LINCOLN’S PRENUPTIAL AGREEMENT IS IN my hands. It takes all of three seconds to read it.

A heavy, bold X strikes through each page with an arrow indicating I should turn the document over on the last one. I do and see this scratched out in Lincoln’s handwriting:

I don’t know whether to laugh or call him and rip his ass. This is utterly stupid, to not protect your interests when combining your life with someone else’s. But it’s Lincoln, and as much as I hate to admit it, I’m not entirely surprised he’s going this route.

Mallory’s voice trickles in through the door I left cracked open for that sole purpose. Having her out there is a godsend professionally. Sometimes I sit at my desk and listen to her make phone calls, take care of issues, deny people entry to my office in awe. Linda was good. Mallory is great.

If that’s all it is, I’d be fine. But it’s not. I know it and I can’t fix it and it drives me absolutely mad.

Hearing her a few feet away does the same thing for me that watching Vanessa teach Philosophy did in college. There’s nothing sexier than a woman with a brain, but it’s more. It’s an unraveling of my wits, a chipping away at my concentration, a veering into the dark, unchartered waters of a place in my life I’m not ready to go.

I wasn’t ready with Vanessa. I had so much to do, so many balls to juggle, but I tried. As they fell to the ground and shattered, I knew things would never look the same to me again. I’d lose the ability to see things through rose-colored glasses. My naiveté was stripped the day her truths were told.

As I sit, one leg resting on the knee of the other and feeling the warm sunlight shine on my face, I listen to Mallory and feel my walls crumble. They aren’t barriers to keep people out; I’ve let many women inside over the years, just in carefully timed, preconceived ways.

I couldn’t do that with Vanessa. It was all or nothing, just like I fear it would be with Mallory. The loss of complete control, and I can never do “all” again.

“Graham?” A knock at the door raps through the room and I glance that way. Mallory is standing there, her head resting on the doorframe, a soft smile touching her lips. “It’s five. I’m going to head out.”

“Come in here for a second.” I sit up and watch her move across my office, a feeling of warmth drifting through my core that unsettles me. “Besides your little outburst, I’m really proud of how you did today with my father and Ford. You made me look good.”

Her cheeks flush. “I just made sure all of your ideas and plans were in line. Today was all about you.” She sits on the edge of the chair across from me.

“Today was about Ford.”

“You should celebrate. Maybe with pancakes.”

“You didn’t bring me any or I would.”

“I didn’t have time,” she scoffs. “I’m not a super morning person, even though today was actually decent.”

“I love mornings. Every day is a fresh start.”

She shrugs. “I guess I’ve not always had a lot to look forward to.”

“I’d venture to say,” I tell her, leaning against my desk, “that you have a lot to look forward to. Your whole life is in front of you.”

“True.” She says it, but she doesn’t believe it.

“Yes, it’s true,” I insist. “You can get up every day and decide what you are going to accomplish, what goals you’re going to work towards. Think about that. Every morning is an opportunity to change what you aren’t happy with.”

“My head hurts,” she laughs. “Today was a long one.”

“You have yoga tonight. Is that right?”

She nods. “I do. I need it. I’m teaching an all-girls class. But if you want to come, I’ll make an exception.”

“No yoga for me,” I grin. “Come on. I’ll walk you to your car. I know how much you hate being late.”

I gather my things, listening to her ramble about essential oils and yoga, and we walk to the elevator. I don’t listen to the words, just hear the delight in her voice. This is what I’ve found myself craving, more than anything else, late at night when I’m home alone.

The elevator is packed. We squeeze in and ride to the executive parking floor. When we exit, it’s empty.

Her shoes tap against the concrete as we make our way to a small, four-door, red compact car.

“This is it,” she says, unlocking it with a key. “Yeah, I know,” she sighs.

“I didn’t even know car doors could be opened with keys anymore.”

“This one can,” she laughs. “I had a newer car with Eric, but I couldn’t afford the payments so I left it with him. This beauty gets me where I’m going.”

“Does she?” I give the vehicle a quick once-over as discreetly as I can. It’s probably more than ten years old and looks like something a greasy haired used car salesman would sell you, only to have it break down a week later. “How long have you had this?”

“A couple of weeks. It’s fine. Not fancy, but good.” She looks at the floor and I realize she’s embarrassed.

“Hey,” I say, lifting her chin so she’s looking at me. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Get that look on your face.”

“Don’t feel pity for me,” she says, brushing my hand away. “I’m driving this hunk of metal because I choose to. That alone, that I made the choice to do this, means a lot to me.”

I look at her in disbelief. How many people do what she did? Realize they deserve more and leave behind everything they have for a life that’s harder, at least materially?

“I respect that,” I say, my tone somber.

“Yeah, well, I’ll remember how respectable it is when I’m trying to figure out how to add windshield wiper fluid.”

Tossing her bag in her car, I hear a crunch. There are a host of takeout bags and Styrofoam cups littering her passenger seat and floorboard.

“That bothers you, doesn’t it?” she giggles.

“I know what you’re getting as a Christmas bonus.”

“What’s that?”

“Your fucking car cleaned. Just . . .” I can’t take it. Stalking back to the elevator, I grab the plastic garbage can and haul it across the parking lot. It squeals as the bottom rips along the pavement.

“Graham!” she shouts over the ruckus. “What are you doing?”

Shaking my head, I nudge her out of the way. “My God, Mallory,” I groan. Bag after bag, cup after cup, napkin after pieces of plastic that are semi-damp, get swiped up and dumped into the can behind me.

I’m leaned across her console, the crunch of the debris muddling the sound of her objections. The carpet is a mess and there’s a weird smell that reminds me of bacon, but at least you can see the carpet now.

Making a face, I climb out of the driver’s seat and dispose of the last items in my hands. “That is a fucking disaster. Park in the front tomorrow morning and I’ll have someone shampoo it out.”

“You will not!”

“Oh, I will. I’ll consider it a gift to humanity.”

“You’re such an ass,” she says, smacking my chest. I catch her hand and pull her to me. It’s automatic, such a natural move that it catches us both off-guard. “There are probably cameras out here, Mr. Landry.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That means I know that look in your eye.”

“You’re safe,” I sigh. “I can’t throw you on the console of your car. I’m afraid your face would get stuck in syrup or something.”

She rolls her eyes and climbs inside. “I’m going to be late to class. I’ll see you in the morning.”

I close the door behind her and step away so she can pull out. She gives me a little wave and a beep of the horn as she drives, entirely too fast, out of the garage.

As her taillights get farther away, a sense of loneliness begins to filter my way. There’s no longer the smell of lavender, the sound of her making fun of me, or the twinkle in her eye that makes me want to ask her a question so she’ll talk to me.

Tension stretches across my shoulders, tugging my muscles tight. With the stiffness comes a pulsing sensation behind my left eye, indicating that I’m on the cusp of one hell of a headache.

Everything is out of order. The pieces of my life are strewn around worse than the contents on her floorboard, and I can’t shuffle them back in place fast enough. My desk is still loaded with papers, Lincoln’s refusal to be sane, and Ford’s security company to deal with. Typically, I wait for this moment—everyone gone, everything quiet, and I can really dig in. Now I can’t because I have another, potentially worse issue at hand: I need Mallory around as badly as I need to put distance between us.

The pull coming harder in my temple, I head to the elevator and press the button. While I wait, I type out a text.

Me: Thank you for asking me to be your best man in such a brotherly way.

Lincoln: Don’t kid either of us. You love that I picked you over Barrett and Ford.

Me: Well, it only makes sense to pick me.

Lincoln: How do you figure?

Me: I’m the one settling in to spend the evening getting a plan together to save your ass in case everything goes south.

Lincoln: Do me a favor?

Me: What, Linc?

Lincoln: Get a drink. Because as wound up as you get, you’ll be dead before I’d need you to implement that plan and then I’d really be fucked.

Me: Always about you, isn’t it?

Lincoln: Hell, yeah. Oh—Ford said you got it on in the middle of a meeting today. Can I say I’m super proud of you?

Me: Talk to you later.

Lincoln: Wait! You can’t jump my ass and then ignore me. This is the day Graham proves he’s human. Let’s discuss. Should I grab some pizza and meet you at the office?

Laughing, I turn my phone off and slip it in my jacket. I step in the elevator and head to my office, hopefully to work and not to think about Mallory.