LYDIA

I don't see him again that day, or the next. But I practice. By practice, I mean I have imaginary conversations with him so I'll be ready for a real conversation when I see him again. Hey, remember me? I say to myself in the mirror while drying my hair in the morning. Oh, you! You work here? I work here! I repeat this on my drive to work over and over until it sounds natural. If I'm at a stoplight I add a shoulder shrug and a hand gesture to the mix. Hey, guy, would you believe I didn't catch your name?

That last one needs work, admittedly. It sorta sucks that I have to call him Hey during these fantasy practice runs, but it is what it is. I thought about making up a name for him until I find out what his name is, but I didn't want to get attached to the wrong name. Like what if I call him Sam as a temporary placeholder, but it sticks somewhere in my brain and then during sex I accidentally call him Sam? Can you even imagine?

I can imagine it. I did imagine it, actually, and I cringed a thousand cringes. I imagined it was going well—the sex—and I was enjoying myself and he was enjoying himself and I was doing a really good job at the sexing and then, bam. I called out the wrong name and ruined everything. If you want the details, he was on top of me, mid-thrust, my ankle hooked around his back as I groaned, "Harder, Sam." Then he stopped, as one does when called the wrong name during sex. And I turned a hundred shades of red in total humiliation while he got dressed and left.

And I didn't even come.

So Hey will have to do until I find out his name. I figure if I accidentally call him Hey during sex I can at least salvage the situation before I offend him. So I bide my time, keep my eyes open and work on my imaginary conversations.

I'm confident it will pay off, because in my experience when you work hard and have a positive attitude, it pays off. If nothing else, practice makes perfect, so I'll be ready when I see him again.

On Friday I get my own desk. I've never had a space of my own at work before, besides a locker in which to shove my handbag. It's actually a cubicle. I've got an entire five-by-five-foot space to call my own, complete with a name plate attached to the exterior of my cubicle wall.

Lydia Clark. I run my fingertip over the letters and grin before surveying my new space. I've got an L-shaped desk with a flat screen monitor already in place on the surface. There are three lined pads of paper, a package of pens and a six-pack of Post-It notes still wrapped in cellophane laying next to the keyboard. The cube walls are covered in some kind of taupe industrial-grade fabric, but they double as bulletin boards so I'll be able to pin notes for easy viewing.

Gah! I cannot wait to buy a cute pencil cup this weekend. Maybe I'll get a letter tray too, and colored file folders. I drop my handbag into the file cabinet drawer under the desk and text Payton.

Lydia: Office supply shopping this weekend?!

Payton: Can't wait!

Oh, wow. I didn't think she'd care. She had almost no opinion about any of the stuff we got for our apartment. I wonder if I can get her to go to Ikea with me again.

Lydia: Really??? Want to go to Ikea after work??

Payton: No, not really, nerd. It's our second weekend in Vegas. We are not spending Friday night at Ikea.

Oh. Well, maybe Saturday then.

I've got a team meeting in five minutes so I pocket my phone and make my way to the conference room. The second through fourth floors of this hotel are all office space. These floors aren't accessible from the guest elevators, so we're sorta hidden, like having a building within a building. We've got separate elevators from the employee entrance that service nothing but these three floors and the executive suites on thirty-four. Not that I've seen them—they're for senior-level employees who live on site. Can you even imagine?

My department—human resources—is on the fourth floor along with legal, accounting, security and the executive offices. I'm a human resource associate, reporting to the director of human resources, who reports to the vice-president of human resources. If it sounds like a lot of people, it's because it is. I'm one of seven associates. We all started together this week and we will eventually be divided up and assigned as the lead contact by department. Housekeeping, food services, front desk and bell services, entertainment, recreation, retail and gaming. That's just the front-of-house stuff.

This place really is a world all of its own.

There's a break room on each floor with free coffee, so I stop there on my way to the conference room. It's got one of those fancy coffee machines that make lattes and espresso and hot cocoa and even regular coffee. God, working here is like a day at Disney for me! There's fruit and snacks and bottled water too, and—oh, my God. I stop dead. That guy. The break room has that guy too. I mean, he's here, in the break room. Not that he's stocked in the break room, like a free packet of peanuts, which are indeed stocked in the break room. Gah, Lydia! Focus!

I've taken two steps into the room, my heeled feet clicking on the linoleum and announcing my presence before I can do so myself. He's in the midst of uncapping a bottle of water and I have half a second to observe him before he notices me.

Half a second to confirm he just does it for me.

Why is that? All I've done is kiss him. Why does he have this effect on me? It's not like I'm so innocent that a kiss sends me reeling. I've kissed guys before and none of them made me feel like this. They made me feel, if I'm being honest, apathetic. Hence why I'm still a virgin. Because why bother? If a guy makes you feel like you could take it or leave it, just why bother?

Yet this guy makes me feel like I could be actively promiscuous. Yup. When I see him I'm pretty sure I've got untapped slut potential. Holy all of everything that is good, why is he so attractive? It almost hurts to look directly at him. I feel all warm and turned on and weird.

He notices me and I see the flash of recognition or surprise in his eyes. I suppose it's a mixture of both, but it means he remembers me, doesn't it? It so does.

He says nothing, but his eyes remain on mine as he turns to face me. He brings the bottle to his lips and sips, seemingly unhurried, just watching me. His expression gives away nothing, and if I hadn't caught that brief look in his eye when he first saw me I'd think he didn't remember me, but he does. I know he does.

We're alone. Just us, an empty break room, the hum of the refrigerator and the smell of coffee permeating the air.

This is my chance.

"Oh, hey, um, so you work here?"

That's what I come up with for my big moment.

"We met the other day. Last weekend. Whatever." I add a stiff wave to the pile of awkward that just left my mouth.

"That we did," he replies with a small nod of his head. He recaps the water without looking at the bottle because his eyes never leave me. Gah, his freaking eyes. They do things to me. Dirty things, at least in my mind. His gaze dances across my face and I feel flush everywhere. I take a tentative couple of steps forward, my heels clicking against the floor. He has smart eyes. Intelligent. Insightful. He looks like a man capable of quick decisions. He looks like a man who doesn't miss the details.

"So you work here? I work here." I sound a little breathless when I say it. I exhale and try to pull myself together.

"Yes. It appears that we both work here."

I think I'm repeating myself. I need to move this along while I have the chance, before someone walks in or he takes off.

"So that was nice," I offer. "When we met."

"Nice?" I think his lip twists into the tiniest hint of a smirk when he speaks, one eyebrow quirked in question or amusement. I wish I could run my fingertip over that eyebrow. Examine the tiny line running across his forehead and whisper my fingers across his jaw.

"The kissing thing," I clarify. "In case you ever wanted to do it again."

His eyes widen and both brows rise, the smirk gone. Then he shakes his head a fraction and smiles. I'm amusing him. Shit. I must sound like a teenager, he's surely used to offers way beyond kissing.

"And whatever else you want," I amend quickly. "I mean, if you're interested."

"Jesus Christ." He says this slowly and not necessarily in a reverent way. The hand not holding the bottle of water comes up and drags across his jaw and then he tilts his head a little as if he's easing some kind of stress in his neck. The smirk is gone.

Wait. Have I got this all kinds of wrong? He did kiss me. Not that kissing me was some great declaration of interest, but he must have found me attractive enough to kiss. Surely suggesting we do it again shouldn't be so horrifying to him?

He drops the hand from his mouth. The water bottle in his other hand dangles from his fingertips, where he bounces it against his thigh. I wouldn't classify his actions as nervous. Not in the least. Restless, maybe. His expression is a little tortured if I had to pinpoint it. His eyes though… his eyes look interested. I might not be the most experienced girl in the world, but I think he looks at me with interest.

"Rhys!" a voice calls out from behind me and my eyes widen. I forgot to ask his name. Again. But it's Rhys. Rhys, Rhys, Rhys. I chant the name in my head and I like it. I like it a lot. A small smile tugs at my lips before I realize that I almost missed my chance to get his name for the second time. Smooth. Real smooth. I am such a freaking amateur.

I turn my head towards the voice to find the source is a tall good-looking man striding into the break room. Not as good-looking as Rhys, at least not to me, but I can see the appeal. He slaps Rhys on the back as he opens the fridge and grabs himself a bottle of water. He's dressed nicely—I realize now that they both are. Suits. Expensive suits. I'm familiar enough with fabric to spot the quality in those suits without touching them. They're put-together, the both of them. Well-knotted ties, polished shoes, chunky watches. They're hot. Walking, talking sex appeal.

Wait. What the hell did I just say to Rhys? Whatever else you want? Oh, my God. No. I feel my face start to heat up and I quickly drop my gaze to the linoleum floor and turn towards the fancy coffee maker. I grab a mug from the open shelving and set it in place on the machine, my hand shaking as I jab at the buttons. I did not practice that. My practice runs for when I saw him again did not include me offering to 'whatever else you want.' I didn't practice for interruptions either. Why didn't I have contingency plans for embarrassing myself and being interrupted? What am I supposed to do now?

I bite my lip and turn my head enough to see over my shoulder. Rhys' eyes flicker from the man to me and back again. I turn back to the coffee machine and jab at the buttons until the machine hisses and liquid splutters into the cup below. Then I grip the countertop in front of me until my knuckles turn white.

Maybe it wasn't that bad? What I said?

It was bad. And he didn't react, did he? Not really. What does that mean? Maybe he has a girlfriend? But he kissed me! A week ago he kissed me!

Behind me I hear the other man tell Rhys they're going to be late and then footsteps moving toward the doorway. I keep my hands where they are and watch whatever the heck I've selected as it drips into the cup.

Then they're gone.

I overhear my new supervisor Bethany exchanging hellos with them as they cross paths in the hallway a moment before she sails into the break room in their wake. I move my mug from the fancy coffee maker to the countertop and grab a stir stick as Bethany places a fresh mug onto the machine and smiles at me.

"Ohh, what did you make?" she asks, nodding at my cup.

"A latte of some kind," I say and force a smile before taking a sip. I want to pour it down the sink because I'm in no condition to carry a mug full of hot liquid and no longer need the caffeine boost, but it would be weird to pour it out with her standing here watching me. I tear open a packet of sweetener and add it to my mug before speaking again. "Hey, do you know that guy who was just here? Rhys?" I manage to ask it so casually I might deserve a badge in being breezy. "Do you know where he works?"

"Rhys?" Bethany turns to me with a look of confusion on her face.

"I know he works here," I clarify. "What does he do?" I recall that my department shares this floor with legal and security. And accounting. But he looked more like a lawyer than an accountant.

I'm an idiot. As if anyone looks like an accountant or a lawyer.

"He's the general manager," Bethany replies and I pause, stir stick dangling from my fingertips over the trash can.

This is bad. Deep down I'm pretty sure there is only one general manager in the management structure, but I try all the same. "Of which department?" I manage to keep my voice steady, my eyes on the stir stick. It's landed atop a banana peel inside the trash can. There's a soda can beside it and I'm annoyed at whomever didn't drop it into the recycling bin. It only takes a second.

"Of the property," Bethany says and I lose about a decade from my lifespan in that moment.