thinking about his brother, I suspect.

“Tell me about him,” I say quietly, leaning my head against his shoulder. “Christian.”

He cups the back of my head, sweetly stroking my hair, and gives a deep sigh. “I guess I sort of gave you an abridged family history last weekend. The whole story is a lot more dramatic.”

He proceeds to lay out a story that feels far too familiar. A cheating dad, a humiliated mom.

A half-brother.

As an adult, finding out about my father having another baby… Maybe I would have felt differently twenty years ago; Graham certainly doesn’t seem bitter toward Christian at all.

Cuddling even closer, I brush a kiss under his ear. “Did you guys always get along?”

Graham rests his cheek on my crown. “It wasn’t hard to. I loved having a little brother—I taught him how to sneak out of class, how to get money from Dad’s wallet without him noticing, and where he hid the good scotch. Eventually, I took him out to drink and tried to get him laid.” He shrugs around me. “Big brother stuff.”

I picture the two of them out on the hunt. The image fills me with equal parts jealousy and amusement. “I imagine you taught him everything he knows—except how to dress? I noticed his cargo shorts.”

Graham grimaces. “Trust me, I have tried, but he’s hopeless. Too serious.”

For some reason, the word surprises me. I tilt my face back to look at his. “More serious than you?”

He cracks a crooked grin. “No one’s ever accused me of being serious before. I think working with you has been a good influence on me. I have to buckle down to keep up. But Christian was always quieter, smarter, more dependable.” Pain slices through his eyes. “Ironic, huh?”

My fingertips trace his bottom lip, hoping to dispel his frown. “You know it pains me to compliment you, pinchao, but I have a hard time imagining anyone being much smarter than you are.”

Instead of chuckling, Graham widens his eyes earnestly. “No, really. Chris is brilliant. Much better at what my family does than I’ll ever be, and he doesn’t even have formal training. He just knows things. He reads constantly, and his instincts are great.”

A small, sad smile flickers over his mouth. “When I was about to graduate and start at Everett Alexander, he helped me study for my broker licensing exam a few nights a week. Well, when you take the exam, you can put down the name of the company you’re trying to certify for. Obviously, I put down Everett Alexander. So, I took the test, and a month went by. The results came to the office. Two sets of results.”

Graham smirks fondly. “That little shit was barely eighteen, but he took the damn exam without telling anyone, and he passed. That brilliant asshole got a higher score than I did.”

Pieces of the puzzle fit themselves together in my mind. “So he’s the ‘C’ in G&C Capital? You’re saving a place for him?”

“Yes.” He blows out a breath. “I don’t want the family business if Christian can’t have it, too.”

I lean in, whispering, “Does he know all of this?”

“I wanted to get everything up and running before I told him or anyone else,” Graham replies, smiling without an ounce of humor. “Great plan, right? Now he’s in a coma, and I’m most likely going to lose everything our family’s ever had.”

I curl closer. “I feel like I’ve given you bad luck. It seems like everything was going fine until I slapped you.”

Finally, he laughs. “No, bijou. My dad was already committing fraud; my brother was already doing drugs. I needed to get my shit together and grow some balls. I was just in denial. If anything, that slap woke me up.”

“You deserved it,” I grumble into my latte, fighting a smile. “Pig.”

forty-seven

“Jules!”

Tris waves me down the second I step off the elevator and onto Stryker & Sons’ executive floor. In another of her signature jumpsuits—rose pink this time—she appears bright and polished.

For a moment, I worry she might bring up the way I bailed on our lunch last week, but she just falls into step beside me and gives a conspiratorial look. “Seems like someone has a not-so-secret admirer.”

My brows arch. “Really? You do?”

Tris scoffs. “Ew. No. You, silly. I saw Beth whisk a very impressive floral display into the legal department. And we all know you’re the only badass bitch in there.”

She bumps my shoulder. “So, how did you get a man to make such a grand gesture? And a full week before Valentine’s Day, too. Maybe he’s just getting warmed up.”

I laugh a little too loudly. I’ve never gotten a Valentine in my life. “Please. There’s no way those were for me. I’m sure one of the guys ordered them for his wife or something. Maybe Dominic finally decided to stop flirting with me and devote his attention to someone who actually wants him.”

Carajo. Internally, I cringe, knowing I said too much.

But Tris gives me a telling glance. “Before you, it was Grayson’s father’s personal assistant. She left when he retired last year, but Dominic used to look for reasons to hang around her desk all the time.” She shudders. “Skeevy perv. Isn’t he, like, married?”

I roll my eyes. “According to the ring on his finger and the photos on his desk, yes.”

Pausing outside my pod, Tris gives my arm a squeeze. “Let me know if you need any backup. You have my extension. Lunch tomorrow?”

Relieved, I grin at her. “You’re on. I think I owe you one.”

“Or two.” She winks, breezing off. “I’ll text you!”

That reminds me: Graham hasn’t texted me yet this morning. And the fact that I notice at all makes me feel so disgustingly girlfriendish—to use one of his fake words—that I want to slap myself.

I can’t exactly blame him, though. He spent Sunday afternoon at the hospital. Once Christian, thankfully, woke up, Graham had to deal with having him transferred to a very expensive rehabilitation program in the city, where he can continue to work on his degree while getting treatment.

From what Graham told me when he called before bed, the whole process was exceedingly complicated and emotionally draining. Christian didn’t want to go. Graham pleaded with him for hours before Chris’s withdrawal hit, and he agreed under duress.

Graham has to oversee the actual move this morning, then figure out an excuse for his tardiness at Everett Alexander, because his father still doesn’t know what happened. Which means my pinchao must be paying for the whole rehabilitation program himself.

Wincing at the thought, I sweep over to my desk and nearly trip on my own feet. A gasp flies out before I can help it.

Tris was right. Gorgeous flowers await me on my desk. At least a hundred blooms in every shade of purple. Orchids, azaleas, hydrangeas, and lilacs mixed with creamy roses and snow-white snapdragons, all bursting out of a colorless crystal vase.

My hand floats up to touch them, sure they can’t be real. I’ve never seen an arrangement so beautiful before.

For me? Graham would never send something to me here, would he? And when has he even had time with everything else he has going on?

My fingers tremble as I gently free a white notecard from the center of the bouquet.

Bijou,

Since it’s Monday, you should take your panties off for me. If you’re wearing any.

-G

I grin so widely it hurts my cheeks. Outrageous man. Exasperated with him and myself, still smiling, I shake my head. But I can’t resist holding one of the roses to my nose.

A fellow junior attorney strolls in, whistling when he passes my desk. “Damn, Rivera. You must have had some date this weekend.”

Bristling, I straighten away from the flowers and start to unpack my belongings. “Not really.”

He sits at his own desk, still smirking. “Well, all I know is, I’m not sending something like that to a woman unless she’s the one.”

The one? Please. With a roll of my eyes, I pull out my phone.

Graham Everett. You are in so much trouble.

Pinchao

You’re welcome, baby. I assume you got my note?

Crossing my legs under my cream sweater dress, I clamp my thighs together, hoping to stave off the tingles at their apex.

I did. Guess you’ll have to wait until tonight to see if I comply…

Pinchao

Something to look forward to.

I need that today.

My heart squeezes for him. I start to think of how I might surprise him after work, aside from the panties. I have to decide what to do about those, too. He seems to like it when I disobey him, but he also likes it when I finally submit…

I’m so busy plotting that I don’t notice Dominic hovering behind me until he reaches into my line of sight and plucks Graham’s note off my desk. My excitement plummets into an ice bath. Before I can think better of it, I snatch the card back.

Jesucristo. Who does this asshole think he is? He can’t read my personal correspondence. Thank God Graham didn’t sign his whole name.

Glaring at Dominic, I slide the notecard under my keyboard. “Mr. Carter,” I clip. “Can I help you?”

An inscrutable expression covers his face. Something between scorn and… hunger?

Que gonorrea. He’s jealous.

The realization sickens me, but I draw myself straight, staring him down. “Sir?”

He stays silent just long enough for me to wonder how much of the note he read. Then, lightning-quick, he glances at my lap. Specifically, my panty line.

Carajo.

A perverse gleam shines in his gray eyes. “Miss Rivera, I hope you had a relaxing weekend, because I’m afraid next weekend won’t be. We’ll be working on a project that needs to be completed before Mr. Stryker returns from his vacation.”

My instincts scream protests at me. “I’d be happy to get started on it right away,” I hedge. “I’m sure I can finish the project by Friday. My week isn’t too busy yet.”

An arrogant smirk twists his thin lips. “Unfortunately, mine is. I won’t be able to begin the work until Saturday. It’s your job to assist. I’m afraid I have to insist.”

My job? Pointedly, I glance around at the three other junior attorneys in our pod, none of whom ever have to meet him one-on-one after hours.

The bastard. Wasn’t Grayson going to speak with him? Maybe he did and Dominic just doesn’t care? Or thinks no one will find out?

“Next weekend is the one before Valentine’s Day,” I reply, hoping he’ll remember his wife and abandon this whole idea.

He grinds his jaw. “Even so, Miss Rivera,” he grits, glancing at my thighs one more time. “Consider yourself on-call.”

forty-eight

“Jules,” I call. Rolling my neck, I tug at my black herringbone tie and unbutton the matching tweed jacket. “Baby?”

God, I can’t wait to see her. Not even for a minute.

I’ve had the day from hell. It started with a five a.m. alarm, followed by a workout I didn’t have enough energy for, then running out the door to get to the florist before racing to the hospital for Christian’s discharge.

By nine, Chris was settled into his new digs at the Chelsea treatment center. I promised I’d come back after work to have dinner with him, but he hardly heard me. Withdrawal symptoms had him curled into a ball under the covers.

I felt intensely guilty about leaving, but he made me swear that Dad wouldn’t find out what happened. So, I had no choice but to show up for work and continue my act.

That was its own sort of torture. I spent hours inputting data, all while debating the fraud situation through a new lens: with Christian now relying on me financially and Juliet counting on me personally, do I even have the option of turning my father in and losing everything?

Christian didn’t want to eat dinner. The clinic gave him some non-addictive sleep aid to knock him out, but I still went back to Chelsea and sat with him for a while—it’s important for him to know I’m there.

After promising to return in the morning, I made it all the way across town for the third time, arriving at The Ludlow an hour later than usual.

Exhausted. But mostly just needing Juliet.

“Bijou? Are you here?” Stripping out of my emerald vest, I stride into my bedroom.

Good. Sweet. God.

Juliet leans casually against my big picture window, her body silhouetted by the street lamps outside. When she sees me, she straightens away from the glass and steps into the soft light from the bedside table.

Fuck.

Far from panty-less, my beautiful bijou has on a full lace teddy. The dark crimson complements her glowing golden skin. And the ribbons tied at the front turn her curves from magnificent to miraculous.

“You know I’m not so good at following instructions,” she teases. “But I didn’t think you’d mind this time.”

I throw my jacket and vest somewhere. “To hell with instructions.” I crook my finger, wanting to watch her walk. “Come here.”

Still wearing heels, her slow saunter doesn’t disappoint. Nor does the small smile on her face when she reaches me. Her hands slide up my black shirt, moving to undo the buttons. Mine instantly settle at her nipped waist, skimming lightly over warm lace until she shivers.

My cock hardens into stone against my inseam. My mouth waters, longing for a taste of her. Juliet pushes my shirt to the floor and starts on my belt, whipping it off and then snapping it at me.

“Take your pants off and sit down,” she orders, smiling coquettishly. “I think I’ll be in charge.”

That idea sounds embarrassingly appealing. I’ve been making huge decisions non-stop for weeks. And now this sexy woman wants to wear lingerie and boss me around?

I rip open my fly and let my pants drop, not giving a fuck that my dick practically hangs out of the bottom of my boxers. Today’s pair is as green as my vest. Jules seems to like them. Her eyes glint in the half-light while she stares at my package, running her tongue over her top lip.

“These, too,” she whispers, running her fingertips along the silk waistband.

I comply, then let her push me backward onto the bottom edge of my mattress. Nude, with an erection big enough to stretch up past my navel, bobbing under its own weight, I lean back on my hands and cast her a challenging look.

Juliet raises one brow back at me, silently answering my dare. She sweeps her glossy black waves into a ponytail, securing them with a hair tie.

Like she’s about to go to work.

God help me.

In a graceful crouch, Jules drops to her knees, settling herself between my legs. Her touch trails down the line of muscle bisecting my abs, teasing me until I shudder.

“Tell me,” she purrs, eyeing my dick. “How am I supposed to fit this whole thing into my mouth?” Tingles shoot up the length of my spine.

She smiles. “Maybe I’ll just learn on the job.”

With her taunt issued, she bends over my lap, offering a perfect view of her back and her red-lace-lined ass. My lips fall open when she stares up at me, lust sparking in her eyes, and sucks me into her mouth.

I pulse between her lips, as aroused by the sight of her working my length in as I am by the warmth of it. Her tongue caresses the underside of my shaft in a long, slow glide while wet heat swirls around me. A breath bursts out of my lungs.

The hand cupping my sack squeezes lightly as she sucks harder. I groan, tilting my hips to push further into her throat. She clamps her mouth around me, giving more friction.

She chases her lips with her hand, pumping my shaft with one fist. At the same time, the pads of her other fingers torment me, kneading and rolling my balls until they draw up. Another wave of pleasure rolls over me.

“Juliet,” I rumble. “Goddamn it, you’re so good.”

She hums her approval, mouth vibrating. My hips twitch every time she pulls her lips up to the swollen head, restless for more.

A moment later, she shifts a bit, twisting her lower half to press her pussy against the side of my leg. When her wetness brands me, I nearly convulse.

“You’re soaked for me,” I growl, sinking my fingers into her hair. “Does sucking my cock turn you on?”

A breathy moan reverberates over my dick as she takes the entire thing deep into her throat. Beyond any modicum of control, I fist her ponytail and thrust up into her mouth.

Frenzied, my gaze roams over her gorgeous face and the long arch of her neck, stretched tight to accommodate me, committing the sight to memory before I come.

Juliet goes back to working her fist up and down alongside her lips. My orgasm strikes like lightning, bolting through my core. My head falls back as I buck up into the wet heat of her suction and burst down her throat.

She swallows everything I give her and waits for the last shudder before pulling back. Dragging her pussy over my thigh, she straddles my hip and brushes her swollen lips over my temple.

“Thanks for the flowers.”

I almost snort. This is her way of being sweet and showing gratitude—a lace teddy and a world-class blow job?

Hell, if I didn’t believe in soulmates before…

I might now.

We wind up on my living room floor again, eating pizza and outlining every possible approach to the Everett Alexander issue. As with most topics, our discussion devolves into a debate pretty quickly.

It seems like no matter which side I take, Juliet has an endless stream of questions to undermine me. I know that’s her job, but goddamn, the woman infuriates me as much as she turns me on.

To make matters worse, I hate sparring with her right after sex. Our connection seems so precious when we’re in bed. Going straight from that to a knock-down-drag-out is like being dumped out of a warm bath, into a snowbank.

Nevertheless, we argue in circles. If I say I want to turn Dad in, she has twelve reasons not to. When I consider simply cutting my losses, that doesn’t sit well with her either.

“Jesus,” I curse, falling back against the couch and shoving my hands into my hair. “I can’t win with you!”

“It’s not about me, Graham,” she snaps. “I’m playing devil’s advocate here, so you’re forced to defend your position over and over again. Because that’s what you’ll have to do every single day, in your own head.”

It makes sense, but I’m beyond reason. Pissed, I scowl at her. “So this has all been some sort of mental exercise? Because my day wasn’t shitty enough?”

Most girlfriends might have some sympathy. But not my hellcat. Of course.

“I’m trying to help,” she shoots back. “Trust me, I have actual work I could be doing right now. So do you! But we have to deal with this. You only have until next week to decide.”

The low-grade panic constantly climbing my insides roils to a fever pitch. “You think I don’t know that?” I demand, shouting. “You think it isn’t every third thought that passes through my mind? It is, Jules. I know the stakes here. I could lose everything.”

I could lose you.

It isn’t the first time the thought has occurred to me. Our relationship being so new and Juliet being so skittish, there’s always the chance she’ll bolt. And it gets harder to imagine living through that every single day.

My outburst quiets Juliet. She sits back on her heels, sighing. “Let me ask you something, Graham. What do your instincts tell you to do?”

I don’t want to answer that. Because my instincts are selfish, born of years of loneliness and cynicism. But I also refuse to lie to my girlfriend.

“Honestly? I want to cut and run. Slink off. Leave my father to his misery and hope karma gets him one day, far from now, when I’ve had the time to gather resources and build up my own reputation. At least then, if the Feds come calling, I’ll have some credibility. Not to mention, you know, money.”

That worries me, too. Echoes of my old pessimism whisper that Juliet might not be interested in me without my wealth. I know if I turn Dad in, I’ll be able to keep my apartment and my trust, but the rest of my funds fall into murky territory. The trust can only last… maybe five years? If I keep spending like I currently am. Not to mention Christian’s expenses.

“I don’t even have the precise numbers,” I grumble. “I can’t exactly call my accountant. He works for Everett Alexander.”

Juliet crawls over to me. I wish she hadn’t put her dress back on, especially when she straddles my lap.

“I’m sorry if I’m making this decision harder for you,” she murmurs. “I think I feel compelled to push because… deep down, I have the same instinct. But I feel guilty about it. I want you to cut and run. Even though I know it’s wrong. Because I’m scared for you.”

With our admissions hanging between us, our eyes lock. What she’s suggesting is outright illegal. Colluding to hide a crime is a crime in itself. If anyone ever found out, she’d face the risk of being disbarred.

But her gaze stays steady on mine. Cunning and fearless. So very Juliet.

Something inside of me clicks. She’s in this with me. And as long as I have Jules on my side, I can do anything. “Then I’ll cut out cleanly,” I decide. “And hope like hell I make it to higher ground before Everett Alexander implodes.”

Juliet releases a shaky breath. “All right,” she agrees, nodding once. “Let’s talk next steps.”

I raise a brow at her, aroused and amused as ever by her bossiness. My hands slide up the backs of her thighs, cupping the luscious curves of her ass in both palms. “I suddenly find myself distracted.”

Her eyes snap with heat. “Get serious, pinchao. You have work to do.”

I cock my head, loving our banter. Loving her. “Are you going to make me?”

forty-nine

Listen, I’m not proud.

If you asked a therapist how I wound up on Fifth Avenue ten days before Valentine’s Day, I’m sure they’d have all kinds of theories.  

Maybe this sort of thing is a holdover from my childhood; when an endless parade of nannies attempted to buy my favor with their Everett charge cards. Or something more primitive—the intense urge to prove I can be a worthy provider for the one woman I can’t stop thinking about.

Who the fuck knows why… but here I am. Telling myself I’ll stop after the next store. Or the one after that.

The décor in here is insufferable. Crepe paper hearts, shimmering streamers. Pink and red splattered over every display.

That skirt would look good against my bijou’s skin, though. Maybe with some matching rubies around her throat…

Jesus.

What have I become?

I lie to myself, coming up with all sorts of practical reasons for the pile of bags that Bergdorf’s is about to messenger to my condo.

She’s working at my place until after midnight every night before riding all the way back to Queens. It’s ridiculous for her to go home just to turn around and hike back to Manhattan seven hours later. She’ll get more rest if she just stays over. That means she needs work clothes to keep at my apartment.

And underwear.

Maybe a watch.

Or two.

Okay, fine. I’m into the thought of dressing my gorgeous girl. So, what?

Is that a crime? And even if it is… do I care? I’m basically a criminal anyway. What’s one more store?

I usually just spend money on myself. It’s refreshing to think about someone else for a change. And I’ve always appreciated fashion. Colors, lines, textures. It’s art, in its own way. Just like Jules herself.

The more I shop, the more I find I have a pretty clear sense of her style. At Bendal’s, I select enough pieces to build a basic capsule wardrobe. Mostly skirts with slits up the back and blouses I look forward to unbuttoning.

Agent Provocateur provides a selection of bras, panties, and some negligees. By the time I walk out of there, I’m practically salivating. Damn. I can’t wait to see her in all of it. And out of it.

I know it’s time to stop, but my feet carry me further down Fifth. Until I find myself loitering outside an iconic store, balefully eyeing the Valentine’s-themed window displays under their classic marquee.

Tiffany & Co.

Hell, I could use a new tie clip. Or maybe a chain to wear on my suit vests.

Or a Valentine’s Day gift.

The thought stops me cold, right in front of a case of sparkling diamonds.

Damn the subliminal power of advertising. I spent the whole morning in a sea of red and pink—and now I’ve well and truly lost my shit.

I can’t get her jewelry from Tiffany’s, I tell myself, hovering over the nearest display. She’ll claw my eyes out.

But the thought only makes my suit pants tighter. Because I love her claws… and would it really be so bad? Some earrings or a⁠—

Fuck me.

It is beautiful. Perfect.

A sales associate notices my interest. Her eyes work down my body, noting my Blancpain watch. Interest lights her gaze. “Something you’d like to see, sir?”

I don’t mean to point, but my hand doesn’t feel connected to me anymore. “That one.”

She pulls a velvet tray out of the case, placing a selection of sparkling rings in my line of sight. My fingers clasp around the one that caught my eye, bringing it closer for inspection.

“She’s a beauty,” the girl chirps. “Three-carat center stone, five total. Emerald cut with a cushion and pave band. I have the papers for it, if you’re interested.”

Yes.

But, unlike my thoughts, my mouth actually makes sense. “I’m not really in the market.”

That isn’t “no,” though, and the saleswoman sees her opening.

“The setting is platinum, of course,” she goes on. “Virtually indestructible.”

Like Jules.

I balance the ring in my palm, weighing it. Heavier than it looks. Even more exquisite up close, too. The center stone glimmers as I twist my hand, reflecting its fire at me.

I’m only planning for the future. This is pragmatic curiosity. No harm in asking… “How much?”

The woman’s smile turns coy. “Does it really matter?”

No.

If I’m going to buy Juliet a ring—which I’m not, because that would be insane—I’ll pay any price for the right one.

For this one.

My heart pounds against my ribs while tingles spread over my scalp.

All manner of lame explanations run through my mind. All sorts of logic and justifications to keep from having a stroke when I hear myself say, “I’ll take it.”

I stash the ring in the office safe, not trusting myself to have it close at hand in my apartment.

Clearly, I’ve lost my goddamn mind.

Who knows what I’ll do if she flashes me that beautiful smile one too many times?

Or gets on her knees for me again.

Luckily, the ancient safe at Everett Alexander has a combination no one but my father and I know. Though when we change the code every year, he refuses to write it down and always winds up asking me to unlock it for him the next time.

While I’m in there, I help myself to the stack of documents on the bottom shelf. Most are boring, standard fare. Insurance shit, some tax returns, licenses. I slip them all into my inside jacket pocket, figuring I’ll review them to get a better sense of what I need to procure for G&C. Then, I hide the little blue Tiffany’s box behind some gold bars and lock the whole thing up.

My father catches me coming back down the hall. He’s tucking his shirt into the back of his pants and glancing behind him, where his secretary is busy rearranging her necklace.

Jesus. The old man could at least attempt some level of discretion.

When he spots me, he falters. “Graham. You were in the safe?”

“Yes.” Pointedly, I flick my gaze from him to his secretary. You don’t want to piss me off, Dad. “I bought a new watch and it needs to be sized at the repair shop three blocks from here. I’m storing it in the safe overnight so I can take it in tomorrow.”

Mollified by my blatant lie, he nods. “I can never remember the damn combination,” he mutters, glancing nervously behind him. “Anyway. Dinner this week?”

Knowing our days are numbered, I say, “Yeah, why not? Seven on Friday?” Then, just to be a dick, I add, “I can pick Christian up if you want to include him.”

As far as Dad knows, his second-born is at NYU, studying. He has no idea Chris is actually in rehab in Chelsea, three days into opiate withdrawals. Still, he grimaces. “Eh, leave the kid at school.” He punches my arm. “Grown-ups only.”

I stare at him. The motherfucking asshole who sleeps with his twenty-year-old assistant during lunch and then has the nerve to call himself an adult.

For one insane moment, I picture burning his entire life to the ground… just because I can. And it feels great.

Clenching my jaw, I swallow my rage and grit, “Fine.”

But as I picture sitting across from him for another cordial meal, I realize I won’t be able to do it. Not this time—not with Chris in the state he’s in.

Not without help.

“I’m going to invite my girlfriend,” I decide on the spot. “Assuming that’s all right with you.”

Dad’s features fill with bemusement. “Your girlfriend? I’ll be damned. Is this the same woman we discussed last week?”

I tug at my shirtsleeves, focusing on the black paisley pattern so he won’t see the hatred burning in my eyes. “The very same.”

He leans closer, intrigued by my ambiguity. “Anyone I know?”

“No.” Thank God. “She’s an attorney—from Queens.”

I add the last part as a test. He fails.

“Queens?” His disapproving inflection turns the word into an expletive. “How did you meet an attorney from Queens?”

My skin itches. Outrage bubbles in my blood. “She works in the city.”

I can’t say any more. If he knows we met in a meeting, he might ask which one. If I tell him she works at Stryker & Sons, there’s a chance he’ll mention it to Grayson’s father the next time they cross paths. Then Mr. Stryker will tell Grayson.

Goddamn it.

Jules and I are going to have to come up with a fake meet-cute story. Assuming she deigns to attend the dinner at all.

She’s going to be so pissed.

She’ll already be mad about the new clothes. Now this. I picture her tossing her hair back and lifting that stubborn, pointed chin at me. I nearly twitch, equal parts furious and aroused.

My father observes me carefully. His expression takes on a wary note. “All right… well, I’ll be happy to meet her, I suppose. Haven’t heard you call anyone your girlfriend in years.”

I try to remember when I’ve ever given another woman that distinction, but come up blank. Maybe he has me confused with Christian.

He settles his hand on my shoulder in a paternal gesture. My stomach seethes when he leans closer, muttering, “Little tip, Graham—Valentine’s Day is next week. Let me know if you need help picking out a gift.”

The irony of this man giving anyone relationship advice brings a sardonic smirk to my face. I remember the rock in the safe, then dismiss the thought instantly. “I’ve got it handled.”

fifty

Pinchao

I have a surprise for you, bijou.

Well.

Two surprises.

Juliet

Is one of them your cock?

Pinchao

So just one surprise, then.

I spend the entire subway ride to the Lower East Side imagining what my surprise might be—and most of my musings do not involve clothes.

But alas, when I finally burst into his apartment, Graham is most assuredly still dressed. Today’s ensemble makes me shake my head the moment I see it.

“Pinchao,” I moan, eyeing the stark blazer and its black velvet trim. “These suits.”

He pauses in the middle of uncorking a bottle of wine to trail his gaze down my simple blue sheath. Amusement gilds his handsome features when our eyes meet. “This one?” he asks, holding his arms in front of him. “It’s not even colorful.”

True, apart from his red tie… and the handkerchief. “But a white jacket? In February? Isn’t there some sort of rule about white before Memorial Day?”

“Easter,” he corrects automatically, then cracks a sideways smile. “And this isn’t white, baby, it’s winter white. Entirely different thing.”

Scoffing, I set my bags on one of his barstools and notice something boiling on the stove behind him. In a separate pan, I spot some pancetta. “Did you make dinner?”

Graham brings a glass of wine to me, bending to brush his lips over my temple. “Working on it.” He nuzzles my hair and gives a low, contented sound. “Come here for a second.”

His arms pull me close for a slow, chaste kiss. Then another and another after that. He slides his hands to their usual places—one behind my head and the other cradling the curve of my ass.

“You always hold me there and there,” I mumble against his mouth, pushing back into his palms.

His lips smile against mine. “My two favorite things. Your gorgeous ass and your brilliant brain. What more do I need?”

Warmth bleeds through my chest, melting to form a puddle in my panties. Too soon, he leans away. A small smile touches his lips as he gazes at me, dark eyes transparently adoring. “I missed you today.”

Joy shimmers in my chest, along with a wash of chagrin. He’s so much better at this whole relationship thing than me. I wonder how many times he’s done it before.

“Me, too,” I confess. Tracing one of his thick brows with my fingertip, I decide to try for a compliment. “You look very sexy in winter white.”

He snuggles me closer, grinning. “You’re very sexy, always. Do you want your surprise now or after I’ve subdued you with pasta and sex?”

Have I ever been so happy? I can’t think of any other occasion when I felt too ecstatic to catch my breath. And all over what? Tortellini?

To distract myself from the concerning bent of my thoughts, I slip my hand between our bodies and glide it down to his fly. “I don’t know,” I murmur. “I’m pretty hungry.”

We don’t make it to his bedroom. Graham takes me on the dining table instead, sweeping his papers onto the floor before setting me on the polished wood and yanking my panties down to one ankle. Our clothes hang off us—my dress unzipped and pulled over one arm to give access to my breasts, his pants bunched down his thighs and vest gaping.

When we both fall over the edge, one of our poignant silences settles between us. Wordlessly, Graham gathers me up in his arms and carries me into his bathroom. He removes the rest of my work clothes and cleans both of us up before retrieving a robe from his closet.

A women’s robe with tags still on it.

I finger the silky violet kimono, my gaze questioning as it meets his. Instead of answering, he kisses me deeply one last time and nuzzles his nose into my hair for a long moment. After a couple of deep breaths, he leaves me sitting on his black marble sink, naked, holding what I assume must be my surprise.

I don’t like him buying me things, but this is too beautiful to reject. So I put it on and turn to see my reflection.

Sweeping my hair into a haphazard ponytail, I stare at my face, startled by the expression I find beaming back at me. Bright eyes, a glow tinging my cheekbones, some unfamiliar softness around my mouth…

Maybe that’s why, an hour later, when he pulls me into his closet and presents me with my actual surprise, I manage not to faint.

Instead, I snap, “Absolutely not.”

Graham crosses his arms and shrugs, unbothered. “Yeah, I figured this would be a fight. Glad I got laid first.”

I guffaw. “Because you know this is insane!” I shout, spinning away before I get sucked into the beauty of the various outfits hanging on a recently cleared corner rack. “And insulting. Is there something wrong with my clothes? You seem to like them well enough when you’re taking them off!”

He raises one winged brow. “Are you finished?”

No—because the anger feels good. Like relief, somehow. The antidote to this new, soft side of me that makes no sense.

So I go on. “If I wanted new clothes, I’d go buy some! I may not have a penthouse in Manhattan, but I’m hardly destitute. I don’t need your hand-outs, Graham.”

His jaw hardens. He waits for me to stop panting and then asks, “Is it my turn to speak? Good. I didn’t buy these clothes because I thought you needed me to—I bought them because I wanted them here. I don’t want you to keep shoving flats and spare underwear into your purse every day. Especially when you work uptown. Staying over would cut your commute in half.”

Damn him. I hate it when he makes sense.

And part of me doesn’t quite believe he dropped thousands on clothes for pragmatism’s sake. “So this is a practical decision?”

He regards me steadily. “Purely.”

It’s a lie. One he might even believe. But I know better.

I glance at the rack now dedicated to me. My heart gives a stupid pang that I dismiss. Of course I don’t care if his gift is more sensible than romantic. I don’t want him to want me in his space.

Do I?

My hand floats up to touch the long-sleeved emerald dress closest to me. It’s gorgeous. They all are. And secretly, I’m thrilled that he personally chose each and every thing. For me.

I think of how Grayson sent Ella to a personal shopper and almost laugh. Not my pinchao. He wanted to select every last item, down to my underwear.

As if on cue, he points his chin at the built-in drawers beside my rack. “Third drawer. I got undergarments, too. And stuff for you to sleep in. Oh, and some shoes. Just three pairs.”

My teeth grind together. “Graham.”

His posture unwinds. He lopes over, boxing me in against the closet’s wall with both hands on either side of my head. “They’re just clothes. Having stuff here will take packing off your plate and give us more time together.”

I glance over again. A particularly fetching periwinkle blouse catches my eye. I sigh, defeated. “How much? I’ll write you a check.”

His gaze sharpens. “Like hell you will.”

Embers smolder in my middle. “You know, sometimes, I just want to slap you. Again.”

Lust glows in his black eyes. “I’d love to show you how I wanted to react that day. I very nearly slammed you into the wall of the elevator and ripped your goddamned dress off.”

I remember the unfathomable way he stared at me. Feral. He has the same wild energy to him now.

“You’re an animal,” I spit, glaring and gripping the wall behind me to keep from swinging at him. “No wonder I hated you so much.”

Graham leans his face closer, black gaze burning into mine. His voice is deceptively soft. “How much?”

My restraint snaps. I clutch his hair in both hands and yank hard, bringing our mouths together.

Not enough.

fifty-one

I wince slightly as I shift in the chair at Christian’s bedside.

Lucid for the second day in a row, he actually notices. “Did you hurt your back or something?”

Or something.

The memory of Jules riding the hell out of me on the floor of my closet springs to mind. I take a bite of my sandwich and speak around it. “Rug burn.”

For the first time in ages, amusement seeps into my brother’s blue eyes. His lips twitch up. “No shit?”

The abrasions all over my ass delighted Jules to no end, too. When she stripped my clothes off after work last night, she laughed at the raw skin for two full minutes.

“Your place doesn’t even have a carpet,” Christian contends.

I shrug a shoulder. “Bedroom closet.”

He snorts. “You couldn’t have walked ten steps into your bedroom?”

I remember the fire crackling in Juliet’s eyes, the way she pulled my hair at the roots. “Not a chance.”

Instead of laughing, he scowls. My baby brother, always so serious. “What was a woman even doing in your closet? Isn’t that, like, your Fortress of Solitude? I thought you didn’t even let the maid in there.”

I cast him a glower. “Fuck you. The maid got Pinesol on my favorite suede loafers last year. I’m not risking another pair.”

We both eat in silence for a moment. Christian surprises me when he probes, “So who’s the girl?”

I’m not sure if rubbing my new relationship in his face is a good idea. We still haven’t discussed what happened Saturday night or that Juliet was there with me. He doesn’t remember any of it, and I worry he’ll be embarrassed if I tell him.

On the other hand, this is the first time he’s asked me a coherent personal question in months. And I better start getting used to telling people, since I have to face Grayson soon.

I answer reluctantly. “Well, she’s sort of… my girlfriend. Her name is Juliet.”

Christian stares at me. “Your girlfriend. Like, a woman you date exclusively?”

I cast my eyes down at my lunch. A vision of the engagement ring flashes through my head. “Something like that, yeah.”

“And you aren’t fucking anyone else?” he asks, voice flat. “Not even one other person?”

The notion of being intimate with another woman sends a prickle over my scalp. I glare at him. “Jesus. Is that so hard to believe?”

His regard stays solemn. “You once told me that it didn’t count as cheating as long as the other woman lived in a different borough.”

Fuck me. I did say that. And now I’m in love with a woman from Queens.

“Let’s just say karma has firmly caught up to me,” I mutter. “And she gave me an ass full of rug burn.”

“Karma or Juliet?”

I smirk. “Both. She was mad at me, actually. I bought her a bunch of shit without her approval.”

“Hell of a way to express anger.” Christian chews thoughtfully for a moment. His earnest frown returns. “I thought you said women like presents.”

“They do.” In fact, Juliet wore one of my gifts to work this morning. And I got to make love to her in the shower beforehand. “She’s a proud woman, though. She doesn’t like the idea of anyone keeping her.”

Christian’s gaze flits over my face, searching for something. Insincerity, I’d guess. When he doesn’t find any, he finally says, “Huh. Can I meet her?” Some dark thought crosses his face. “I mean, does she know about me?”

He thinks I’m ashamed of him. I grip his forearm. “Yes. Of course she does. She—” I almost admit that she already met him in that godforsaken alleyway. “Juliet asked if she could come with me tomorrow, actually. We’ll bring breakfast.” 

He agrees, and we say our goodbyes. On my way out, while thinking of Jules meeting my family, I have a flash of inspiration about Valentine’s Day. My watch informs me I only have thirty minutes to make it happen before I have to return to work.

Between that and everything else, my afternoon somehow winds up jammed. I take back-to-back calls from McAllister and another friend from prep school who wants to meet up and discuss their new IPO.

I make time to stop for more flowers. Pink, this time, like the blouse she wore out of my apartment this morning.

With barely any time to spare, I get home around six and arrange the bouquet on the island along with a bottle of wine. We can crack it open after dinner with my father. I have a feeling we’ll need it.

The concierge delivers my dry cleaning with an envelope pinned to the plastic bag. When I rip it open, I find a note from the cleaners, telling me they discovered some papers in one of my jackets.

Damn it. The shit from the safe.

I forgot all about it when Jules undressed me on Wednesday. Thankfully, everything is attached to the note, unscathed.

The envelopes on top look oddly familiar. I pluck one up on impulse and scan its contents.

It’s my broker licensing information, the certificate that arrived after I passed my exam. I go to open the second, identical envelope, thinking I’ll preserve Christian’s for him.

Maybe a reminder of his accomplishments will be good for him.

I slide my eyes over his credentials, considering. A familiar series of digits snags my gaze. My blood freezes into slush.

There, under his name, social security number, and passing grade, I see it.

His broker number.

The exact broker number listed on every fraudulent trade in my father’s files. It belongs to Christian.

Which means that our dad didn’t just steal millions of dollars.

He framed my brother for it.

fifty-two

I’ll kill Graham.

It won’t be that hard. A little erotic asphyxiation, maybe. I could get on top, ride his face, and pretend not to hear him drowning in my⁠—

“Excuse me.”

I dodge a woman in an oversized coat and almost run into a man holding two armfuls of roses. Carajo. It’s bad enough I’m being forced to meet Graham’s father, the criminal. Even worse that I have to be nice to him. But Graham has apparently decided to delay the whole ordeal by showing up late for our coveted reservation. The weekend before Valentine’s Day.

How he even managed to get a table in the first place is beyond me. I’ve heard of this famous restaurant multiple times, but the press didn’t do it justice. Inside, modern ambiance mixes with the mouthwatering aroma of browning butter. My stomach rumbles while I shift on my feet, gazing hopefully at the door again.

Where is he?

Glancing down at the outfit Graham purchased, I smooth my palms over the nude pencil skirt. I have no clue how the pinchao somehow found something the exact color of my skin without actually having me with him, but the piece truly is flattering. At the very least, I look good.

Another man walks in. For a second, I swear it’s Graham—but then I see the extra girth around his middle, the lines bracketing his thinner lips, the way his hairline recedes.

It has to be the older Mr. Everett, though. The resemblance is too strong to be a coincidence.

“Sir?” I say, extending my hand. “I’m Juliet Rivera, Graham’s… girlfriend.”

Recognition sparks in his eyes. They’re dark, just like my favorite pair. And, also like Graham’s, they move over my body in a way that feels altogether indecent.

“My, my,” he chuckles, holding my hand for a second too long. “I see for once my son didn’t exaggerate. You are very hot.”

Clearly, my boyfriend neglected to mention my penchant for smacking men who objectify me. “Did he say that?”

Now I really will kill him. And not in the fun way I planned before. Painfully.

Mr. Everett has a charming grin, not unlike his son’s. “I may be paraphrasing,” he admits. He gestures toward the hostess stand. “Shall we? Graham is probably stuck in traffic.”

Anxiety knots my guts as I follow him to our table and arrange myself in my seat. I’m prepared to sit through a meal with Graham and his asshole father, but dealing with him one-on-one makes me feel sick.

Mr. Everett orders a double scotch and I get a glass of rosé, wanting to keep my wits about me. I also request a single-malt for Graham.

“So,” Mr. Everett says, eyeing me across the tabletop. “How did you two meet?”

I glance at the door again, desperately willing him to appear one last time before I give the answer Graham and I discussed. “At a bar in SoHo,” I lie, then add some truth for good measure. “It’s sort of hard not to notice him.”

Mr. Everett opens his mouth to reply, but cuts himself off. His eyes follow some movement behind me and he smiles, standing.

Graham. Thank God.

I swivel to shoot him a severe save-me-now look, but the second I see his face, everything inside me lurches. My spine stiffens. I clutch my purse in my hand, ready to leap up.

Lord knows I make Graham plenty angry, but I’ve never seen him enraged. His eyes narrow into slits while they track his dad. He sails through the crowd, intent on his mark.

I witness the entire scene unfold in slow motion. The way Graham’s hands clench into balls before he rounds the table. The moment he cocks his fist back. His arm snapping out to cut cleanly across his father’s face. The sick crunch of cartilage cracking.

Mr. Everett goes straight to the floor. The entire restaurant falls utterly silent. Graham stands over his dad, glaring down.

“You sick son of a bitch,” he growls. “I will bury you.”

Without looking away, he extends his other hand to me. Bewildered, I grab his fingers and let him whisk me into his side.

Fifteen seconds later, we’re on the sidewalk. He drops me as if I’ve burned him and starts to pace, running both hands through his hair.

“What the fuck did I just do?” he mutters. “Jesus Christ.”

I feel like he stole my line. Panicked by the scene he just caused, I spring into action, raising my arm to hail a cab. “We should go. Now.”

Graham nods but doesn’t speak. Seething, he follows me into the taxi and slams his door. “Lower East Side. The Ludlow.”

I turn to give him a baffled scowl, demanding, “What the hell is wrong with you? Have you lost your mind?”

His jaw snaps audibly. “We’ll discuss it at home.”

Pissed by his attitude, his actions, and my own confusion, I cross my arms and huff. “First, I don’t live at The Ludlow so it isn’t my ‘home.’ Second, I’m starving. I skipped lunch today because Dominic gave me attitude. So, third, maybe I don’t want to go to your apartment right now.”

Grinding his teeth, Graham regards me with hot, black eyes. “Then why are you here?”

I sit up straight, leaning closer to his face. “Why am I here?” I shriek. “You asked me to come. I didn’t even want to meet your father! I only agreed to attend dinner for you. I sat there and let that disgusting excuse for a man eye-fuck me for you. I just fled the scene of an assault without my favorite coat for you. I am here for you!”

He stares, not blinking. Gradually, the color drains away from his face. I watch the column of his throat work over a hard swallow. “Tell him to pull over,” he murmurs, hoarse. “Now.”

Mutinous, I glare at him. His skin goes from white to sallow. “I feel sick,” he whispers, stone-still. “Please.”

Sloughing out a curse word, I bend forward and ask the cabbie to stop the car. Ordinarily, Graham has a wad of cash out before our cars ever stop. This time, when I look over, he’s jumping out.

“Loco hijo de puta.”

Muttering to myself in Spanish, I extricate my own wallet and pay five dollars for the two-minute ride. Then I step onto the pavement just in time to witness Graham spew into the gutter.

fifty-three

We made it to my place without another incident. Juliet followed me inside and stayed quiet while I ditched my dirty clothes and turned on the shower. Part of me hoped she’d join me again, but I wasn’t surprised when she didn’t.

Full of dread, I scrubbed myself clean, brushed my teeth twice, and found a fresh set of burgundy sweats.

Juliet had the same notion. Wearing her new navy yoga pants and a matching tank top, she joins me on the couch and thanks me for her flowers. Leaning back, I gaze up at the ceiling without seeing it.

“Glad you like them.”

My voice sounds foreign. Clogged and rough. Her hand lands on my arm—one warm spot amid all my cool numbness.

“Do you feel okay?” she asks.

Do I feel okay? The question brings a bitter smirk to my lips.

“I can’t talk about it right now.” I set my hand on top of hers and let my eyes fall shut. “I’m sorry about losing my temper in the cab. I understand if you want to leave. I’m not going to be good company tonight. Or even this weekend, probably.”

Or ever.

Because I know what I have to do. And after my display at the restaurant, I can’t change my mind.

Jules gingerly settles into my side, resting her head on my shoulder. She sighs. “I can take you, pinchao.”

Her words from the taxi choose that moment to return to me. I am here for you.

A burst of gratitude washes over the icy lump sitting in my center. I let my head rest against hers. “Thank you. For staying. For not getting out of the car. I’m sorry I ruined dinner. Did you order something for yourself?”

She turns her hand over, lacing our fingers together. “For both of us. Smoothies.”

Appreciation swells through me again, so strong my next breath shakes. Jesus. Are my eyes watering? What the fuck has become of me?

I turn to press a kiss into her crown, distracting myself with the scent of her hair. “I don’t deserve you,” I mumble. “You should run. Now. Far and fast. I’m a ticking time bomb. When it all blows, I don’t want you caught in the crosshairs.”

“It already blew,” she argues lightly, squeezing my fingers. “All over Park Avenue.”

I would laugh if I weren’t so busy groaning. I scrub my free hand over my face, mortified. “Christ. People know me on Park Avenue. Someone could have seen.”

She giggles quietly. “Well, you may have flown under the radar if you hadn’t worn your insane leprechaun suit today. I swear it matched your complexion by the time we managed to stop the car.”

I lean back to look at Juliet, unable to bear another minute without seeing her face. Cupping her pointed chin in my palm, I turn her toward me and stare right into her eyes.

“Seriously, bijou,” I murmur. “I’m sorry for snarling at you. Forgive me. Please.”

Her mouth wobbles, torn between concern and reprimand. “You don’t want to tell me what happened? The last time we talked about your father, we made a whole plan. Something changed?”

I have to tell her. But after I do, everything will change. I want one more peaceful night with her before I tell her I have to destroy my life.

Brushing her hair back, my regard hardens. “I said I’m sorry,” I repeat. “Forgive me?”

Her golden gaze softens into liquid honey. “Yes. I forgive you. But I still think we should talk about what the hell caused you to lose your mind.”

“We will.” My stomach sinks. “Tomorrow, okay? After we visit Christian.”

Juliet doesn’t like waiting. She’s impatient by nature, like me. I suspect that’s one reason why we’ve defiled half the surfaces in my apartment in the span of two weeks.

But she nods mulishly. “Fine.”

My phone buzzes on the floor beside the couch. When it goes off a third time, I grouse and fumble for it. There are three texts from Grayson. Two photos and one message.

The images are dark, fuzzy frames. Blurred. I squint closely.

“Fuck.”

Pictures from tonight. One of me with my fist cocked; another of my father on the ground. Thankfully, Juliet isn’t in either.

STRYKER

I see telling your dad about your new company didn’t go well. We’re wheels up in five, but the jet has Wi-Fi service. I’ll call you.

“Hold on,” I mutter to Jules. “It’s Grayson.”

I go to my bedroom and pace.

He doesn’t know anything about Juliet. He doesn’t know about Christian overdosing. He has no clue my father has been committing fraud or that I have to turn him in.

I curse again and swipe at his incoming call.

“We’re taking off early,” Grayson says by way of greeting. “I wanted to talk to you ASAP. There’s someone you can call to clear this sort of thing up.”

“Wait a minute. Back up. How the fuck did you even get those pictures? Do you have security following your friends now?”

He gives a bleak laugh. “No. I hired a new PR person last week. She works exclusively with paparazzi all over town and buys photos directly, to destroy or release them for her clients on her own terms. She knows we’re friends, so when one of her sources told her he had pictures of Graham Everett knocking out an old guy in the middle of Peter Luger, she called me.”

A PR person. The idea is nauseating and brilliant.

“Who’s your girl?” I ask. “And how much do I need to pay for her to make those pictures disappear?”

Grayson pauses just long enough to make me suspicious. The hairs on the back of my neck rise. “Fuck me,” I groan, doubly ill. “Stryker. Tell me you didn’t hire her.”

He sighs heavily. “She’s the best in town, shithead.”

But not even my second-favorite moniker can quell my dread.

Ava Morgan.

Karma must be real. Of course, the one person I can hire to make sure no one finds out about Jules and me is a woman I once had hate-sex with in a coat-check room.

“She’s a raging bitch,” I mutter. “I cannot believe you’re paying her. Where do you send her checks—the seventh circle of Hell?”

“Otherwise known as the corner of Seventy-Fifth and Park.” He laughs darkly. “Yes, I hired Ava. She’s started a whole campaign to win public favor for Ella and me, and it’s working. The woman is seriously connected. And, listen, I know you two have history, but⁠—”

I cringe at the thought. “Grayson. Come on.”

He knows the stories. I don’t want to relive them. Especially with my girlfriend in the next room.

“I know, I know,” he sighs. “But think of it this way: Ava took all of her Upper East Side venom and socialite social capital and put them to good use.”

Ugh. I want to moan. “So you’re telling me I have to call her to kill the photos? She’s literally the only phone number I have blocked.”

“I already had her kill the photos,” Grayson replies. “So, you’re welcome. But I’m assuming there’s a good reason you knocked your father out in front of the entire universe. She can manage press for whatever’s happening.”

My skin crawls. I palm the back of my neck, shaking my head while I admit, “I’m having the month from hell, Grayson.”

“Yeah, I sort of figured there was more to the story than your new business venture. We’ll grab a drink this weekend. I saw the portfolio stats you emailed yesterday—I owe you a round.”

His stocks rose another three percent this week. Up a total of seven in less than a month. My brain spits calculations at me automatically. $350,000.

But I can’t enjoy my success. Because I still have to tell him about everything else when we meet up. Anxiety flattens my lungs.

“Yeah, sure,” I manage, defeated. “Can’t wait.”

fifty-four

I knew it was wrong to eavesdrop on Graham’s conversation, but I did it anyway.

While I toss and turn in his bed, I replay the pieces I overheard. Something about pictures? A girl Graham doesn’t like. A girl from his past he has to call now.

I hate how much I care.

I never wanted to date anyone because I’ve never wanted to deal with feeling the way I did the moment I heard him mention her—jittery from jealousy and squeamish from suspicion, with an ache pounding where my heart should be.

He never told me why he lost his ever-loving mind and decked his own dad in public. I couldn’t bring myself to push for the information after watching him get sick, but I also suspect there are a lot of things he’s hiding.

Why won’t he just tell me? He tells me everything else… doesn’t he?

Dios mío.

What if there’s more?

When I think about the tender way Graham holds me, the way he gazes into my eyes… I don’t want to believe it.

But he didn’t tell me about his brother’s addiction. And he went back on our plan for dinner with his father without even discussing it with me.

Then, I heard him agree to meet up with Grayson. Tomorrow.

Do I really want Graham to risk my job by telling my boss about our relationship when he can’t even be upfront with me? Am I really willing to keep him if it means losing everything else?

I roll back and forth for hours, frustrated and heartsick. It isn’t until well after three a.m. that I realize: Graham never came to bed at all.

fifty-five

Before I even open my eyes, I know something is wrong. I blink, confused by my surroundings, until I realize, I must have accidentally fallen asleep in the living room.

Then I feel her—the cool brush of fingertips sifting through my hair. “Graham?”

Turning my head, I find Juliet standing beside me. Completely naked.

Instead of feeling aroused, a prickle of apprehension pulls at my shoulders. “What’s wrong?” I ask, gruff. “Are you okay?”

She smooths her hand down my spine. “I came to find you. I want you.”

My body wars with itself. My cock swells. My heart pounds. I roll to the side, facing her. “Right now?”

I don’t know much about relationships, but I know we didn’t have the greatest night. So this seems random, at best. Almost ominous.

But how can I resist her? When I love her so much I can’t breathe and she comes to me, wanting me?

Completely. Naked.

I let her guide me into a seated position and pull off my hoodie. She tosses it aside and straddles my lap. Moonlight slants over Juliet’s features, somehow more beautiful than ever. “Kiss me.”

Her breasts are closer than her lips. I brush my mouth across her dark nipples in turn. “Like this?” I murmur between her tits.

She gasps quietly, straining closer. “However you want,” she says on an exhale. “I want you to take me any way you want.”

My cock thoroughly approves. Blood rushes through my ears, drowning out the last of the warning bells in my mind. I skim my hands down her sides, relishing the restless way she shifts over me.

My erection tents my sweats, insistent. Her warm, soft flesh fills my palms. God. Has anything ever felt as good as she does? Or looked so luminous?

“You’re fucking beautiful,” I rasp, unable to think of anything else. “Have I ever told you that?”

Juliet’s golden eyes glisten as she softly trails her fingertips over my cheek. “You tell me every time.” Something moves across her expression. She clasps both hands on either side of my face. “Will you tell me again?”

The emotion beaming from each of her features makes me weak. “I’ll tell you forever.”

Her wet gaze gleams in the darkness. She whispers my name; part plea, part lament. “Graham.”

The words I’ve swallowed a dozen times rise to my throat then.

Who knows why? I don’t. I only know that they’re suddenly too big for me to contain.

“Juliet,” I murmur, locking eyes with her. “I love you.”

Her chin trembles against my palms. Tears slip over her cheeks, melting into my fingers while I hold her face. “Graham,” she cries. “Don’t.”

“I can’t stop,” I sigh. “I have tried. I’ve tried every minute since the first time I kissed you. But it’s fucking useless. So. I love you.”

With a quiet moan, she tackles me onto the sofa, banding her arms around my head and plunging her tongue into my mouth.

Her kiss says more than any words could. She pours all of her fear and longing into it; and, like always, I understand her perfectly.

Wild, Juliet nips my lips and tugs my hair. Punishing me for loving her, for making her care about me. I understand that, too. 

She tears at me. Scratching, tugging, biting. I let her have her way, holding her tenderly and whispering to her whenever I can. I repeat the words again and again, meaning them more each time. When she finally runs out of steam, she presses her forehead into mine and pants quietly.

I nuzzle my nose against hers. “Shhh. It’s all right, baby. Rip into me all you want. I’m not going anywhere.”

Adoration and hesitation fight for space inside her eyes. More tears slide down her face. “I want you now,” she murmurs, hushed. “Please.”

She seems lost. I let my instincts guide me and fist her hair, pinning her in place, taking control again. “Do I still get it the way I want it?”

“Yes.” She quivers, her nipples tightening. “Anything you want.”

I guide her hips with my free hand, pulling her body into mine and pushing my sweats off. She tries to move back and sink onto me, but I tighten the fist at her nape. “No. Stay here.”

Face to face, where I can stare right into her soul. I watch her features break when I lick my thumb and reach for her center, stroking over her clit. She rocks into me, her frantic breaths gusting across my cheek.

I turn and catch her lips to give a deep, slow kiss, matching the swirl of my tongue to the whirl of my thumb. She moans into my mouth. The ragged sound sends a throbbing pulse through my dick.

“Touch me,” I order, moving to suck on the side of her neck.

Juliet uses both fists to pump my cock. Grinding restlessly, she rubs her tits against my chest while she strokes just hard enough to make me desperate. Snarling, I flip her onto her back and spread her silken thighs. With one thrust, I bury myself to the hilt. Her snug heat pulses around my member until I groan her name.

She cries out while I draw back to slam into her again. “Graham!”

I love my name on her lips. I love her hands clawing down my back to grip my ass and pull me in deeper. I love her body opening up to welcome me.

I love her.

I tell her again, mumbling an incoherent stream of praises into her breasts. When I brush my hand between our bodies to touch her clit again, she mewls a stream of Spanish. Her nails dig into my shoulders. I feel her body tighten around me on every plunge, bringing her closer to her release.

Lifting my head, I hold her gaze and watch her fall apart. So epically gorgeous, she makes my chest ache.

“Yes, baby,” I praise, resting my forehead against hers once more. “You’re so beautiful. I meant what I said—I’ll never stop. Forever.”

My thrusts grow sloppy as I lose control, pouring myself into her on a loud groan. Juliet holds me close while I come. She presses sweet kisses to the side of my face and lets me linger with my head on her shoulder.

“Amado mío.”

Amado. She’s used the word before. I don’t know its meaning, but it has the soulful cadence of an endearment. Turning my nose into her neck, I inhale her jasmine warmth and shift my weight, clutching her body against mine while I roll us onto our sides.

Silence settles, so different from the first night when she blew up my entire world in one fell swoop. Now, instead of a relentless roar of uncertainty, the quiet covers us like a duvet.

Juliet massages my scalp. Every few minutes, I feel her lips brush my forehead and constrict my arms, hugging her closer. I doze for a while before Jules shimmies down to put us at eye level. She gives me one more light kiss.

“Come with me,” she whispers. “Let’s go to bed.”

We both get into my king-size. And for the first time ever, she falls asleep in my arms.

I never would have guessed that the first time might also be our last.

fifty-six

I spend most of the night in Graham’s arms, staring at his chiseled, gorgeous face.

How did I end up here?

When I went to him earlier, I had no intention of leaving, but doubts filled my mind to the brim while I tossed and turned alone. Finally, I went out to him, unable to think of any other way to banish the fear gathering inside of me.

I didn’t know what I wanted, only that I needed him to give it to me.

But Graham understood. Even when he confessed his love and I started tearing into him, he understood. He always does. The same way I understand him.

I get why he has to tell Grayson, but there are so many practical reasons for me to end things before I let that happen.

Reasons that benefit him, too. He’ll need all his focus to fight his father and the feds. Grayson is more than just his personal lifeline; he’s the only client who will stand by Graham through this.

If he never has to admit to our fling, he won’t jeopardize his one true friendship—and the only hope he has of getting through the mess his father has caused.

Not to mention—I’ll get to keep my job, and Marco will, too.

And yet, despite all of those sound rationales, my main reason isn’t logical at all. In fact, it veers dangerously close to irrational.

Fear.

Terror that seized my heart every time he said he loved me. Dread from the very idea of the word “forever.” And downright desperation at the concept of winding up like my parents.

Amado.

I murmured the word to him in a moment of sheer insanity, with his body inside of mine and his loving outpour filling my heart to a painful burst. In Spanish, it means “beloved.”

It’s the exact term I heard my father call Lucia last week.

The same one he used to say to my mother.

And everything I swore I would avoid.

So I sneak out of Graham’s bed when dawn rises. I slip out of his room. Once the coffee finishes brewing, I set two mugs on the corner of his island and wait there, with his borrowed spare key sitting in the middle of the snowy granite.

He appears much sooner than I expect. From my place at the counter, I watch him shuffle out of his room in a new pair of boxers.

He looks pretty beat. Dark circles hang under his eyes. His hair seems more disheveled than usual. And his bearing is all wrong—completely devoid of his usual elegance or cockiness.

My stomach lurches while his midnight gaze runs over me warily, then falls to the key on his countertop. He stands utterly still for the longest moment, staring at it. When Graham finally moves, he keeps his eyes downcast and plucks the coffee mug off the counter before retreating all the way to the far side of the island.

Without looking up, he speaks. “So you’re going.”

Why lie to him? What’s the point?

“Yes.”

I hear him breathe out of his nose while he stares at the granite expanse between us. His face stays as stony as his voice. “All right, then. I assume from the key that you won’t be back?”

Tears prick my eyes. “No. I’ll shred your check.”

A slight nod. “I should pay you for the work you did, at least. I plan to use it.”

The thought of looking at his money in my bank account sends a wave of nausea spiraling through my core. “Please don’t,” I whisper. “I don’t want it. Just use the contracts and research we did; they were a team effort anyway.”

Graham nods again. “I’ll have your clothes messengered to Abuelita’s. Most are designer. Non-refundable. We can consider that an even trade.”

Thrown, I watch him avoid my gaze. I didn’t know what I expected when I told him I was leaving, but it wasn’t this. I figured he’d fight me. Try to seduce me or charm me the way he always does.

Throughout our time together, I thought I’d seen every side of him. But this weary, detached man feels like a stranger.

“Look at me,” I snap, unable to bear it.

He keeps his eyes down. His lips tighten. “If you’re going, then just leave, okay? I can’t do this.”

His coolness goads me. “Do what?” I shout. “All you’ve done is stare at the damned counter. I’m trying to have a serious conversation here, Graham.”

A bleak smile turns up the corners of his mouth. “No, you’re not. You’ve made up your mind. I don’t need to hear all of your excuses. I know the truth. You’re running scared. And nothing I say will change that. So, go.”

My heart hammers into my ribs. “I’m not running scared.”

The lie finally spurs him into action. His head snaps up, pinning me with dark, turbulent eyes.

“Don’t fucking lie to me,” he thunders. “You’re terrified because I told you I love you. I’m sure you’ve convinced yourself there are other reasons to leave; but you didn’t care about any of those yesterday. As far as you know, the only thing that’s changed is what I said to you.”

He has me so squarely pegged, it prickles my guts. But still, I have to fight back. “As far as I know, huh? Whose fault is that? I asked you over and over what changed yesterday and you wouldn’t tell me.”

Rage twists Graham’s expression. “You want to hear how I found out that the broker number on all the fraudulent accounts is Christian’s? That my father pinned all this shit on him? So now I have to turn my dad in to save my brother? Does that fucking help somehow?”

My insides heave. “Graham⁠—”

“Spare me your goddamn pity, Juliet!” he yells. “You were leaving, anyway. Because you’re too damn scared to stay!”

Unable to bear the look on his face, I rush, “That’s not the reason. It’s⁠—”

“Enough!” he roars. “I don’t need the list. I’m stupid for saying what I said to you last night. I shouldn’t have thought you could handle it.”

His lack of faith in me feels like an insult, even as I prove him completely correct. Outraged and without a single way to defend myself, I hurl out the first reason I can think of.

“I’m not leaving because you think you love me,” I shout. “I’m leaving because you’re about to lose everything and I don’t want to get stuck in the middle while your life blows up!”

The horrible, selfish statement dangles between us, sucking all the oxygen from the room. I spat it out, thinking it was another lie, but as I stand there with my chest throbbing, unable to call back the words, I wonder… are they really untrue? Now that I know just how messed up his situation is… does part of me feel relieved to escape this?

Graham goes eerily silent, staring at me. His midnight gaze loops over my face, as if seeing me for the first time. And hating what he sees.

“If that’s really what you think,” he finally says, his voice dead, “then you’re not the person I thought you were.”

The practical part of me sneers. See? He doesn’t love me. I should just take what little dignity I have and get out.

But my feet feel planted to the wood floor. Panic slices through my center. I’m so upset, my thoughts come out half in Spanish.

“I don’t—no quiero—tú—you don’t love me, Graham,” I eventually cry. “This is all just some insane—something. I don’t even know what! I bet if I walk out right now, you’ll forget about me in a week.”

He stares right at me for an endless second, weighing my words. I watch the moment a new wave of certainty takes hold of him.

“You’re wrong,” he says finally. “I do love you. I love you so goddamn much, I have no idea how I’m going to stand here and watch you leave me. But I’ll do it if that’s what you need.”

It shames me how much I need to leave. Call it fear or stubbornness or pride. All I know is that every cell in my body vibrates with the need to flee.

“It is.”

I say the words—admitting it to myself as much as him—and suddenly feel nothing. A chasm opens inside my chest. Everything falls in, leaving a cold, hollow place where my heart should be. And, in its place, dread.

“Then go, bijou,” he murmurs. “And I’ll watch.”

True to his word, he stands there, ashen, as I take a step back. Then another. And one more. He doesn’t flinch or turn away, even when I wish he would. I finally spin for the door, fearing he’ll catch the tears stinging my eyes.

Graham says my name so softly I barely hear it.

But I’m already gone.

fifty-seven

It takes me all of twenty blocks to regret everything.

Me? Juliet Rivera? Running scared?

Absolutely not.

By the time I make it to my usual subway station on the corner of 53rd and Lexington, I realize I don’t want to get on the train and flee back to Queens.

I want⁠—

I need⁠—

Graham.

But I can’t just go back, can I? I mean, despite the dread unfurling in my middle, I did leave for a reason. Several reasons, in fact.

I also have no idea how to apologize after walking out like that and no way to make it up to him.

Being on the street doesn’t help. Everywhere I look, there are Valentine’s displays. Most of them are red, like Graham’s handkerchief. Or pink, like that insane suit he looks so perfect in.

Mierda. Am I crying on Lexington Avenue?

The phone wedged in my fist vibrates, alerting me to a text. My heart leaps, thinking it will be him…

But instead, it’s Dominic.

Carter

How soon can you be here?

I pause next to a particularly loud window display full of giant paper hearts. A quick burst of anger blasts through me, but it feels good. More familiar than the heartbreak bleeding behind my breast, anyway.

He doesn’t wait for me to answer before making another demand.

I told you to consider yourself on call.

This contract must be completed today.

Are you near the office and available, as instructed?

He’s such a jackass—I feel a smug flicker of amusement recalling the way Graham destroyed me over his desk.

I start to walk, naturally turning toward Stryker & Sons. Like it or not, he did tell me I was on-call. And right now? Work seems like a God-send.

Time to think. A distraction. Quiet.

On my way, sir.

I’m not sure what’s more surprising—Dominic in athletic wear or the fact that he’s actually working and this isn’t all some sort of ploy to get me alone.

But, no. When I finally get up to the fiftieth floor, I find him in his office with papers spread across the desk Graham and I so thoroughly defiled.

He pauses and looks up from the document in front of him, forehead creasing as his gray-brown brow curves. “That was fast.”

His tone is odd. Neither appreciative nor disapproving. His eyes work over my casual clothes, lingering too long on the way the navy camisole stretches over my chest. Something smug slinks across his expression. “Were you in the neighborhood?”

I don’t know why, but his tone has me fighting the urge to squint at him. Tossing my hair back, I swallow my suspicion and cross my arms over my body. “You said I was on-call, so I made myself available.”

This time, I swear he almost smiles. “I bet you did.”

Dios mío. Seriously? Wait until I tell⁠—

But I can’t tell Graham now. Or ever.

Unless I call him and—what? Explain? Apologize? Pretend all the reasons that made me walk out that door will somehow disappear because love conquers all?

No. No. Because I’m not in love.

The squeeze in my lungs feels like a lie—a sharp scrape of complete falseness. Dizzy disbelief buzzes behind my heart as it breaks into a sprint. Because—Lord help me—do I love Graham Everett?

I’m not sure, but I know that there’s more to this feeling. The sensation skittering down my spine isn’t guilt—or even the same restless anxiety I had when I woke up this morning.

This feels more like a true fight-or-flight response. The sort that has my breath catching in my throat while my muscles lock in place.

Maybe I need therapy. If I’m this terrified to process my own feelings⁠—

But, no. It isn’t that.

In fact, as Dominic’s smirk splits into a slimy smile, Graham is all I want. The thought of him only being a phone call away—and the fact that I know, no matter what I’ve done, no matter what we are, he’d come for me—is the only thing that allows me to ignore my irrational instincts.

This isn’t a monster. It’s just Dominic being his usual sleazy self.

So why do I feel like I should be running?

As if aiming to prove how ridiculous my nerves are, he gestures at the stack of files on the low table between the two armchairs that face his desk. “Those are your copies.”

Shaking off my temporary insanity, I manage to take four stiff steps forward. Just pick up the damn folders and then go back to your own desk and call⁠—

Dominic watches while I pluck up the pile. “Go ahead and get settled. Then we can go over everything.”

I stride out to my workspace and set the files down. Blowing out a deep breath, I look over at my phone and decide to tell Graham I want to come back and talk to him as soon as I’m done here.

I swipe at his name, but the call goes straight to voicemail.

My stomach drops and rolls. I hang up before leaving a message and start to type a text, but Dominic says my name.

“Juliet? I want you to look at something for me.”

My shoulders flinch—and that pisses me off.

What is my problem? I’m at work. This is what I’m good at. There’s no reason to melt down because of a guy.

Either of these guys.

I stand taller. I can do this.

Dominic’s casual posture mocks the frantic charge zipping through my blood. He pushes a contract over the other pages strewn across his desk and nods at it. “Can you look at the paragraph I highlighted?”

Feeling like I’m losing my mind, I force myself back into the room and pick up the papers. It’s one of our standard employment contracts. A bunch of typical stuff like non-disclosure, company confidentiality, and codes of conduct.

The highlighted section is an especially strict clause from a contract for someone in our security department. It outlines the repercussions of tampering with or deleting recorded footage, up to and including termination.

I nod along as I read. “Yes, this is correct. I went through it with HR for a new hire last month.”

Dominic hums. “Good. And this one?”

Another contract appears before me. This time, a whole page has been tabbed. Specifically, the one prohibiting fraternization between Stryker & Sons employees… or independent contractors.

Like Graham.

I know it’s right because I’ve read this particular page dozens of times since I met him. I’m well aware the final paragraph details the consequences of such an affair—including immediate termination and possible criminal charges if any indecent exposure occurs on company property.

Suddenly light-headed, I nod again. “Yes. This is also standard.” A small spark of hope flickers in my middle. “Did Mr. Stryker ask you to adjust these?”

Dominic still sounds completely at ease, but his eyes slowly work their way up and down my body. “No. I like to do periodic reviews to make sure our language is current and clear. Keep us all… sharp.”

His gaze snaps back to mine, the gray shifting. This time I do actually take a step back, clutching the papers in my hand. “Is there anything else you need me to look at?”

My boss’s thin lips ghost up. “Just one more thing.”

He rolls his chair back, creating space to wave me around his desk. Gesturing at the screen, he points and says, “What do you think about this?”

It’s a video.

Recorded at night, from what appears to be his computer monitor’s built-in webcam. The lens focuses through the dark office, catching on movement.

On a man in burgundy joggers and a high-end coat.

A flash of yellow fills the screen next. My dress. The one I had on the night Graham and I snuck in here to—to⁠—

“We can’t do it on my boss’s desk,” I hear myself protest on the video. “Someone will know.”

Graham’s arm sweeps all Dominic’s stuff aside, his handsome face wreathed in shadows and the glow of the city outside the window as he sets me on the edge of the smoked glass and braces his hands beside my hips.

“Good,” his recorded voice replies, rough and smooth at the same time. “I hope that bastard does know. I hope he can sense that I’ve had you in his chair. I want him to sit here and know that I made you come all over his desk with my mouth. Then bent you over his keyboard and fucked you raw.”

I might faint. Or scream.

Some inhumane sound snags in my throat as Dominic chuckles, tilting his head at me. “That’s my favorite part, I think. Well, that and⁠—”

He fast-forwards, making sure I see exactly how much bare skin is displayed. Finally, he stops the recording on an absolutely damning frame.

Me, draped over his keyboard. With my dress rucked up around my ribs and my entire backside bathed in the light from the window… while Graham stands behind me, thrusting in and out.

Oh my God. His computer must have been set to start recording automatically if anyone disturbed it. And he’s had this tape for almost two weeks.

How many times has he watched it?

“You know what I love most about this part?” Dominic asks, his steely eyes glinting with malice. “Besides the fact that it clearly shows both of your faces for anyone else who might see it? I love that it’s a perfect preview of what I have planned for you.”

…or else.

He doesn’t even have to make the threat. It’s implied.

That’s why he showed me those employment contracts—mine and Marco’s. The policy that would get me fired for fraternization; the one that would cost my primo his job for turning the cameras off.

My eyes dart to the black bulb fixed to the ceiling outside Dominic’s glass office wall. Watching this—a moment he’s so carefully crafted to look completely innocent.

Just a junior attorney reviewing whatever her boss is pointing to on his screen. The screen that conveniently faces a window and none of the cameras.

My stomach gives a sickening clench as I stagger back. Malicious amusement fills Dominic’s features. He sits forward and warns, “Careful now. No reactions for the camera to record. I’m sure you don’t want Mr. Stryker wondering what all the fuss is about.”

He nods back at the monitor, where—God help me—Graham has bent even closer to the lens, his face buried against my neck while he drives into me so hard, the video shakes with every thrust.

“Although,” Dominic adds, faking thoughtfulness. “Maybe you wouldn’t mind Mr. Stryker seeing.”

I whip my head to face him. A flare of victory fills his eyes. “And in that case,” he adds, “I suppose you wouldn’t mind me posting it online either.”

Fuck this smart, sick bastard. He knows every news outlet in the city is rabid for content surrounding the Strykers and their friends. A video like this—of Grayson’s best friend fucking one of his employees at work—would go viral instantly.

If that happens, it won’t just be that Marco and I lose our jobs.

Graham will lose Grayson.

Even if I somehow convince Dominic not to post it… the second Mr. Stryker sees us flagrantly flying in the face of all his rules and all the warnings he gave his best friend…

Their friendship will be over.

Along with Graham’s career.

And mine.

I feel myself inhaling—my chest rising and falling too fast—but my face is numb. I lock my features into an unreadable mask, the security camera’s stare burning against my profile.

“What do you want?”

I’m afraid I already know. And it makes me sick—the thought of Dominic touching me. The thought of anyone other than the one man I want.

But what’s worse—letting this sick asshole have what he’s clearly wanted all along?

Or letting him ruin Graham?

fifty-eight

“Do you think he’s awake?”

Ella’s whispers pull me from my dream. A very pleasant one, where Juliet and I are back on the floor of my closet, but with much softer carpet.

Cracking my eyes open sends a jolt of pain through my skull. Right, my weak mind rasps. I’m on Grayson’s couch. Because I’m the most miserable, sorry son-of-a-bitch in Manhattan. And he had to rescue my dumb ass from a bar last night.

As if on cue, my insides seize up, clutching and roiling. I squeeze my eyes shut again, willing myself not to puke all over Stryker’s white leather sofa. One unfortunate vomit incident per week is my absolute limit.

“Probably not, if he knows what’s good for him,” Grayson mumbles back. “I thought he sobered up a bit after you made him dinner, but that last fifth of scotch really knocked him out. I haven’t seen him that fucked up since his whole spring-break-jellyfish thing.”

Usually when my friend brings up his favorite embarrassing memory, he laughs. But his voice is quiet. Troubled.

“I’ve never seen him like this,” Ella murmurs. “He’s wearing a hoodie, Gray.”

My best friend sighs heavily. “There’s something going on with his father’s company and his brother. He told me some of it about last night, but he was wasted, and it’s… a legal matter. I promise I’ll tell you more when I can, Ellie.”

I hear her kiss him. Jesus. Maybe it was a mistake to come to their love nest while distinctly lovesick.

More kissing. Then Ella gives a quiet hum. “I’m so worried about him, Gray. Are we sure this is all about work? There isn’t something else? Look at him.”

A long, ominous pause proves I look as shitty as I feel… and Grayson is suspicious.

My gut clenches. If waking up here proves anything, it’s how much Stryker means to me. He’s the brother I chose—the one who chose me.

With my father worse than a stranger, Juliet gone, and Christian fucked-up... Grayson is the only family I have.

Once he finds out I’ve been fucking Juliet, will he finally give up on me? Who would blame him?

Finally, Grayson speaks again. “I’ll figure it out, baby girl. I don’t want you to worry.”

I hear a quiet sigh. “You know I’m bad at not worrying,” Ella admits, resigned.

A smile warms Grayson’s voice. “That’s why I love you, Ellie.”

“I love you, too.”

I never got to hear Juliet say those words. Because she doesn’t love me.

Somewhere around my fifth scotch, I realized—all that time I spent falling deeper and harder? To her, I was just a paycheck and a hard dick.

The bitterness of that thought strikes me, burning through my haze like a hot coal melting gauze. The flicker of outrage flares under the heap of ash where my heart used to be.

I grab it eagerly, using it as motivation, dragging myself upright with a loud grunt. The unfamiliar room spins on its side, blurring as my stomach lurches again.

Right, my feeble brain murmurs. I’ve never been here before. This is their new townhouse.

Honestly, what the fuck? How many things can I screw up in one month? Waking up hungover and heartbroken on their couch was not the housewarming I had in mind for my best friends.

“Christ,” I mutter, dropping my face to my hands.

Grayson settles onto the sofa beside me. He passes me a mug of coffee. “Keep your eyes closed and drink this fast.”

Too weak to argue, I snap my eyes shut and gulp. The contents of the mug are lukewarm, but they still scorch a path down my throat.

Whiskey. I nearly gag.

“I told him not to put liquor in there,” Ella mumbles, coming to sit on my other side. Her hand brushes over my arm, the gesturing comforting. “He insisted it’s the only thing to help your hangover.”

I feel Grayson shrug. “Unless he wants an IV. I can call someone.”

My insides protest violently for a long second as the coffee blazes its path to my stomach. There, the warmth flares out and settles. Languid numbness smothers my nausea.

Relieved not to blow chunks all over their brand-new living room, I tilt my head back and chance cracking my eyes open. Blinding white, the stark, high ceiling reflects morning down at me. I cringe. “Damn it, Stryker, why is your house so bright?”

“I like natural light,” Ella chirps. “The windows are my favorite thing about this room.”

My retinas burn. “Remind me to look around when my retinas regenerate.”

“You’re not missing much,” Grayson claims. “We’ve only been back for thirty-six hours. The movers did what they could, but going from four rooms to twenty-four makes for a whole lot of empty. Doesn’t help that the lady of the house refuses to shop for furniture.”

Holding my breath, I force myself to sit up and look around. The Upper West Side townhome is a magnificent find. Pre-war but fully renovated, it has classic charm and modern amenities; Ella’s warmth and Grayson’s trademark minimalism.

We appear to be in a living room of some sort. I spy a balcony out back and realize we aren’t at ground level. Off to the right, there’s an elevator disguised as a set of gilded mercury glass doors.

“How many floors do you guys have?”

Ella groans, “Please don’t remind me,” at the same moment Grayson clips, “Seven.”

Obviously, this is a sore subject.

“One of them is a basement,” she rushes to add, obviously chagrinned. “And the top is an outdoor living area.”

Grayson smiles into his own coffee while he points out, “A basement with a five-car garage, a theater room, a gym, and a security office for Marco. Kitchen, dining, drawing room, and formal living on the first floor. Master bedroom, bathroom, dressing rooms, and sunroom on the third. This is the second floor—informal living, Ella’s library, and the solarium.” He rolls his shoulders again. “The other floors are just my office, guest rooms, and a terrace each.”

Jesus. No wonder he dropped thirty-five mil on the place.

I note the sheer size of the one room we sit in. They must have a quarter of the block. “Where the fuck are we anyway?”

“West 75th and Amsterdam,” he says. “Ish. We have a good chunk of the block, so it’s hard to determine which cross street is actually closest.”

Ella’s cheeks pinken while she fidgets with her homemade sweater. “I once told Gray I liked the view of the San Remo,” she murmurs.

I can’t fault her for that. The San Remo is a famous New York co-op facing Central Park. The building itself is beautiful. I’ve always secretly liked it, despite growing up on the East Side.

And then something horrible happens.

For a few seconds, my stupid, sluggish mind forgets. And I find myself picturing what it would be like if I took a cue from my best friend, sold my bachelor pad, and bought a real family place.

Jules would like the San Remo, I think stupidly. She could have her own office. All purples, if she wants.

Like a bucket of frigid water, reality rushes back over me.

I swallow hard, hoping neither Ella nor Grayson noticed my expression. My friend is watching his fiancée, but, unfortunately, she has her eyes on me. The hand resting on my arm slides down to grip my hand. She lays her blonde head against my shoulder.

“Oh, Graham,” she says softly. “I’m sorry. We shouldn’t be talking about all of this right now.”

I want to laugh it off, stuff it down. I mean, am I seriously so fucked that I can’t be happy for them? But every time I try to reassure her, I can’t speak.

Grayson coughs. “Right. Sorry.”

Ella pats my cheek. It reminds me of Abuelita. Another blade of pain slices through me, followed by a staggering wave of guilt.

I all but promised to take care of her granddaughter. And I failed. Just like the other men that failed them before me. I need to call her.

That’s the right thing to do. I also have to deal with the Valentine’s gift I already purchased.

While that stone sinks into my center, Ella stands. And—I swear—I’m so fucking depressed I can’t even enjoy the way her sweater rides up in the back when she stretches.

“I’m going to go start breakfast. Do we want waffles or pancakes?” she asks no one in particular, then answers herself, “You know what? I’ll make both. And eggs.”

She pauses, looking around the big room before shaking her head at herself, stomping over to the elevator and muttering, “Ridiculous to have to use a damn elevator to make my fiancé breakfast.”

Grayson stares straight ahead, doing his best to keep his lips straight. Once Ella disappears behind the mercury glass doors, I drink another burning mouthful of cool coffee and sarcastically quip, “So it’s going well, then?”

His good humor gets the best of him for a beat, turning his mouth up at the corners. “She’ll get used to it. Yesterday, she wouldn’t even use the elevator. Spent the entire day walking up and down the stairs. By dinner, her legs were shaking.”

That sounds like Ella. She would never complain about Grayson’s largesse. She’d just stage a peaceful protest and inadvertently martyr herself in the process.

“Well, she got in it today,” I point out. “Wonder what changed her mind.”

That time, he can’t get a hold of his grin. “Something must have gotten into her…”

I know that look. Smug, but trying to be a gentleman. It’s the same one I had when Christian asked why my back hurt.

“You bastard,” I mumble. “Seducing that sweet girl to the dark side. You should be ashamed. So did you do it in the elevator, or…?”

“Mind your own business, shithead.”

My mind whirls, wondering what my business even is anymore. “Hard to do when you don’t have any. No career, no family.” No Jules. “And, soon, no money.”

Grayson and I have been friends for a long time. We don’t need a lot of words. Instead, he sits back and settles in, making it clear he isn’t going anywhere.

And—fuck—I can’t tell him.

I won’t.

It’s better this way, isn’t it? He’ll just continue pitying me instead of hating my guts—and Juliet won’t lose everything she’s worked so hard for.

For some reason, that’s the thought that solidifies my decision. She isn’t mine and maybe never was—but I love her. I will always protect her when I can.

I drink another slug of coffee, staring out the window with Grayson. It’s a nice view. Trees, other beautiful townhomes across the street, the San Remo’s towers beyond.

“Hey, Grayson?”

“Yeah?”

“What does pinchao mean?”

He smirks at the memory of Miss Rivera handing me my own ass. “Pretty boy.”

A hopeless laugh scrapes up my throat. Because, damn it all, she’s funny. And brilliant and sharp and beautiful.

And all of the things I’ll never have again.

Bittersweet hits my heart like an arrow.

What a fucking bitch.

I miss her already.

fifty-nine

The smell of ajiaco meets me on the stairs. Tears flood my eyes, part shame and part gratitude.

I spent the night at the office, too scared and emotional to make it home after Dominic issued his ultimatum. Being the calculating piece of shit he is, my boss didn’t make me decide on the spot. He told me I had until Wednesday night.

And that he’d get us a room “somewhere nice.”

It didn’t help that, to my dismay, Graham called me back three times this morning. I let each one roll to voicemail, knowing the second I heard his voice, I would break and tell him everything.

And he would turn Dominic in—or kill him. Either of which would have the same result as letting the bastard go to Mr. Stryker.

Still, I must have picked up my phone to return his call over a hundred times. It feels wrong, not telling him. Not going to him with this huge problem—because that’s what we do.

When something is wrong, we tell each other. We plot together. We fight.

Partners in crime.

But if he knew, he would tear Dominic in two. And then Grayson would know.

I’d lose my job. Marco might, too. And Graham would lose his best friend.

I dash the bitter tears out of my eyes, wondering how Abuelita somehow knew I’d had the weekend from hell and decided to make my favorite meal.

Unless something else is wrong.

I push into the tiny apartment and pause on the threshold. There she is, tiny and stooped, at her cramped countertop, cooking.

It all feels so much smaller than ever before. And so do I.

Abuelita doesn’t glance up at me. I can tell from the tight set of her shoulders how angry she is that I’ve been gone for damn-near three days with no explanation. But she still ladles soup into two bowls and points her chin at our table. “You sit.”

All the fight I’ve spent hours storing up drains right out of me. I slump into my usual chair. “I should have called. Lo siento, Abuelita.” I stare down into my supper, wondering again how she knew I needed it. “Why did you make ajiaco?”

Abuelita slowly lowers herself across from me. She picks up her spoon looking up. “El pinchao call today. He say tu necesita.”

A scratchy lump lodges itself in my throat. My voice trembles. “What else did el pinchao say?”

“Same as you,” she mutters, then pins me with a searching look. “‘Lo siento, Abuelita.’”

sixty

By Monday morning, I’ve called Juliet back five times and I have to take two showers to wash away the scotch oozing from my pores—one before my workout and another after.

I do my usual Monday shave and pick a boring-ass suit without a flicker of feeling. Ordinarily, I reserve my plain navy set for depressing shit like wakes. And I typically pair it some sort of colorful vest, shirt, or tie.

Not today. White shirt, no vest, a blue tweed tie.

Hell. I look like my dad.

Ironic, considering my destination.

It isn’t lost on me that I haven’t heard from him since Friday. He sent a few indignant texts asking me what the hell was wrong before cutting all contact completely. My concierge informed me that he tried to come by Saturday afternoon while I was at a bar pouring liquor down my throat. Per my instructions, they sent him away.

I’m fairly certain he knows that I’ve figured him out. If he truly didn’t understand my knock-out punch, he’d probably still be trying to get in touch with me.

In any case, it will probably become clear to him that I have no intention of speaking to him again when I don’t show up for work today.

Instead of calling a car on the Everett Alexander account, I hail a taxi. “Federal Plaza.”

The cabbie grunts and charts our course. Out the dirty window, I watch the Lower East Side smudge into Downtown. My fingertips rap against the briefcase full of evidence at my side.

After twenty excruciating minutes, I find myself in the charmless office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Specifically, the Department of Justice.

The nearest agent catches sight of me and stops in his tracks. “You lost?”

I search inside myself one final time, looking for a shred of doubt or dread or anything. But resounding emptiness roars back at me. Even with everything on the line, I have nothing left to lose.

Because I already lost her.

“No,” I determine. “My name is Graham Everett. My father owns one of the biggest investment firms in Manhattan. I’m here to report him for fraud.”

sixty-one

By Wednesday, I’m pretty sure Dominic is more than a sick, entitled piece of shit.

I think he may also be an accomplished sadist.

He’s spent two full work days doing everything in his power to rattle me. Calling me into his office dozens of times, looking me up and down suggestively… before asking a totally innocuous question or giving me an easy order.

Gaslighting me with every action—until, by Wednesday, I’m questioning if he truly threatened to ruin my entire life. Or if I might be insane.

Am I avoiding Graham and his attempts to reach out for no reason?

Did I invent this entire thing as some advanced form of denial?

But, no. It’s there in Dominic’s eyes. The malice. The victory.

He knows I can’t ask anyone for help without losing everything. Even so, I’ve considered it. Going to Grayson. Marco. The police. Anyone.

Every time I start to waver, the thought of Graham keeps me steady. Because I may not know how I feel about him or if I’ll ever be able to tell him any of this—but I know the idea of Dominic taking Grayson from him makes me furious.

My boss can fuck with me all he wants, but not my pinchao.

If that means I have to be smarter and tougher to figure a way out of this…

I stride into the legal department and go about the motions of setting up for the day, keeping one eye on Dominic’s office. He isn’t in yet, but a frisson of unease still rips up my spine.

Tonight is supposed to be the night that he gets us a room, which means he’ll have to approach me about it again at some point. I just have to be patient and soon I’ll have proof I haven’t lost my mind.

For a second, when I reach my workspace, I have to question everything all over again. Surely, if Graham and I really broke up, there wouldn’t be a red rectangular box wrapped beside my computer…

Did he forget he had something on order? I assume so, since the courier slip under the gift says it was purchased and mailed on Friday.

I hesitate, knowing he likely wouldn’t want me to open it now—but also needing to know what he thought I wanted.

The executive floor is still quiet—I’ve been early every morning this week because I’ve taken the train, not trusting myself to be alone in a car with Marco. I still look around before untying the silk ribbon, freeing the small notecard under the bow.

Bijou,

Valentine’s gift one of many.

Get used to it.

Yours, G

I smirk—or maybe that’s a sniffle. Either way, my eyes are full of tears as I pry the lid off the box and find two slips of paper inside.

Plane tickets.

To Colombia.

For Juliet Rivera and Graham Everett.

It’s literally the only gift I can think of that could possibly mean this much to me. Everything, really.

He wanted to meet my mother. And see where I came from. To know me better—and be there for me, too.

I can’t quite swallow the sob that scales my throat as my eyes spill over. Silence seems to swell around me, underscoring the burning desire to hear his voice. Feel his arms around me and his hand on the back of my head. Watching him fish out that goddamned red handkerchief to dry my tears.

This time, the temptation is too great. I pull my phone out and stare at the missed calls from Graham. My thumb hovers over his name, a rush spinning through my body as I⁠—

“Good morning, Jules.”

Dominic.

He’s standing in the entrance to the department, watching me with cold, probing eyes. Startling, I fumble the phone in my hand, barely managing to swipe into another app before dropping the device and spinning to face him.

That chilling gaze moves over my fitted green dress before snapping to the unwrapped gift. A hard gleam glazes his gray irises as he sneers, “Another gift? We certainly are… popular.”

He stares right at my crossed thighs as he says the last word, leaving his meaning clear. Since he made his initial threat, I’ve realized that he really is a good lawyer. Everything with him is implied, never explicit. Not that it matters right now—without anyone else in our department yet, there are no witnesses.

Just his word against mine.

He clips toward me, perching himself on the edge of my desk. It’s the boldest move he’s made all week, and he notices the way I glance at the same black bulb affixed to the ceiling, reminding him that someone is watching.

His expression is mildly more pleasant when I turn back in his direction; although, I still see the menace smoldering under his mask. His voice drops into a low murmur.

“I’m assuming whoever sent you this doesn’t know you’ll be on your knees for me tonight.” His mouth quirks into a slick smile. “Don’t worry, I can be discreet. And I know you can, too.”

It’s another thinly veiled threat. A reminder that he has his marriage and reputation to guard—and if I try to get any evidence of whatever happens tonight to hold against me, he’ll release his own ammo.

Nausea turns my stomach inside out as I force myself to nod, balling my hands into fists. “Yes, sir.”

Victory sails through his eyes. His left hand—the one not facing the camera—reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a keycard and his phone, letting the plastic fall onto my desk and moving his phone into his other hand. Another carefully calculated move; security will just see him taking his cell out, not leaving me a hotel key.

“The Pierre. Eight o'clock, tonight,” he says, standing with a parting sneer. “Don’t be late.”

sixty-two

“So,” Chris says, biting into his pizza. “Are you going to tell me why you’re here?”

Over the week, our meals have moved from his bedside to a small table in the corner of his room. Beside it, a dark window offers a view of Chelsea’s nightlife.

Not that either of us can partake in it. According to his doctors, Christian won’t be going out anytime soon. And, once he does, bars and clubs will be low on the list.

I watch a taxi drop off a gaggle of girls just up the block and shove my own slice into my mouth. “The fuck do you mean?” I grumble. “I’m here every day.”

It’s true. He knows about Juliet leaving me, how I had to hire Ava and a new lawyer, and—finally—all about the fraud situation.

That one was tricky; I actually asked one of his therapists to be present when I told him. He took it all surprisingly well, though I suspect he may still be in denial.

“Yeah,” he replies, chewing. “You’re here every day. But it’s nighttime. Shouldn’t you be out? Moving on or something?”

Probably.

But my traitorous dick wants nothing to do with even the idea of another woman.

I’ve discovered that unrequited love does strange things to one’s libido. The rest of me might be in agony, but my stupid cock didn’t get the memo. He still thoroughly approves of anything to do with Juliet and has no reaction to anyone or anything else.

“Can’t,” I report. “Not up for it.”

My brother stares at me for a moment too long. “So Juliet hasn’t called again?”

A bolt of pain sticks itself in my gullet. I swallow hard. “No. We haven’t spoken. I don’t expect we will anytime soon. I’m going to send her clothes to her and⁠—”

I catch myself right before I say, “—and the ring I moronically purchased is locked in the offices of Everett Alexander that I no longer have access to.”

Christian pushes his dinner away, disgusted. “Did the new lawyer say anything else?” he asks, ever-serious. “I’m worried about G&C Capital. I don’t want you to lose your venture because you’re trying to protect me, Graham.”

I kick my heels out and shrug. Too late.

“It’s done. The feds have the case. They’ve promised not to prosecute you or me for fraud or embezzlement in exchange for my testimony. But G&C is fair game unless I can somehow prove I decided to start the business before I figured out what Dad was doing. By the way, they’re going to do a forensic deep-dive into your bank account, too.”

A dark smirk twists his mouth. “Well, there isn’t jack-shit in my account. I made damn sure of that.”

I still can’t believe he blew through his entire savings. Sure, his trust was significantly smaller than mine. But, still.

Unless I figure out a way to keep myself solvent, he won’t have any money to pay for school. Or his rehab.

I clap a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Exactly. They’ll look at the accounts, see we haven’t benefited from what Dad did in any way, and let us go on our way.”

Maybe. I hope.

I put on all the bravado I can muster; but inside, I’m not so certain. The money I earned for Stryker and myself grows every day. If the FBI takes the stance that I only made that money after starting my own company as a safety net to escape my father’s fraud, it makes me partially complicit. They’ll take every cent.

Not to mention, I have contracts on hold. I don’t want to sign them until I know I’ll be able to fulfill them. With the added scrutiny from the investigation, I can’t afford to do anything remotely shady. And eventually, I need to come clean to my clients before they catch wind of Everett Alexander’s demise.

“Ava is on it,” I go on, bolstering myself as much as him. “She’s launched her plan of attack. It’s all going to be fine.”

It has to be. I’m all Christian has now. I need to step up for him.

The wheels of my mind spin. “And,” I add, recalling his living situation, “as soon as you’re ready, I’ll get you out of here, and I can pay your tuition with the money I’m currently using on this place.”

My monologue trails off when I see the look on his face. Christian is always a grim motherfucker, but I’ve honestly never seen him look so solemn. Or doubtful.

“Graham,” he finally says, blowing out a breath. “I need to stay here.”

“Yeah,” I agree, not following. “Of course you need to be here right now, but soon, when you’re better, we’ll⁠—”

He shakes his head again. “I’m not going to get better, Graham.”

His blue eyes meet mine, icy seas of regret. His meaning sinks in bit by bit.

“But,” I start, wanting to believe, “you will, Chris. Before you know it. You’ll see⁠—”

For the first time in as long as I can remember, he interrupts. And he sounds angry. “Do you remember last week when I asked you about your back hurting?”

Because of Jules. I repress a wince. “Yeah…”

His features stretch into a bleak facsimile of a smile. “Do you know why I asked you that?”

“…because I was acting weird?”

“Because I wanted to know if you had a back problem in order to figure out whether you might have painkillers at your place,” he explodes. “My own brother, who is paying for my rehab, came to visit me and bring me lunch. I saw you were in pain; and the first thing to come into my brain was how to get my hands on whatever you might be taking so I could steal it from you.”

Chris sits back, glaring, and demands, “Do you get it now? Do you understand? It will never be safe for me to be around normal people. I’m practically deranged.”

I have no idea what to say to him.

Because, well, he sort of has a point. His admission does make him sound like a heartless fiend hell-bent on his own destruction.

“You’re not well, Chris, but that’s why you’re here,” I argue. “To get better. I’m going to help you.”

He folds his arms, his face turning to stone. “And what if you can’t help me? What if you just gave up your inheritance, your company, our family name, Dad…? And—fuck, Graham—Juliet. You should have seen the way you looked when you talked about her and now she’s gone. Because of me. Your whole life is fucked-up because of me. What if you gave all of that up to pursue this case and preserve my name, and I turn out to be a useless junkie for the rest of my life?”

I sit completely still. Tension grips the air between us. The horrible silence expands, swelling with all the dismal possibilities haunting us both.

His voice cracks in the quiet. “I—I think I need to be alone.”

In the end, I only leave because I honestly can’t think of a single goddamn thing to say. I tell him I’ll be back tomorrow with breakfast or lunch and suggest we hit up the exercise facilities together, but he barely meets my gaze as I walk out of his room.

I fight the impulse to call Juliet with herculean effort. And I almost make it home. Until the car hits the Lower East Side and I realize we’re stopped right next to the alleyway where I almost ripped her dress off because she wouldn’t buckle her damned coat.

I stare down the dark passage for a long second, remembering how she clung to me. How hot and wet she got… how she gripped my cock when she slid her hand into my pants. And then, just moments later, how she sprang into action and helped me find my brother.

Before I finish forming my decision, I find myself with my phone to my ear, listening to it ring.

She’s been ignoring you for days, I jeer at myself. There’s no way in hell she’ll pick up. She’s probably out finding a new guy to spend “just one night” with.

Unless she figures she doesn’t have to uphold her old rule now that I smashed it to bits.

Oh God. I didn’t even think of that. Am I the reason some other jackass will get to have her over and over and over and⁠—

“Hello?”

I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until I hear her voice. “Juliet.”

“Yes,” she replies, hoarse. “It’s me.”

Her voice sends alarm bells clanging through my mind. I immediately sit up, my chest tightening. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“I’m…” She takes a long time to answer, and when she does, she sounds so defeated. “I’m just… at home. Are you okay?”

Say yes. Say, “Sorry, wrong number.” Make a joke or smirk or anything but⁠—

“No,” I admit, because even though she ruined me, I still can’t lie to her. “I just left Christian and…” There’s a chance I lost you for nothing. “No, I’m not okay.”

Shock seems to bring her back to life. “Is he all right?” she demands. “He’s still in the treatment center, right? He didn’t check himself out or get lost or anything?”

Somehow, her concern hurts worse than apathy. More proof she’s exactly who I’ve always thought she was—the person I adore.

“He’s physically fine,” I sigh, leaning against the car window. “Just depressed and hopeless. He’s probably feeling a lot of pressure, because I gave up so much to clear his name. Now he thinks he has to prove he’s worth it or something.”

Juliet sounds outraged on my behalf. “You would never think that! Did you tell him that’s crazy?”

My fire-filled bijou. Always ready to fight. For me.

Ah, God.

Is it possible to have a heart attack from longing? The pain in my chest seems unbearable. Everything in me throbs, begging to throw what little pride I have left aside and crawl back to her.

“I tried,” I croak. “He thinks I don’t understand how sick he is.”

Her voice softens to the tone I love most. “Do you think you understand it?”

I close my eyes. “I thought I did, but tonight he told me something fucked up. And I realized he likely has dozens of similar stories I’d find equally chilling. Or worse. So now I’m really just thinking that I don’t know shit.”

About anything, I want to add. Like why you finally answered me.

My cab stops. Wordlessly, I pay the man and get out, pausing to stare up at my own building. Dreading the quiet, sanitary solitude I’ll find once I get home. Words just tear out of me; ripped from the place where the desperation wells.

“Why did you answer?”

Juliet’s voice sounds thick again. “Your gift came today. The tickets.”

Fucking hell. I forgot all about the damn tickets. She must have hated⁠—

“It’s,” she starts and then sniffs. “It’s the best gift anyone’s ever gotten me. I’m sorry we won’t get to go.”

Because we’re over. She left me. And me calling her like this is really fucking inappropriate.

But does that stop me?

My heart throbs. “I know,” I husk. “I’m sorry I forgot to cancel the gift. I’ve been—” in a waking nightmare.

“You’ve been…?” she urges softly.

“Missing you,” I exhale. “So goddamned much.”

There isn’t anything I can do to take it back. So I linger on the blustery street, looking upward, hating her and myself and everything that’s happened in the past week. Hating the lonely cold and the stupid hope hidden in my heart.

But hating the silence on the other end of the line most of all.

After a moment, I can’t take it anymore. I open my mouth to do damage control… only to have the words die in my throat when I hear her sniffle. Twice.

Shit. Is she crying?

“Baby, no,” I rasp. “Don’t cry.”

That only makes her sob harder. And the more I try to soothe her, the more upset she gets.

It’s the worst I’ve ever heard her. Even worse than the day her own mother broke her heart. By the time I get up to my apartment, I’m restless. Pacing the room and listening to her shuttering breaths.

Something is wrong.

I know it.

She didn’t just answer the phone because of that gift. Some other thing must have happened today—and it must be really bad.

“Juliet?” I ask. “Please. Tell me what’s wrong.”

She gasps over another sob. “I can’t, Graham. I—We’re over, okay? We have to be. I—I’m sorry.”

The line goes dead.

I stand in my silent living room, staring down at my phone. Knowing there’s only one way to figure out what happened to her today. And accepting that I’ll burn myself to the ground if that’s what it takes.

sixty-three

I hold my head high on the walk to Mr. Stryker’s office.

I know why Beth came to collect me. I knew the second I walked onto the executive floor and saw Dominic’s chair sitting empty.

He didn’t get what he wanted last night—so he’d made good on his threat.

Smoothing my palms over my plain black dress does nothing to help how clammy they are. I swallow the lump of dread in my gullet and toss my hair back, bracing for the sight of Dominic when we round the corner to the office.

It’s just Mr. Stryker, though.

And Marco.

Instead of his usual place beside the door and his typical bodyguard stance, my cousin is on Grayson’s dove-gray couch, his black-clad body bent over his knees and his fingers pressing into his forehead. When I walk in, his head snaps up, revealing furious brown eyes.

Marco’s jaw ticks but he says nothing. Deferring to Mr. Stryker, who sighs from his desk chair and waves at the seat opposite him. “Miss Rivera. Have a seat.”

I can’t quite hide the way my legs quiver as I lower myself into the supple leather Eames chair. Grayson’s green gaze tracks the motion, his scowl twitching slightly.

I wince, remembering the video footage he’s likely seen in all its horror. What he must think of me now…

I’m ready for disgust, but instead, his tone softens mildly. “Do you know why you’re here?”

I nod once. “Yes,” I rasp. “Domin—I mean, Mr. Carter.”

Mr. Stryker’s thick brows draw together. “No, actually. Graham Everett.”

Blinking in confusion, I stammer, “W-what?”

Grayson sits back with a huff. “Graham called me last night and told me.” His eyes flash meaningfully. “Everything.”

My mouth drops open as he goes on. “That he came onto you his first day in the office and continued to do so until you agreed to see him after your work for Stryker & Sons and G&C Capital concluded. That he pursued you further and hired you to work for him on the side. That he asked you to help him when he discovered his father had committed fraud.”

Lungs cramping around shallow breaths, I grip the arms of the chair I’m in to stay upright. Grayson continues, “That you broke things off with him this weekend, before he planned to explain all of this to me in hopes of preserving your job. And, most importantly, that you two had a phone call last night that concerned him so much, he felt the need to be honest with me anyway. Because he wanted me to ask Marco to review our security footage and see who had upset you.”

Silence swells through the room. My gaping mouth closes and reopens, but it’s Marco who speaks, turning both of our heads.

“The only person in the office you spoke to yesterday was Dominic Carter,” he grits. “So I went back further—over everything from the last week. Including the only other time you two had been in the office alone, on Saturday.”

Marco tosses me his phone, which has the dreaded video paused on his screen. “I did a review of all Dominic’s computer activity from that day and found this.”

Shit, he’s pissed. It’s all over his face.

I turn to Grayson, wanting to explain, but his expression is full of sadness I don’t understand. Until he says, “We called Dominic in here first thing. He told us he had never seen the tape before and denied viewing it—I suppose he wasn’t aware Marco had the ability to trace all of his actions electronically.”

That sounds like him. Pedantic, arrogant asshole.

“He’s had it—and been watching it—for weeks,” Marco puts in, waiting for my attention before he asks, “Did you know? Is that what he told you yesterday that upset you?”

The truth sticks in my throat, but I force it out. “No,” I answer earnestly, intentionally keeping my eyes on my boss. “Dominic told me on Saturday. And gave me until yesterday to agree to spend the night with him, under the threat of handing over the tape to you, Mr. Stryker, and getting both Marco and I fired. Or distributing it to the media to ruin Graham’s reputation.”

“Which is already about to go through the fucking shredder,” Grayson growls under his breath.

I nod, feeling light-headed. Because he’s right. And Graham still risked everything with the Strykers last night, all out of concern for me.

“Yes,” I rasp. “I had been playing along as well as I could, trying to⁠—”

“Protect Everett,” Marco supplies. “And me.”

My head bobs again. I cast Grayson an apologetic look. “Yes. That’s—I thought maybe I could go through with whatever Dominic wanted, to keep all of us safe. But then Graham called me last night…” I do everything I can to blink back the tears gathering in my eyes. “…and I couldn’t go through with it.”

I turn back to my cousin. “I’m sorry, Marco. I should have listened to you.”

My primo’s hard gaze loses a bit of its steel. “About Everett?” he asks.

I only hesitate for a second before shaking my head. Because I cannot—will not—deny that I cared about Graham. Especially now that I know what he put on the line to drag all of this into the light. “No, I should have listened about Dominic.”

I meet my boss’s green eyes, steadying my voice before admitting, “But I don’t regret anything I did with Graham. He and I… I know it probably sounds like some sort of cheap office fling, but it wasn’t.”

Grayson’s brows arch. “Wasn’t?” he repeats, “Or isn’t?”

He’s asking if Graham and I are really over. Which, I hope, after today… if there’s anything left of me…

“Isn’t,” I whisper back.

Mr. Stryker shares a telling glance with Marco before releasing another sigh. “Do you have any proof?” he replies. “Any evidence of Dominic trying to blackmail you?”

“Just the hotel room key,” I murmur. “And a recording of him from yesterday.”

As soon as he appeared in the department, I opened my recording app and captured our meager conversation. He only said one suggestive thing, along with the details of the hotel accommodations.

They both listen as I play my own clip; Grayson’s expression is thunderous while Marco swipes my screen to send himself a copy and then stands abruptly. “Along with all the dates from his computer, this is enough to prosecute him,” he says. “I’m calling my NYPD contact.”

Grayson stands, too. “I’ll inform HR. He’ll be terminated immediately.”

Marco breezes out as I struggle to my feet, my mouth hanging open. “He’ll be terminated?”

Mr. Stryker takes a moment to examine my expression. “Graham explained everything,” he finally replies. “The fact that he went for my employee after I told him not to is between him and me. You waited until your Stryker & Sons business with him was concluded to move your relationship forward. And whatever… misconduct occurred in Dominic’s office happened after hours.”

Stupidly, I start to argue, “But our policy covers fraternization after hours.”

Grayson gives me a meaningful quit-while-you’re-ahead look. “Does it?” he asks innocently, then shrugs. “In that case, it’s a shame I’m firing my head of legal. He’s probably the only person aside from you who has the policy memorized…”

He’s giving me an out. Letting me off the hook.

I catch the hard edge to his gaze as he meets my eye one last time, “But none of this should be an issue. Because I plan to ensure that the video doesn’t come to light. I suspect Graham will have a lot to say to you, though. He’s on his way here now.”

sixty-four

“Where is she?”

I am fuming. I’ve never been so fucking pissed in my entire life. Which is truly saying something, considering recent events.

Grayson catches me by my shoulder as I charge out of the elevator, holding me in place. “Easy,” he mutters. “I told you; she’s shaken up.” He frowns as he considers my face. “I also told you to use the car ride to calm down—remember?”

Another jolt of fury moves through me. I push against his hold. “Calm down? I’m gonna fucking kill him. Where is he? I will fucking kill him, Grayson.”

My best friend grasps both shoulders of my topcoat and the royal-blue suit jacket underneath, shaking me. “Hey. Hey! Look at me.”

It takes every modicum of control I possess to stop searching the empty executive floor for the miserable piece of shit who tried to violate Jules. Another spiral of regret whips through me. I should have known when we talked last night.

Our call replays in my mind. I figured she had another fight with her father or maybe made a mistake with her work. The fact that I never suspected her sleazeball boss shames me.

I should have known, goddamn it.

“Hey,” he says again, locking eyes with me. “Listen. I know, okay? I know the feeling. Trust me. But she’s freaked out and embarrassed. I’m not letting you in there until you get a grip.”

He thinks she’s some broken, traumatized victim who needs coddling.

I know better. Not my bijou.

Incensed by his presumption, I shove at him. “She’s not Ella,” I bellow. “I know what she needs! Now, where is she?”

Grayson drops back. His eyes flash as they run over my expression, examining me as if I’m suddenly a different person. “Pod C,” he mumbles. “Someone once pointed out that there’s a decent amount of privacy in there⁠—”

I stalk off, not even bothering to shuck my coat before I fly into Pod C and throw myself at Juliet, yanking her out of her seat. With my hand wrapped around her forearm, I spin us both into the corner where our entire affair started.

“Graham?! What the⁠—?”

“What the fuck?” I finish, raging right into her painfully beautiful face. “Yes, I agree. What the fuck were you thinking, letting that piece of shit threaten you and not telling me!”

Grayson strides into the room. “Graham, good God. This is an office.”

I stare into Juliet’s beloved face, basking in her outrage. She’s mad as hell. Full of fire, with wounded pride snapping in her topaz eyes.

My brilliant bijou.

I spread my hands on either side of her head, boxing her in between my body and the wall. “We need a minute,” I growl.

Grayson hesitates. “Juliet, are you all right with that?”

Her gaze traces my face, seeing my fury. Adoring it. “Yes,” she replies, quiet but steady. “I’ll be fine.”

I wait until I hear the door close behind him. Then I snap, glaring down at her as I demand, “What the hell is the matter with you? How could you not tell me?”

Hot color fills her high cheeks. “Me? What about you?! Telling him everything?! What were you thinking?”

“That I was protecting you, damn it!” I snarl. “You called me for a goddamned reason. Because you know that you can always come to me. You can always tell me when someone hurts you. I don’t give a fuck what our relationship status is—you come to me.”

A sheen of tears glosses her golden eyes, but it doesn’t diminish her spirit. “Fine,” Jules spits. “But if you get to protect me, then I get to protect you, too. And that’s what I was doing, pinchao. Trying to save your business and your relationship with the only friend you have!”

My chest aches as that truth finally sinks in. She’s been through hell… trying to protect me.

Was that the reason I didn’t hear from her after Saturday? Did she want to call but felt afraid?

Renewed fury pours through me at the thought. I make a strangled sound, and her stubborn little chin raises in reply. “You don’t get to be pissed at me right now,” she asserts.

My brows arch. “You have some fucking nerve. The love of my life leaves me, and then her scumbag boss assaults her, and she doesn’t even tell me he was trying to blackmail us. Leaving me to find out from someone else. Why don’t I get to be pissed at you right now?”

She’s so angry, her nose twitches. Seething, her eyes burn into mine as she yells, “Because this is our spot!”

I jerked back slightly. “Our spot?”

Juliet sniffs, embarrassed but unwilling to back down. “Yes. This is where we had our first… whatever. It’s our spot,” she replies with a regal nod. “You’re not allowed to be mad at me in our spot. You have to forgive me.”

Christ.

I love her so damn much.

The stupid spark of hope reignites in my heart. And I don’t even try to stop it as it melds into the rage burning there, kicking up into wildfire.

I cup her jaw in one hand. “I have to forgive you?”

Her gaze blazes. “Yes.”

“You know what?” I whisper, moving to press my lips to hers. “Make me.”

“You should take your coat off,” Juliet mumbles into my neck. She snuggles closer, though, making the task even less likely.

I run my hand over her hair and look down at her, curled into my lap. “It’s probably the one thing keeping this suit from getting wrinkled to hell.”

We’re on the floor, after all. Sitting in our spot.

“I like this one,” she murmurs next, fingering the paisley purple-and-blue vest. “Although, it was a bad day not to bring the red handkerchief.”

My arms tweak tighter at the thought of her crying. “I will never go anywhere without the red handkerchief again.”

She smirks. “Even if it doesn’t match your outfit, pinchao?”

My joy at holding her easily smothers the frisson of pain caused by her special nickname. I know I probably can’t keep her. I know I’ll end up having to pay for this later. But I’m just so damn happy; I convince myself it’s a fair trade.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I scoff, keeping my tone offhand. “I’ll tuck it into the inside pocket if it doesn’t match the suit. I’m not an animal.”

Her giggle tickles my throat. I practically hear her roll her eyes. “Que gonorrea.”

Everything precious about her hits me all at once. I duck my face to hide in her hair, breathing in her jasmine scent and reassuring myself.

Safe. She’s safe. She’s okay.

Out loud, I mutter, “I don’t think I’ve ever been this close to murdering someone before.”

“You can’t⁠—”

“Do anything,” I finish for her, scowling. “I know, I know. I can’t say anything. I can’t do anything. Story of my fucking life.”

I grind my molars for a moment, stewing. “What would hurt more—being decapitated by a trash compactor or having a thousand shallow stab wounds and then getting drowned in a bathtub full of wine?”

A startled laugh blurts out of her. “What?”

“When I kill him,” I go on, my tone utterly serious. “I want it to hurt. My building has a trash compactor. That would be quick, I suppose. Cleaner, too. But I love the idea of stabbing him⁠—”

“Graham!” she snickers, flicking her hand at my chest. “Don’t even joke about that.”

Lord, how I love to make her laugh.

I cover her fingers with my palm, holding them against my chest. “I’m not joking. I honestly think the bathtub is the way to go. I’ll even let you do the stabbing, if you like.”

She shrugs one shoulder, deciding to play along. “I don’t think I’ve have the restraint to make shallow cuts. You better do the stabbing.”

“Suppose I’ll need a new tub after,” I muse, tilting my head back to look up at the ceiling. “And probably some more wine.”

“There are much better uses for your tub,” she points out, brushing her lips over my earlobe. “And your wine.”

Overeager, my dumb dick stirs beneath her. Poor bastard doesn’t know any better. Unlike me, he doesn’t have the foresight to see this fleeting moment for what it is.

“Stop trying to seduce me,” I tell her, mostly to keep from getting ahead of myself. “You’re still in trouble. This is a temporary, location-based truce.”

She makes a content sound and settles her head back into my shoulder. “We’ve been in here a while… What do you think they’re doing out there?”

“Firing that ass-clown,” I grumble, repressing the urge to bolt to my feet and rush out to beat him to death. “Giving the police your evidence. I’m sure Marco and security will escort him out.”

Juliet shrinks slightly, her eyes squeezing shut. “Let’s talk about something else. Tell me about what’s going on with your case.”

With bone-deep weariness, I relay the latest information. Juliet listens, tipping her head back occasionally to give me certain looks. When I finish, I find her chewing on the sides of her lips, thinking hard.

“So, unless Grayson or I submit testimony saying you came up with the idea for G&C Capital a week before you actually did… and we both claim that you mentioned it to us on… oh, say, that first Friday? The morning we met? Unless there’s some sort of evidence to support that claim, you will lose your company?”

I nod, numb to the situation. “Yep.”

Juliet searches my face, her gaze wary. “Then… why didn’t you ask either of us to testify?”

I hold her eyes with mine, needing her to see my earnestness. “Because that would involve you—an officer of the court—lying under oath. And my best friend—a soon-to-be-married CEO—committing perjury. You could both be charged. You could be disbarred. It’s not an option. I would never even consider it.”

Something bright and bold flares in her gaze. If I wasn’t so certain—for so many reasons—that it’s impossible, I might think it was love.

sixty-five

I nuzzle my face into Graham’s solid warmth. On the floor next to us, my phone displays an unknown number and I ignore it.

Clutching his jacket in my hands, I pulled myself closer. “Graham?”

He drops another kiss on my forehead. “Hmm?”

“I’m really glad you’re here.”

It is a relief to admit it, even if I have no idea what the words mean for me. He knows what they mean for him, though—and adoration shines in his dark eyes as he pins my gaze. “I will always be here, Juliet.”

Heat trickles down, gathering low in my belly. I shift in his lap, wanting to feel his body grind into mine. As soon as I settle the curve of my backside against his erection, his eyes flicker to my lips.

“Careful, bijou. It’s been too long. I can’t be held responsible for what I’ll do if you start teasing me.”

I want to laugh… or maybe just reach for his fly—but Dominic’s vicious jeer chooses that moment to intrude. His bitter words echoed in my mind. “Don’t act like you’re not a little tease who wouldn’t get on her knees in any room of this office.”

Leaning my head back, I search Graham’s features. “Do you think I’m a tease?”

His lips come down hard on mine in a fierce kiss. “No,” he says against my mouth. “Stop it. Nothing that fucking creep did is your fault. You are beautiful and professional and brilliant. He only saw a piece of ass because that’s all he wanted to see.

“Take it from a man who couldn’t keep his eyes off you the first time he saw you—the second you opened your mouth, I knew there was so much more to you than a tight dress and sexy body. And, even so, you were right to slap me that day. I deserved it. I wish you could smack him, too.”

I nearly groan. How does he always say exactly what I need to hear? Like he has a special viewfinder to peer into my soul. As I move to kiss him again—properly, this time—my phone goes off for the third time in two minutes, displaying the same phone number.

“Get it,” Graham murmurs against my cheek. “Like I said, I’ll be here.”

Scowling, I swipe at the screen. “Hello?”

“Julieta.” My father’s panicked voice fills my ear. “You must come now, mija. The baby is coming, and I have to leave.”

My mind struggles to shift gears from Graham to my dad. Once it finally processes, I balk. “Lucia’s in labor, and you have to leave?”

Graham gapes at me, mouthing, “What?”

I freeze, listening as Julio attempts to explain, “She is at Mount Sinai. I dropped her off there.”

“You dropped her off?!” I shriek, automatically struggling to my feet. “Papi, no! You have to go back for her. She can’t be alone at the hospital in labor! Have you lost your mind?”

Deafening quiet comes as my reply. Graham touches my arm—probably to remind me that everyone on the floor can hear me—but I throw his hand back at him.

“Papi,” I repeat, furious. “You go back right now or I am calling Abuelita.”

My father sounds suitably ashamed, for once. “I could not stay, Julieta. I need you to go be with her.”

“You couldn’t stay? What does that even mean?” I demand. “She needs you. Your baby needs you.”

I’m vaguely aware of Graham rising from our spot. I know, somewhere in my mind, that I should be embarrassed, but I’m not. He’ll understand.

“You told her you would help her,” my father argues. “Her, not me. So help her.”

Desperation claws up my middle. “Papi! You have to be there! Even if she leaves you, don’t you want to be a part of this baby’s life? This is your son! Tu hijo! El te necesita, Papi.”

Julio heaves out a sigh that stops me cold. His bravado slips away entirely, turning his next words into a dark, defeated confession. “You know better than anyone, mija. It’s not me that baby needs. I am no one’s father.”

All of my indignation sticks in my throat, leaving me hoarse. “Papi, por favor⁠—”

“Will you tell your baby brother that I’m sorry?”

“Papi—"

The line goes dead. I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at it. Graham’s fingers land on my wrist, bringing me back to reality.

“Where is she?” he murmurs, already dialing his phone.

“Mount Sinai.”

Belatedly, it occurs to me that my father purposefully drove his girlfriend into the city, to the hospital closest to my office… so I would be forced to go stand in for him. That particular slice of betrayal hits me especially hard. My stomach pricks at the same second my eyes fill.

Graham winds his arm around my waist, holding me against him. “I’ll call Abuelita,” he mumbles. “I hired a new car service yesterday—I’ll send them for her. You and I will hail a cab.”

I spin around in a half circle, panicked. “I can’t just leave!”

His hands cup either side of my jaw while his dark eyes melt into mine, calming me. “You have to, bijou. I’ll deal with Grayson.”

“No, Graham, I can’t—I don’t want to—” How do I explain the horrible feeling crushing my chest? Guilt and panic and absolute shock.

Abuelita picks up before I can finish. Graham’s halting, sloppy Spanish flounders through an explanation until I hold out my hand and take over. While we talk, he rushes me into an elevator and then across the first-floor lobby.

On one hand, it’s good that the cab ride passes quickly, because Lucia obviously needs help. On the other, I have no clue what I’ll do once I actually get there. Twice, Graham has to reach across the seat and smooth his fingers over mine to still their nervous tapping.

It alarms me how badly I want to bring him into the hospital with me. I debate how to possibly explain his presence to Lucia… and Abuelita. In the end, I realize the poor girl giving birth with strangers probably won’t appreciate if one of them is a man. An attractive young man, at that.

When we pull up to the ER, I turn to tell him I have to leave him behind, only to find him smiling wistfully at me. “I know,” he says, then nods at the building. “Go. You know where to find me.”

sixty-six

It’s well after midnight when Abuelita shakes me awake.

I snap to, jerking upright in the plastic waiting room chair, ready for some sort of emergency. Instead, Abuelita smiles. A twinkle lights her dark eyes.

“Julieta,” she murmurs, almost sounding… soft. “Vamos. Tu tienes un hermano.”

Blinking sleep from my eyes, I follow her down the familiar stretch of hallway I spent the better part of twenty-four hours pacing. In the third room on the left, we find Lucia.

Gone is the petrified, stammering girl I spent the day consoling and advocating for. In her place, a small but radiant woman holds a white-swathed bundle to her bare chest. Her cheeks glow a deep rose when she spots me on the threshold.

“Juliet,” she whispers, and then smiles at me for the very first time. “Do you want to see?”

It absolutely floors me how much I want to meet him. My gaze locks on the little bundle as some unknown force pulls me across the room. “Sí.”

Abuelita hovers behind me, watching as I stand at Lucia’s shoulder and peer down at the tiny face pressed to her breast.

My heart swells as my eyes sting. “He’s… perfect.”

It’s the only word for him. My baby brother—with his head of velvety black hair, his rumpled, rounded features, and the tiny rosebud lips quivering while he dreams. 

“You want to hold him?” Lucia offers, beaming. “Here.”

He doesn’t so much as stir while his solid warmth settles into my bosom. I shift his weight, finding that I know exactly how to cradle him. While warmth sluices through my center, I trace his tiny, sweet cheek with the back of one finger. The motion tickles him—his little lips reflexively pull up in the world’s smallest half-smile.

And I’m done for.

Finished. Utterly enchanted.

“Ay Dios mío,” I whisper. I love him.

The instant devotion leaves me dazed, staring at his little face in wonder. Abuelita sets her hand on my shoulder and runs the other over my baby brother’s hair. “He look likes you did, Julieta.”

Instinctively, my arms hold him closer to me. “He’s my brother,” I announce to the room, sniffing back tears and lifting my chin. “Of course he looks like me.”

He nuzzles into my chest with an adorable snorting sound. I feel like my heart may burst out to touch him. And I realize, all at once, that I would do anything for him.

“Es un amor imposible, no?” Abuelita says.

It is an impossible love.

And, yet, so very real.

Tears slip down my face. I feel behind me for the nearest chair and lower myself into it while I stare down at this little miracle, love bursting through my entire being.

The impossible love—so deep and real and sure and true… it makes every other truth obvious.

Because, in all honesty, I’ve felt this way before. Not exactly the same—less warmth, more heat; less sudden, more surprising—but an equally unparalleled sensation. For one other man. For my man.

And, finally… I’m not afraid of it anymore.

The words spring out of me, like a tight coil someone finally released. “I love him.”

A hundred memories flood my mind. Graham’s intense black gaze plunging into me the first time we kissed, imploring me to stop him. His consternation as he offered me the red handkerchief in the stairwell. The ludicrous slippers he pulled off effortlessly.

The night I came to his apartment and he asked me to dance with him, just so he could hold me for a moment before we took our clothes off. His possessive, attentive love-making—always about me, even when it was for him. All the times he seemed to know just what I needed, even when I didn’t.

His generous heart. His hands massaging my feet, scrubbing my dishes, holding my head between his palms as if my mind contains some mysterious treasure only he can see.

Those quick, feral grins. The way he tries to leap to action the second anyone he cares for needs help.

So many memories. Moments when, deep inside, I knew.

I love him.

I’ve loved him so much, for so long, that it is mortifying to realize how utterly clueless I was not to recognize it.

How could I have ever tried to leave him? Why?

Because he decided to blow up his life to protect…

His baby brother.

I beam down into my own baby brother’s sweet face and realize I’d do the same thing for him. Today. This very moment. In half a heartbeat.

Abuelita begins clucking in Spanish, muttering about my father, lamenting how her son turned out to be such a “gutless pig.” Lucia catches my eye and shoots me a questioning glance.

“She is…” I start, searching for the right words while my eyes trace the baby’s sweet features again. “She wonders how my dad could ever miss this.”

Lucia’s gaze snags on her son. Her expression remains tranquil while sadness fills her eyes. “He is afraid of us,” she states simply.

“What?”

Lucia shrugs one shoulder, the sluggish gesture betraying her exhaustion. “When I heard the stories about your father and mother, I was worried. I thought I’d fallen for a man who couldn’t love. But, then, he could. He loved me very much. Easily, actually. I was surprised by that…”

It hurts to listen to her. My heart aches for Mami. But I’m also intrigued. I always assumed, like Lucia did, that my father just couldn’t love anyone because he was too selfish…

What if that isn’t quite right?

Lucia continues. “He didn’t start acting distant and strange until I got closer to our due date. Finally, one day, I realized: he was terrified.”

The hairs at the back of my neck stand upright. My arms automatically tighten around my precious hermanito. “He was?”

“He always said he loved me ‘too much,’” she mumbles, as if still confused by the words. “And when he wouldn’t stop saying it, I realized he meant he loved me too much to stay. That’s when I knew he would leave me, the same way he left you and your mom. It was my own fault—I knew the stories, but I thought I was different.”

It never made sense to me. If he originally loved my mother as much as she loved him, why did he abandon her? If he loved me, why did he drift in and out of the fringes of my life instead of remaining a central fixture? If he loved Lucia, why did he drop her off at the hospital and run for the hills?

Now, I wonder: was it really because loving any of us paralyzed him with fear?

A horrifying thought occurs to me. After spending my entire life working to make sure I didn’t end up like my mother, did I somehow wind up like my father instead?

I left Graham… because I love him?

Too much.

And that petrifies me.

Abuelita catches my eye. Her solemn expression tells me she’s understood every word Lucia says. And, moreover, she agrees.

Her dark-brown eyes bore into mine. “Is normal. Being afraid. But the courage is rare.”

At seven a.m., a delivery arrives.

Just as I start to panic about showing up for work in yesterday’s clothes—and if I should show up for work at all, actually—Marco knocks on the door.

Lucia just finished nursing baby Andrés. They both sleep under Abuelita’s watchful eye while my primo sweeps into the room with his arms completely full of flowers and bags.

He lays four floral arrangements out on the table in the corner, along with two shopping bags. When I raise my eyebrows at him, he raises his right back.

“Everett,” he reports, nodding at the bags. “Had it all waiting for me this morning at Grayson’s. Clothes for you to wear to work, he said. And shoes.”

I sigh. My pinchao does like to dress me. It might irritate me if it didn’t turn me on. “And the flowers?”

Marco points to the happiest arrangement—a collection of yellow roses and sprigs of green. “That’s from Grayson and Ella, for Lucia. The rest are from Everett. The blue ones for Lucia and the baby, the white ones for Abuelita, and those⁠—”

He gestures to a lovely collection of red ranunculus and fuchsia orchids… perfect for Valentine’s Day.

“—are for you.”

Of course they are. The flashiest of the group, all elegance and bold, sensual color. How very Graham Everett.

I love them.

Without an ounce of grace, I rip into the first bag I touch and pull out a gorgeous crimson bustier, trimmed in handmade black lace. Marco’s expression darkens. A second later, I unearth a completely professional red dress—intended to go over the lingerie.

“I truly cannot decide whether I need to kick that guy’s ass or not,” my cousin mutters.

I smirk, recalling our first meeting in the elevator. “Join the club.”

“At least you got a good swing in,” he grumbles, crossing his arms over his black T-shirt. He jerks his chin at the bed. “The baby’s… good?”

Dios mío.

Men.

“He’s perfect,” I report. “Did Abuelita tell you they’re moving in with your mom? I guess all of them are getting a place together.”

Marco nods. “My mom is in heaven. She went baby shopping yesterday for, like, six hours.”

That sounds like Tía Esme. I chuckle. “I think it will be good for her to have a new baby boy to dote on. Since you’re, you know, thirty.”

He rolls his eyes, but cracks a reluctant smile. “So you are going in today? I know Grayson texted you to tell you that you didn’t have to, but he asked me to reiterate the offer.”

Honestly, I’m dying to get back to work. I feel unsettled without it. Plus, I need to get the lay of the land now that my boss is gone. Will Grayson hire someone with more experience than Dominic to replace him? Or—dare I hope—perhaps even a woman?

“I want to go in,” I decide. “Can you drive me?”

He shrugs. “Sure. But it’s only four blocks away.”

I pull out the Christian Louboutin box with a grimace. “Yeah, but these are six-hundred-dollar shoes.”

His expression twists. “No joda? Damn. Leave it to Graham Everett.”

My heart gives a pang. He may not be the Graham everyone has come to know if he can’t figure out a way to keep G&C Capital and all the profits he’s earned. He’d still be my pinchao, but still. His company, his livelihood…

But there’s only one way to help him keep it all. And that would involve explaining everything to Grayson, who…

…who already knows, I realize. He knows about us now.

I bolt upright in my chair. “We need to go.”

Marco looks at his phone. “Not until eight-thirty.”

“No,” I snap, snatching my new outfit out of its bag. “We need to go to Grayson Stryker’s. Now. I have to talk to him. Right away.”

I know exactly what to do. How to save Graham. To show him that he means more to me than anything else. But I only have a few hours to get it done.

Sensing my urgency, Marco stands and starts toward the door without hesitation. “I’ll make the call.”

sixty-seven

If I ever write a memoir, I’ll use the word “surreal.”

There really is no other way to describe standing at the end of Everett Alexander’s hated hallway, watching FBI agents and forensic techs rip through every room of my family’s company with the same sort of methodical determination they’d use to disarm a terrorist cell.

To the left, near the elevators, my new lawyer, Rachel Black, and Grayson’s recommended PR person, Ava, hover with their phones in their hands. Each typing a million miles a second.

Rachel wears a boxy pantsuit, while Ava’s dressed to kill in an emerald jumpsuit and black spiked heels. Being polar opposites, I worried they might clash—turns out they get along swimmingly.

Like two sharks.

I repress a snort and go back to observing. The team has already cleared my old office, the file room, and seven traders’ offices. My father’s is next.

Inside the pocket of my navy suit, my hand clenches into a fist. Ironic—the last time I wore the same outfit—complete with the white vest, tie, and red handkerchief—I had to ball my hands in my pockets for an entirely different reason.

I know Dad is in there, with his lawyer. A captain going down with his ship. At least, Ava claims, that’s how she would spin it if she were doing his PR.

As it stands, she has every news network in the city outside, waiting for his perp walk. I’ve already spent the better half of the morning at a press conference, delivering the statement she wrote for me.

I originally thought I’d make my speech after I watched my legacy go through the shredder. But Ava and Rachel explained the importance of setting the narrative before anyone else can create one. That meant speaking to the press before a single photo of my father in handcuffs hit the internet.

I wonder if Jules has seen the news yet. I’m trying not to let it bother me that I haven’t heard from her yet. It isn’t even midday, though.

She just spent a day and night helping her dad’s girlfriend give birth. She probably raced right to the office this morning, running on fumes. I need to relax.

Waiting for her still stings. Today of all days.

As much as I hate it… I need her.

I resist the urge to rock on my heels. No matter how anxious I feel, I have to stay still. Rachel says any body language observed by a federal agent is admissible as evidence.

I’ve already caught the FBI woman handling our case, Agent Adams, glancing at me multiple times. Waiting for me to fuck up, most likely. The fist in my pocket tightens as I meet her gaze from across the hall.

She stands at the opposite end, interviewing my dad’s watering-pot of an assistant. Her attention snaps from me to my father’s office the second her colleagues approaches it. I read her lips as she excuses herself and strides forward, joining her fellow agents.

“Mr. Everett?” she calls, pounding on the door. “FBI. We have a warrant for your arrest, and we’re coming in!”

The team bursts into his office, where I hear a small scuffle and then nothing. Except the sound of handcuffs.

One of the larger men on the team holds my dad’s bound hands behind his back as he shoves him out into the hallway, glibly stating his rights enroute to the elevators beside me.

The herd of agents accompanying Hugh huddle at his back as he faces me, teeth bared.

“How could you do this?” he demands, yelling over his attorney’s warnings to stay silent. “How could you do this to your own father?” 

I want to tell him I hadn’t planned on it—that I probably wouldn’t have if he hadn’t positioned Christian as his fall guy. But, of course, I can’t say any of that.

I hold his gaze as long as I can, knowing it might be the last time I ever get to see him up close. “I feel sorry for you,” I say, giving as much honesty as I’m allowed. “It didn’t have to be like this.”

He lunges at me, but barely manages to squirm before three agents steer him onto the elevators. He thrashes and shouts while the doors slide closed, his jeers incoherent when mixed with the agents’ threats and his attorney’s objections.

I expected the scene—almost exactly as it played out. So why do I still feel gutted? My fist tightens even more, finally ripping the pocket’s seam.

Goddamn it. I just want Juliet.

At my back, Ava claps with glee. “He’s furious,” she exults, hailing another elevator. “It’s going to be perfect for pictures. I’ll go down now and make sure the paps have the correct story to go along with the images. Then I’ll shoo everyone off. Wait twenty minutes before you come down.”

With that, she disappears. Rachel steps up and shakes her head appreciatively. “Absolutely vicious. I like her. She’s straight, though, right?”

I blow a deep breath out of my nose, exasperated. “Afraid so.”

She shrugs and goes back to her phone. Agent Adams finishes murmuring to her colleagues and sends the rest of them down in the next available elevator before rounding on us.

“Mr. Everett,” she says, clipping over to us. “Ms. Black. I think we’re done here. I’ll be in contact with you about your testimony for the trial, though these cases typically take a few months to reach the judge’s desk. Oh, and, Mr. Everett, we received your notarized affidavits shortly before our raid.”

I start to open my stupid mouth and ask what the fuck she’s talking about, but Agent Adams pulls two pieces of Stryker & Sons stationery out of her jacket.

Rachel holds up her hand, halting me and stepping forward. “Give me those.”

She grabs the copies from the agent’s hand and reads them, turning each over twice before pushing them into my chest and casting me a shut-the-hell-up look.

“Yes,” she tells Agent Adams, “I assume that means…”

Their conversation fades into the background while I read the documents as quickly as possible, my eyes flying from the sworn statements to the signatures beneath them.

Grayson Stryker, one says.

And the other, clear as day—Juliet Rivera.

Their names, each signed under… well, a very creative version of the truth.

They both testified that I approached them about my new venture, G&C Capital, before I took home the tainted Everett Alexander books. Grayson claimed I told him between our meetings. Juliet stated that she was informed while we rode the elevator together⁠—

None of it is entirely true. But they signed their names to this carefully crafted narrative. For me.

I scan the date on each affidavit. Today.

That’s where she’s been all morning.

Getting to Stryker, explaining what they needed to do, convincing him to participate, crafting the statements, finding a notary to sign them… All of it must have taken every available second she had to get them sent out in time.

I’ve never worked harder to keep a smile off my lips. Dazed by nerves and gratitude, I barely manage a poker face as I tune back in to the agent and my lawyer.

“—able to keep G&C Capital running?”

Agent Adams meets my gaze instead of looking at Rachel.

“With those affidavits,” she says, “our agency will have no choice but to drop the pending investigation into G&C Capital and Mr. Everett’s personal holdings. So, yes, Mr. Everett will be able to keep G&C Capital. And its profits. Past and future.”

Fuck. Yes.

Rachel’s grip digs into my forearm, warning me to stay calm. Next to impossible when I want to pump my fist into the air and shout.

I can’t quite help myself. I grin as I nod. “Excellent. Thank you for taking them into evidence.”

She shrugs. “An officer of the court and one of the most influential CEOs in the country? We’d never assume two upstanding professionals were spinning lies.”

Jesus. I owe Stryker. And Juliet.

Everything.

Why would she do this for me? I wonder, watching while Rachel and Agent Adams exchange a handful of barbs.

I can’t think straight. I’ve never been through such a wide array of emotions in such a short span of time. Shock, dread, fear, joy, gratitude.

And then, right before my eyes, my attorney and the FBI agent swap phone numbers.

It’s a Valentine’s Day miracle.

Rachel actually blushes. Then she squares her shoulders and marches off, mumbling something about interviewing the assistant for herself.

Agent Adams snags my wide eyes, and—I swear—she winks. “This is this first case I’ve had where she’s representing someone involved. I’ve been wanting to ask her out forever. So I suppose it’s good luck this raid had to happen on Valentine’s Day.”

She puts both her hands into her pockets. “Oh,” she adds. “By the way…”

From her pants, the agent extracts a small blue Tiffany box.

“I found this,” she goes on, frowning down at the case. “It was in your father’s safe but it had a receipt with your name on it inside. I’d take that out of there before you pop the question.”

Unceremoniously, she tosses me the box. My numb fingers catch it. “Isn’t this part of your search or whatever?” I ask, not quite believing my luck.

She shakes her head. “We aren’t investigating you or seizing your assets.” Her eyes fall on the papers still pressed between my arm and my jacket. “Especially now. And the ring is clearly yours, not Hugh’s. So take it. Better for you to use it than for it to molder in some evidence bin for all eternity.”

I snap the case open, peering at the emerald-cut diamond and its shimmering frame of matching stones.

Maybe one day… I catch myself thinking as I fish out the receipt. If I wear Juliet down. If she falls in love with me.

My small ember of hope is a thing of the past. Now, a roaring blaze of determination takes its place, warming my insides.

I will get my ring on that gorgeous woman. Some day.

“Thanks,” I say, meaning it.

I slip the golden affidavits into my breast pocket and wrap my handkerchief around the ring case, hoping to keep it from getting scratched in my one remaining pocket. With a final glance at the past I thought would be my future, I make my way to the elevator.

I’ve seen enough.

sixty-eight

“Stop it,” I snap, but the words lose their heat when they pass through my smiling lips.

Marco spreads his hands innocently against the steering wheel. “I didn’t say anything.”

He doesn’t need to. He saw the whole thing. Watched me run out of the hospital without shoes on, witnessed me turning up unannounced at the Stryker’s townhome and interrupting their breakfast. Stood outside Grayson’s study while we crafted our sort-of-true statements. Dashed us both across town to Stryker & Sons so Beth could notarize them.

After our work was done, before I even considered how to approach the subject of leaving to be with Graham, Mr. Stryker frantically ushered me out of his office.

“Well, go,” he urged. “He’ll want you there, not me.”

Now, half an hour later, Marco speeds around the final corner. The Mercedes slides to a stop, and I jump out.

“Should I wait?” he calls.

“No!” Because I’m not going to wait anymore, either. I need to tell Graham everything.

I rush in from the throng of off-duty cameramen and reporters, all packing up their news vans. My head swivels as I look around the plaza in front of the sky-rise, hoping I haven’t missed him.

I start to pull out my phone just as the revolving door swings open, revealing a sinfully handsome man in a dark-blue suit. He jaunts out, hands in his pockets, moving in a way I find all too familiar and all too appealing.

A slow grin spreads over my face.

“Hey, pinchao!”

Graham’s steps falter. He pauses, standing two dozen feet away from me.

For a long moment, he simply stares, drinking me in as pedestrians mill between us. He doesn’t seem to mind that I haven’t refreshed my makeup or touched my hair in thirty-some hours. Our electric current snaps to life, crackling across the distance.

I hold my ground, refusing to run to him. “You were wrong!” I call.

The slightest hint of a smirk makes him impossibly more handsome. “Oh, yeah? Why this time?”

Blood rushes through my ears, drowning out the traffic behind me, the people around us. Everything but him.

Courage, I remind myself, stepping closer.

“When I left, you said I was afraid because you told me that you loved me,” I go on. “And yesterday, you said it again. That I ran from you because you love me. But you were wrong.”

I’m not sure how we creep closer together. How many steps are his, how many are mine… I don’t know. But we drift toward one another, drawn like planets creating their own orbit.

Graham comes close enough for me to touch, but I don’t. I want to get everything out first. Staring into his dark, heated gaze gives me the words I need.

“I didn’t get scared because you said you loved me,” I explain, raising my chin. “I was afraid because I loved you, too. More than I’ve ever loved anyone.”

A spark ignites in his midnight depths. He reaches over, carefully tracing his fingertips along the slant of my jaw before he touches my chin, his expression unfathomable. “You love me, or you loved me?”

This is it. The moment I have to be brave. Only now that it’s here, I’m not scared anymore. We’ve gone through so much already—this is our other side. And it feels right.

I take his face between my hands, holding him steady while I look right into him. “I love you, Graham Fucking Everett.”

Electric determination swirls in his eyes. “You love me?”

“Yes,” I confirm, holding my head higher. “I do.”

“And you want us to be together? No matter what happens?”

Of course he has to ask me that. I’ve made every excuse to hide from my feelings for him, including blaming all the shit he’s been going through.

“Yes,” I promise. “None of the rest of it matters. It never really mattered. I was just… afraid. But now I’m not. Now I know. I love you.”

I expect him to kiss me. Instead, he holds my gaze with his for a long beat, searching my depths. Finally, he moves, slipping out of my hands and stepping back.

“Well,” he says, “in that case…”

Graham suddenly drops, going to one knee right there on the pavement. From his pocket, he produces a red ball of fabric.

The handkerchief. Wrapped around a small, bright-blue box.

A ring box.

He extends both, offering me everything, his eyes burning into mine. “Marry me.”

“How did you”—Graham’s mouth lands on mine, occupying my tongue for a moment before moving back to my neck—“have a ring?”

He bites the place below my ear that always makes my knees wobble, then gives a satisfied hum when I quiver. “I bought it last week,” he mumbles against my clavicle. “The second I saw it, I knew it was yours. Ours.”

“You’re crazy! Seriously, what do you have to say for yourself?”

He chuckles quietly. “Aside from Happy Valentine’s Day?”

Insane, perfect, infuriating—oh!

I moan as he runs his tongue over the pulse fluttering in my neck. My fingers dig into his back. “Graham.”

“I know, bijou, I know,” he rumbles, trailing his lips along my jaw next. “I will have you the second this elevator opens and we get into the apartment.”

I don’t even know if I’ll make it that far. But I still feel compelled to ask, “Don’t we have a lot of things we need to talk about?”

Holding himself over me with his forearm pressed into the padded elevator wall, he pulls back just far enough to cock an eyebrow. “You mean fight about?”

Knowing us, probably.

“We just got engaged,” I point out instead of agreeing. “We have about a thousand things to figure out.”

An ecstatic grin breaks across Graham’s dark features. “God, I love that. Say that again.”

“We’re engaged,” I whisper, mirroring his expression.

With a grunt, he hauls me into his arms, pushing my dress up my thighs and slinging my legs around his waist. Cradling my head as he seals his mouth over mine, he kisses me like a wild man, devouring every last bit of my self-control.

“Jules, bijou,” he hums between glides of his tongue. “I love you so damn much.”

Brushing my hands through his hair, I nestle myself closer. “I love you, too.”

The doors slide open. Graham makes short work of the distance to his apartment, spinning us inside within seconds. As the electronic lock clicks at our backs, he starts undressing me without skipping a beat.

“Graham,” I moan again, tilting my head back when he tears my dress down my arms and bites my shoulder blade. “We have to talk.”

“Hmm.” He rubs his stubbled jaw along the lace lining my cleavage. “How about you keep talking and I keep doing this and we see who gives in first?”

He sucks the swell of my breast into his mouth and I gasp, tightening my legs around his torso. Inside the frilled cups, my nipples harden instantly.

“Seriously,” I argue, short of breath. “I don’t even have a place to live! Lucia needs my bedroom until she and Abuelita can move in with Marco’s mom.”

Graham gives an unimpressed snort. “Gonna have to try harder than that,” he mumbles, unhooking my bra. “You’ll live here. Obviously.”

I secretly hoped he’d say that. I love his place. I love us in his place. Though, I have some conditions…

“I want to pay rent.”

That trips him up for all of two seconds. “No way. I own it. You’re not paying me rent,” he insists before drawing my pebbled nipple into his mouth.

Ay, Dios.

A broken sound rips out of me. My entire body arches into his. “Fight about it later?” I offer weakly, unable to think straight.

He seems distracted as well. His free hand palms my other breast, his hungry eyes roam down to where my panties rub against his fly. “…Yeah, fine.”

With my nipple out of his mouth, I finally recall what else I wanted to say. “I don’t want a big wedding,” I pant.

“Is five-hundred people big?” Graham asks, toeing off his shoes and flicking my heels from my feet.

I go for his vest, starved for the sight of his bare body. “Fight about it later?”

“Yep.”

He sets me down just long enough to discard my dress and his pants, then picks me right back up. While we both work on his shirt and tie, I add, “And I don’t want any babies for at least three years.”

He nods this time. “Agreed. Two or three?”

“Years?”

“Babies.”

“Babies?!” I guffaw, recalling the scene of Lucia in labor. “Um, one.”

He wags his head back and forth, considering as he watches my fingers free his last button from its slip. Just before I shuck the shirt, he gives in. “Fine. Deal.”

Our mouths meet, tongues gliding together. He reaches for my panties, feeling the outline of my wetness while I trace the waistband of his boxers. His rock-hard cock presses into the soft spot beside my hip, sending an ache through my core.

I’m ready to give up on talking and admit defeat… when he makes a statement of his own. “We’ll need a bigger place,” he huffs, leaning back to glance into my eyes. “For our family. I like the San Remo.”

“I like this one,” I return.

His chest heaves as he looks down at my soaked underwear and his raging erection. “Fight about it later?”

“Agreed.”

I go for his cock, stroking him through his silk boxers until he groans my name. Which reminds me… “I’m not changing my last name.”

Graham spins us, walking a few steps across the hall and pushing me back into the opposite wall, balancing me there while he removes both our underwear.

“So I get to call you ‘Miss Rivera’ forever?” he asks, sinking to his knees and slanting a dark, burning look up my body. “Done.”

“And we’re going to need a prenup,” I point out, gasping while he wraps my legs around his shoulders.

“Another contract negotiation…” he mutters, eyeing my sex like a priceless jewel. “Think we can borrow Pod C?”

Before I reply, he adds, “Hold on a second for me, will you?”

Without waiting another breath, his tongue finds my trembling opening, licking in a circle. He gives a snarl so salacious I think I’ll come just from hearing it. Then he kisses and sucks, devouring me as if I’m his first meal in weeks.

Raw, urgent need spirals through me. I squeeze my legs around him and grind myself against his mouth.

Hums of approval and praise vibrate over my slick core. I cry his name again, sifting my fingers through his thick hair and pulling at the roots. Beyond thought, I sob, “I missed you so much.”

Leaning back to gaze up, Graham pushes two fingers into me and uses his other hand to press into the hollow beneath my navel. The combination of pressure and penetration makes me writhe against him, moaning once more. “You missed me, baby?”

When I nod frantically, he flashes his dangerous grin. “Show me how much. Come on my tongue.”

He sucks the swollen bud of my clit between his lips and lashes it until I let go, unable to stem the stream of Spanish praises that flows out without any translation.

With a satisfied groan of his own, Graham lightly rubs his lips against me while I tremble and whimper. After one final kiss, he rises to his feet, shackling my wrists to hold them above my head the way he likes. His free arm lifts and angles me. Those lean, chiseled hips thrust, finally bringing our bodies together.

Graham’s cock throbs so hard, I feel it pulse inside me. A serrated sound snags in his chest. His hands clutch at me restlessly as he squeezes his eyes shut, doing his best to prolong our moment.

I brush his hair back and nuzzle my cheek into his, gentling him. “I love you,” I whisper again, knowing he needs to hear me say it. Over and over. To make up for the time I lost being afraid.

His eyes flicker open; two dark, swirling pools of wounded longing. “I love you more.”

He’ll think that until I convince him otherwise. But I’m not worried; for the rest of my life, I will make sure he knows how much I adore him.

“No,” I argue softly. “You don’t.”

Graham holds my face between his hands, pinning me with a loving gaze so fierce, it pierces my soul. “Fight about it later?”

I press my forehead into his and offer him a small smile. Tightening my legs to pull myself closer, making us one. “Fight about it forever.”

epilogue

ONE MONTH LATER

My fiancée steps out of the elevator right on cue, smiling to herself until she sees me lingering outside our door.

I take a moment to drink her in. A month of living together has done nothing to diminish her appeal. It seems to grow day by day… hour by hour, sometimes.

When Juliet left for work this morning, with her hair half-back, wearing her silky emerald dress, I thought she couldn’t possibly look any sexier. Yet here she stands, proving me wrong.

Her black eyebrows fold together as she glides over, coming close enough for me to kiss her cheek before she frowns at me. “What are you doing out here, amor? Isn’t everyone inside?”

I press my nose into the jasmine-scented place behind her ear and inhale. The moment we reunite each evening has become my very favorite part of every day.

“I wanted a minute alone with you,” I admit, plucking her tote bag and purse out of her arms so I can wrap her up in mine.

Without giving too much away, I secretly read her features, searching for any trace of pride or elation or anxiety. My bijou has a one-track mind, though. She slides her arms around my neck and presses the length of her body into mine.

Juliet hums, golden eyes shimmering like champagne. “Only a minute?”

God. Will there ever be a day when she can’t make my blood race with a single look?

I hope not.

On a quiet growl, I seal my lips over hers. Pouring my adoration into our kiss, I back her into the wall, bending my knee between her legs.

“I missed you,” I confess.

Her fingers comb my hair while her gaze flickers over my outfit—the notorious pink suit. A glimmer of amusement touches the sensual curves of her mouth. “Me, too, pinchao.”

Our gazes lock. I probe her depths, searching for some indication that she might have news for me… But damn if the woman doesn’t have a world-class poker face.

Finally, I break. “So?” I ask, raising my brows. “Anything to tell me?”

A slow grin stretches over her face. “What are you talking about?” she asks, a touch too shrill. “I didn’t say I had any news, did I?”

No, she didn’t. But I know.

“Come on, tell me,” I beg, bending to brush my lips over the sensitive spot at the base of her throat. “I’ve known for weeks, and I can’t fucking take it anymore. I’m horrible at keeping secrets.”

Another new discovery I’ve made about myself since acquiring a very sexy, very observant fiancée.

“I thought something weird might be going on when you started giving me the third degree every day after work.” She shakes her head, still smiling at me. “Why didn’t you just ask him when it was happening?”

I read between the lines. “So he did it?” I demand, holding my breath. “He told you?”

Juliet’s lustrous laughter fills the hallway. “Yes!” she finally bursts, gripping my shoulders. “He told me today. You are looking at the new head of Stryker & Sons’ legal department.”

I scoop her into my arms and spin her in a circle. I’ve never felt such pride. My gorgeous, brilliant future wife. She never ceases to amaze me.

“Actually,” I correct, bringing my face back to hers. “I’m kissing her.”

Jules lets me have my way with her for a few minutes before pulling back to give me my favorite scolding expression. “You knew and you didn’t tell me?!”

Yes. And I hated it.

“When Stryker told me he was going to promote you, I figured he’d do it right away,” I grouse. “I never thought he’d wait three weeks. I bet he did it on purpose, as revenge for me ever going after you in the first place. Asshole. I ought to punch him. It’s been a few years since we beat the shit out of each other, anyway. We’re probably overdue.”

Juliet giggles, rolling her eyes. “You’re absurd. Besides, he deserved revenge after what we did in Pod C.”

She’s right. As per usual.

“Well, we better go in soon,” I tell her. “Abuelita is here, ordering Christian around the kitchen. I don’t know what terrifies him more—being out of rehab for the night or the possibility that he might misunderstand one of her orders.”

Most patients can’t wait for someone to break them out of the treatment center, but my little brother clings to it the way someone lost at sea would cleave to a dinghy. I’ve only coaxed him out twice, and on both occasions, he spent the entire time twitching.

Jules’s mouth curves into a thoughtful scowl. “Poor guy. You hid all the wine, right?”

“I put the bottles in your boots,” I report, smirking at the memory. “I think Andrés is successfully distracting him, though. My brother loves babies.”

My fiancée purses her lips, attempting to hold back a smug grin. “And you don’t?”

I hold up my hands, relenting. “He’s pretty damn cute, I admit.”

“You love him!” Juliet accuses, bending to retrieve her bags. “You can’t deny it after last weekend. I caught you singing to him.”

I snatch her things, pouting. “It was one good song. Van Morrison. You have to sing to Van Morrison.”

But my bijou knows better. She gives a knowing chuckle. “Sure. And, if I remember correctly, didn’t you volunteer to change his diaper?”

Jesus. I’ll never get away with anything ever again.

Why do I love it?

“I didn’t want to change him! Lucia’s hands were full!”

“Uh-huh.” Juliet’s expression is wry as she nods at the apartment. “I’m sure they were.”

“Look,” I joke, pushing the door open, “I’m sleeping with the kid’s hot sister. It’s literally his job to give me shit.”

Juliet brushes a sweet kiss over my lips. “Don’t worry, pinchao,” she murmurs, sauntering past me. “I won’t tell.”

Where I used to dread returning to my empty apartment, now coming home is my very favorite thing to do. Well, that… and pushing into Juliet. Both types of homecoming, I suppose.

We find Christian sitting at the island, diligently peeling potatoes with the same somber devotion to detail he displays in most things. On the red couch, Juliet’s aunt coos to little Andrés.

The baby looks zonked. He doesn’t even flinch when Juliet sails straight over to him, bubbling a stream of Spanish endearments before dropping kisses on his downy black hair.

Slipping out of my jacket, I lean into the counter to watch until I catch my own brother smirking at me. When I meet his eyes, he grunts, “Simp.”

Oh, completely.

“Fuck you,” I mutter on principle, rolling my sleeves. I take his peeled potatoes and reach for a knife. “Abuelita, cómo quiere las papas?”

“Cuarteadas.”

I start to quarter them. Juliet slips up behind me and presses her face against my shoulder. “Muy bien, pinchao. Have you been practicing?”

I nod. “I don’t want your mother to think I’m a bumbling idiot when we visit next month. And I can’t stand it when you talk over my head. You know how nosy I am.”

It’s more than that, though. Juliet and her family have become my own. I want to fully participate when we all get together.

Christian already fits right in, thanks to multiple years of advanced Spanish courses in high school. Abuelita took a shine to him immediately. She fusses over his pitiful ass, doting on him each week, sending Marco or Jules running to Chelsea with baskets of Colombian pastries.

Occasionally, I get special deliveries, too. They arrive at the temporary workspace I rented in the Flatiron District, often without so much as a note. But usually, Abuelita just invites herself over. More than once, I’ve come home to discover her alone in my kitchen, cooking up a storm.

Juliet is mortified by her grandmother’s tendency to help herself. I secretly love it. It reminds me of the night I found Jules making ajiaco in my sweats. It also touches that long-withered piece of me that only maternal affection can reach.

Plus, I mean, the food…

Juliet’s eyes fill with love and appreciation, beaming up at me. “At least your trainwreck of an accent has finally sorted itself out.”

Chris chortles again. “God, that was funny.”

The first time I took Juliet to meet him, a couple of days after our engagement, the two of them sank into Spanish almost immediately… then spent the rest of the morning gleefully mocking my attempts to keep up. I might have been put out if Jules didn’t distract me with a blow job the second we got in our car.

“How was the market today?” she asks, reaching down to remove her heels.

Before I can reply, Chris goes back to scowling at the half-peeled potatoes. “It dropped twelve points.”

Always a ball of sunshine, my brother.

Concern fills Juliet’s eyes. She definitely doesn’t have the stomach for investing—any small dip in the market sends her scrambling for “solutions.” I flash a reassuring grin at her. “All good, baby. Your pinchao knows what he’s doing.”

Secretly, my own success still surprises me. So does Ava’s. Her PR plan worked like a charm—turns out, there are a lot of young executives in Manhattan who understand my animosity toward my father. With the twenty-some clients I’ve onboarded since my feature in Time Magazine went viral, I’m set to clear about three million in my first quarter.

I owe a lot of it to Christian—now that he’s clean, his strategies are more coherent and inspired than ever. The work helps keep his mind occupied, too.

He isn’t an official employee or owner at G&C yet, but I feel more certain every day that he will be, eventually. If he can stop being scared of his own damn shadow…

That reminds me. “Are you sure you don’t want to come tomorrow night?” I ask Chris, wrapping my arms around Jules and tucking her head under my chin. “You could just be there for dinner and then take my car back to the clinic.”

At the mention of Grayson’s bachelor party, both Christian and Juliet stiffen. My brother looks as though I’m suggesting he walk a tightrope over a tank of piranhas. “Absolutely not.”

Juliet leans back, her face torn between wifely suspicion and her usual fire. “Are we sure that whole thing is a good idea?”

I shrug. “It’s tradition. And you girls will be out having your own party, anyway. What are we supposed to do, sit home and watch Bridgerton with a pint of ice cream?”

“You love Bridgerton, pinchao,” she glowers.

I cross my arms, raising my brow. We doing this now, baby? Here?

My bijou’s golden eyes snap at me. We’ve already had this argument. Several times. I always win, but that doesn’t mean she likes it.

“Fine,” she sighs, cocking her hip. “I’ll try my best to be a chill fiancée.”

The idea of her ever being “chill” is enough to have me grinning again. I pull her into an embrace, making a mental note to spend tomorrow morning blowing her mind. She’ll be the most relaxed woman in the group when I’m through with her.

She reads the way my body responds to the idea and casts me one of her sexy, scolding glances. “This is serious, Graham. Their wedding is already a media free-for-all. If any of you make a scene, the whole thing will melt down!”

I hate that thought. Picking at my tie, I mutter, “It better not melt down. That tux he made me buy is an affront to my sensibilities. Boring-ass motherfucker. And let’s not even get started on those dresses Ella picked.”

Juliet’s laugh brightens everything. “How is it possible that you’re the diva in this relationship?”

“I am not.”

Beside us, Christian snorts some more. “Um, yeah, you are. Have you already forgotten the Mariah-Carey-level hissy fit you threw over your own wedding plans just two weeks ago?”

I regard each of them steadily, not the least bit ashamed. “What wedding plans? This woman refuses to make any wedding plans.”

Juliet’s bright gaze flickers to Chris’s, sharing mutual amusement. “He’s pouting again.”

Christian rolls his eyes. “Graham, c’mon, I thought this was all decided. The elopement? June? That famous courthouse in San Francisco?”

Followed by a month-long honeymoon in Greece.

That’s the arrangement we came to. After fighting—and fucking—over it non-stop for weeks, Jules and I finally agreed that she would plan the wedding and I would plan the honeymoon.

Turns out, there are no wedding arrangements to plan. We’ll simply hop a jet to California for a simple ceremony at the country’s most ornate court house. Just the two of us.

While I like to complain about the elopement’s lack of pomp, I’m honored that my girl wants to spend our wedding day so intimately.

And I have to bite back my excitement at the thought of having her all to myself for four weeks. Our villa in Santorini boasts the best views on the whole island. Not to mention a private Infinity pool on the balcony, an indoor/outdoor hot tub, our own personal grotto, and multiple beds.

Juliet will be lucky if I ever let her get dressed. Though, just in case, I’ve pre-ordered some summer pieces from a few designer lines…

“And he gets to pick my dress, too!” Juliet adds. “I don’t even get to see it until the day of. He says he’s going to have Abuelita blindfold me for the fittings.”

She pretends to hate my love of dressing her, but I know better. Every time I come home with a new hand-picked purchase, she melts for me.

Besides, I know her body better than anyone. Who better to help design the most important dress she’ll ever wear?

Christian frowns at Juliet. “Do you get to pick his suit?”

“No!” we both blurt.

Jules smirks and scoffs simultaneously. “Please. El pinchao está loco por esa mierda. Do you honestly think I’d take that bullet?” She lifts her arm to eye my latest gift—the elegant gold timepiece gracing her wrist. “Speaking of bullets, where is Marco? Isn’t he supposed to be here? It’s almost seven.”

Abuelita interjects, shooting off a stream of less-than-flattering opinions about Marco’s recent odd behavior. I don’t catch most of it, but Juliet cringes. “Sí, Abuelita.”

Then to me, she translates, “He’s late. Again. Abuelita says he better not flake on us, or she’s going to drive up to Hell’s Kitchen and wait for him in his lobby with a plate of food. Last time, she got in a fight with his doorman.”

I don’t dare comment. Marco and I have a strange, begrudging relationship—he doesn’t like me fucking his cousin and I don’t like his general air of moral superiority. But I tend to think his whole family expects way too much of the guy.

He’s only human. And I know how much shit the Strykers put him through. Can’t we all cut him some slack?

“He’s bringing a girl,” Juliet goes on, pitching her voice low for privacy. “The girl. The reason he’s been so off-the-grid lately… I can’t believe he’s just going to waltz her in here after keeping her a secret for so long.”

Poor thing. I wonder if the chick knows she’s walking right into a den of lionesses. With a pork chop strapped around her neck.

“So long? It’s been, like, one month, bijou.”

“Which is about how long we knew each other before you bought this,” she shoots back, flashing her ring.

I gaze at her, unable to keep the stupid grin off my face. “Did you have a point?”

Christian shakes his head, interjecting with a mumble. “I think you’re all fucking nuts.”

Juliet worries the inside of her cheek as she touches his shoulder. “You’re not upset about missing our wedding, are you?”

Christian grimaces. “Honestly? I’m relieved. No wedding, no open bar, no excuse for me to wind up in an alley somewhere.” He blows out a breath. “And the Strykers are going to throw you a big party when you guys get home, right? Kind of like a reception?”

Jules nods. “Yes. Against all my protests. Ella is quite insistent.”

It reminds me of the other piece of news we need to celebrate. Sweeping Jules into another hug, I settle my arms around her waist and murmur quietly, “Should we tell everyone about your promotion now? Or after dinner?”

My fiancée’s glowing grin never fails to steal my breath. She smiles as she peers around my shoulder and then turns her golden gaze back to me.

“Abuelita made a merengón,” she replies, nodding at the beautiful pavlova-like stack of meringue and strawberries sitting in the center of our dining table. “Let’s announce it during dessert.” Her beaming smile takes on a mischievous shade. “I’m sure we’ll be busy interrogating Marco’s girl during dinner.”

Her sly expression reminds me of my favorite photograph—taken on our first date. I’ve since taken dozens of other pictures of her, but I suspect that one will always be special to me.

Framing her gorgeous face with my hands, I bend to kiss her as thoroughly as I can in mixed company.

…or so I thought.

A spatula spears the space between our bodies, flicking back and forth to separate us. Abuelita’s stern face suddenly looms just beyond Juliet’s. “No married yet,” she huffs, frowning at each of us in turn. “No Pees-Dees-A.”

Juliet’s eyes fill with love as she stares up at me, sharing a conspiratorial smirk.

“PDA,” we correct in unison.

Abuelita swats the backs of our necks before shuffling past. “Is what I said!”

An hour after everyone finally left, I find Graham standing at our kitchen sink, washing the last of the dishes.

I lean my hip into the island, absently running my fingers along the hem of my favorite purple robe while I watch him for a long moment. In his blush shirt and matching pants, he’s as dark and delicious as ever. More so, maybe, because he’s doing housework.

Familiar gratitude rushes over me. How did I ever find my one-of-a-kind man?

I wait until he turns off the faucet and starts to dry his hands before sneaking up behind him and slipping my arms around his waist. It’s a bit thicker, thankfully. Eating regular meals and keeping up with my voracious appetite for him has his body more solid and sexier than ever.

Graham plucks up one of my hands and presses a reverent kiss into my knuckles. “Bijou,” he murmurs, gruff. “I was just thinking about how proud I am of all your hard work and your promotion. I can’t wait to brag about you to everyone I see tomorrow.”

I let him turn and back me into the island, moving my arms up to wind around his neck. “Funny, I was just thinking how lucky I am that you stalked me into that elevator.”

He flashes one of his feral grins before leaning down and trailing a series of kisses from my collarbone to my ear. Dios. My knees tremble every time he does that.

“Wouldn’t have mattered,” he tells me, brushing his lips over my temple until I quiver again. “Even if I missed you in the lobby, I would have gone after you the second I saw you in that meeting.”

I turn to catch his mouth with mine, kissing him until he lifts me onto the counter and steps between my bare legs. Leaning back, I capture his eyes and whisper, “I love you more.”

A boyish smile fills his handsome features. “Starting this fight again, are you? I won last time, if I recall.”

I giggle, remembering. “Pretending you’re going through a tunnel and hanging up on me before I can argue my point is not winning, pinchao.”

“Mmm.” He nuzzles his face into my throat. “Fair enough, bijou. Luckily, I have a new strategy for this round.”

Then, Graham Everett—my future everything—picks me up and carries me to our bed. Where we happily spend the rest of the night…

Proving our points.

content warnings

CONTENT/TRIGGER WARNINGS ARE BELOW. PLEASE NOTE THAT THEY MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS.

CW/TW: parental abandonment, financial insecurity, workplace sexual harassment, blackmail, fraud, familial drug addiction/overdose, workplace discrimination, cultural discrimination, office sex (consensual), light bondage, oral sex, edging, unknown recording of a sexual act by a third party.

thank you!

First off, I want to thank any readers who are returning to Juliet and Graham’s story after reading the first edition. I hope you found that the integrity of their story is intact and felt the updates did them justice! You are the reason I am here and I am forever grateful for your support!

To Kelly, Graham Everett’s biggest and first fan—you will always be the reason I had the courage to do this! Thank you for telling me you wouldn’t be my friend anymore if I didn’t pursue this dream. I love you forever!

Another big thank you goes to my amazing editor, Katie. She is there with me through all the good and bad—finding one of my best friends through my dream job as truly been the greatest joy!

To Kendra, who really poured her heart into this one—it definitely shows! You improve every manuscript you touch and I am so grateful to have you.

To Nikki, Amanda, JL, and everyone else who answers my distress signals without hesitation, thank you so much for being there for me! And Sonia—your art has brought these books to life in the most incredible way! You have all my appreciation, forever!

Lastly, to my husband, who inspired so much of this book with his family and their story—I hope I did it all justice, babe.

coming soon

ONCE UPON A PACK

The first book in Ari’s new Omegaverse series drops this March! These will be modern, why-choose fairytale reimaginings! Order yours now!

MARCO’S STORY - STAR-CROSSED CITY BOOK 3

Marco’s bodyguard/ fake-dating romance with lots of suspense and swoon is coming soon!

KNOT HER CATCH - MVP BOOK 5

Featuring the first MVP plus-sized heroine, a pack of baseball boys, and lots of hurt/comfort vibes! Order yours now!

about the author

Ari Wright resides in a sun-soaked corner of the United States, where she spends her days raising littles, cooking, reading, consuming massive amounts of music, and doing entirely too much daydreaming. Ari began writing novels at the age of twelve. A passionate book-lover all her life, her mother once joked that she had to start writing her own stories because she had read everyone else’s.

It has been her lifelong dream to share the worlds inhabiting her mind with others. Thank you for being a part of her dream come true!