The week passes quickly as I get the hang of the new job.

Brock is busy all the time with meetings and travel and who-knows-what, so he mostly leaves me to it although he checks in from time to time.

I’ve tried to press him a few times on exactly what is going to happen on Saturday night, but he just smiles that infuriatingly smug smile that’s starting to feel familiar by now and tells me to wait and see.

“I don’t like surprises,” I tell him. “Can’t you give me a clue? I want to make sure I’m dressed appropriately, at least. Is it a social thing? A work thing? Where is it going to be? A restaurant? A bar? A conference? You’ve got to give me something to go on!”

“I’ve got everything handled,” is all he says. “You just need to bring yourself, and everything else will be taken care of.”

No matter how much I press him and cajole him, he won’t budge.

I’d never tell him this . . . but to be honest, it’s a little thrilling. Even though I told him that I don’t like surprises, I actually kind of do. Maybe just a little.

As long as he doesn’t try to force himself on me or something ridiculous like that, I’m sure I can deal. And as much as Brock’s changed over the years since I last saw him, he hasn’t changed that much. He won’t try any funny business with his buddy’s little sister. I’m sure of it.

Or will he?

Other than that, the work is okay. Mostly, for now, I’m catching up on the insanely huge pile of paperwork that Brock has been putting off, probably for months.

There are stacks of invoices, memos, and all kinds of other stuff. When I ask him why he hasn’t dealt with any of it, he shrugs with a grin.

“I have a ton of other things to do, and I hate paperwork. I’ll use any excuse to get out of it. Besides, Luke was never going to let me get a PA of my own if I was handily taking care of everything that landed on my desk, was he?”

“So you just ignored it all?”

“Sure. Why not? It’s gotten you a job. You should be pleased.”

And I am. About having a job, of course. Not about having to dig through these piles of paperwork not organized into any kind of rational system. It’s like he literally threw them all in a drawer. Well, it’s not like that—he actually, literally threw it all in a drawer.

So, week one is finished. The paperwork mountain is mostly under control, and I’ve put a new filing system in place to ensure it never gets that bad again.

All in all, I’m feeling good. I’m doing well at work. I haven’t heard from Pete since he got roughed up by those security guards. And I get to spend time with hot, hunky Brock. Well, some time, seeing as he’s busy a lot.

When he’s around, he’s a complete distraction, which is not totally his fault. I just can’t help but stare at the muscles bulging underneath his business suit. And when he cracks a joke or smiles at me, there’s a little flutter that starts low down in my belly and spreads all over.

I have to keep reminding myself that he’s just being a good boss and that he’s not interested in me that way.

He could have any woman he wants. He’s hardly going to be lusting after a lowly assistant whose creepy ex-boyfriend tries to start fights with him.

But there’s no harm in looking. So I do. A lot. Maybe a little too much.

It’s Saturday afternoon, my first day off since I started the job, and I’m sitting alone at home.

I’ve been fully made up since about 10 a.m. because Brock never told me what time he wanted me to be ready. I’ve basically just been pacing around my apartment since then, checking my phone every five minutes to see if he’s texted or called.

I feel like that teenager with a crush all over again, which is ridiculous. He’s probably taking me to some industry conference.

But no matter how many times I tell myself to relax, that it’s he probably just needs me around to help him collect business cards or take notes, it doesn’t work, and I’m checking the phone all over again.

Finally, around 3 p.m., I get a text from Brock.

A hotel room? Is he really trying something with me?

I know I’ve been crushing on him, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to get away with something like this. Just booking a hotel room and expecting me to turn up and let him do whatever he wants with me? No way.

But . . . he wouldn’t do that. Would he? I’m being way too suspicious.

I hesitate for a moment but then decide to go along anyway, mostly because I’m intrigued.

If he’s waiting in there, wearing only a towel or something, I can just rip him a new one—that might even be kind of fun.

Besides, what am I going to do? Tell him I’m not going and I don’t care if he fires me over this? I’m not sure this is the hill I want to die on.

While I’m in the bus on my way over there, Dean calls.

“Hey, sis.” His voice filters through my old phone’s tinny speaker. “How’s the new job going? Your first paycheck should be due soon right? I’ll be expecting a cut.”

“For what?” I ask, laughing. “I’ll have you know I got the job entirely on my own merit, thank you very much.”

“Yeah? Well, Brock sent me a text the other day, said he didn’t even set up any interviews with anyone else. That sounds to me like I’d at least eliminated your competition, Nina.”

“Yeah, okay, fine. Thank you. That’s what you wanted to hear?”

“Yeah. You’re welcome.” A short pause. When Dean speaks again. There’s a tense undercurrent in his voice. “So, has Pete shown up again?”

“No,” I answer quickly. “I haven’t thought about Pete all week. Maybe he’s gotten the message now.”

“Really? He’s not bothering you too much is he? Do I need to go pay him a visit?” Dean asks. He can be a little overprotective sometimes.

“No, Dean. Please. You’ll only make things worse. I can handle my own business. He’s been dealt with.”

“Hmmm. If you say so.” Dean still sounds unconvinced.

Ever since Mom and Dad died, Dean’s watched over me. I’m grateful for everything he’s done, of course, but sometimes I get the impression he still thinks I’m a kid. It’s more than a little infuriating.

As much as I love my brother, I’m glad he moved away to Seattle for work.

“I do,” I say, “and you’re just going to have to take my word for it.”

I can see the Ritz-Carlton now, gleaming in the early evening sky.

My stomach twists a little with anxiety. What has Brock got in store for me?

I briefly consider telling Dean about the whole situation but quickly decide against it. He’ll only worry, and he already thinks I’m incapable of taking care of myself.

“Listen, Dean, I’m right in the middle of something. I’ll call you back later in the week so we can have a real catch-up, okay?”

“All right, Nina. But you let me know if you get yourself into any trouble. Promise me.”

“I promise, Dean. Stop worrying. I’ll talk to you soon.”

I hang up the call just as I hop off the bus, take a deep breath, and head inside, wondering what I’m getting myself into.

I get the key from reception, take the elevator up, and enter a plush hotel room, my mouth agape.

Thick, soft carpeting. A separate seating area with its own TV. Another TV hanging on the wall across from the oversized bed. A massive bathtub with massage jets in the marble-floor bathroom.

This room probably costs like a week’s salary for me. For a little while, I sort of awkwardly hover around, not sure what to do.

I don’t know what to expect when Brock arrives. Is he going to try and jump me or something?

Still, now that I’m here, it doesn’t seem like the most unattractive idea to immerse myself in warm water and soap bubbles, sharing a bottle of champagne with Brock while drops of water roll down his golden skin, tracing the contours of his muscular . . .

Damn it, Nina. No. Bad. That would be bad.

I shake my head. As if that would help get rid of the sexy images that have already begun to form and multiply in my brain.

I’ve got to stay professional. I can’t ruin my career over some guy, even if that guy is Brock.

Was it a bad idea to come here?

As these thoughts crowd my mind, the door opens. My heart skips a beat at the soft click, and I step out of the bathroom.

It’s him. Brock. He’s dressed to the nines—tux, shiny shoes, the whole nine yards. Damn, he looks good.

“Hey, thanks for coming. I was worried you might not,” he says, handing over a big, fancy-looking shopping bag to me. “Just put those on, and we can get started.”

My mind goes wild with possibilities as I robotically take the bag by the handles, my hand grazing over Brock’s for a heart-stopping moment.

What’s inside? A sexy nurse costume? A sexy cat woman costume made of latex? A sexy . . .

Stop it. Stop thinking dirty thoughts. It’s probably not a sexy anything. It’s most likely some promotional material—brochures, flyers, whatever.

Glancing at Dean’s mysterious smile, I peek inside the bag . . .

A dress, it looks like, along with some shoes. The tags are still on . . . and the prices, my God. My eyes water at the sight.

What the hell is going on?

If he thinks that just because he gave me a job, he can book a fancy hotel room, buy me some slutty clothes, and then do whatever he wants, he’s got another think coming.

I’m honestly stunned—I didn’t expect this from him at all. I can get another job where I don’t need to sacrifice my dignity, thank you very much.

Brock is standing there, arms crossed, looking very pleased with himself while I have a silent deliberation with myself.

“Come on,” he says impatiently, “what are you waiting for? You said you’d help me out to repay me for ruining that shirt. We’re running late.”

I stand there, open-mouthed. How can he be so brazen?

“Yeah, I said I’d help you out,” I say indignantly. “But that doesn’t mean I’m just going to put a slutty costume on and let you do whatever you want to me in a hotel room. What the hell, Brock?”

Brock stares at me like I’ve sprouted a second head.

And then, he bursts out laughing.