My skull pounds and I can’t even blame alcohol.

Nope. This morning’s migraine is the result of being front row at a rock concert for three hours, mingling with the adrenaline rush that comes after spending another incredible night with Lucas.

My heart hums with the unfamiliar sense of contentment. I feel happy, light.

You’re falling for him, Eden.

The realization hits me like a head-on crash.

I’ve tried to deny it, but observing him last night—his electric smile when the band rushed on stage, the way his eyes lit up as they launched into his favorite songs, the transformation from Lucas Hammer, powerful hedge fund CEO to fan boy when we slipped backstage to meet his childhood heroes—it did something funny to my insides.

Sealed the deal.

I pinch my eyes closed, gathering my composure before I walk into the office, unprepared for the barrage of questions my business partners will ask about yet another morning of tardiness. I’m trying to be on time, I swear, but when I wake up with Lucas’s arms and legs intertwined around mine, rolling out of his bed is the last thing on my mind.

Lately, Lucas has encompassed every nook and cranny of my brain—not that I’m complaining.

My cell buzzes, signaling another incoming text. That makes an even ten from Marnie since yesterday afternoon. As if guilt wasn’t already bearing down on me, now I’ll need to account for that too. I’ll feign illness to cover my ass this time, but that excuse won’t wash for long.

At least I don’t have to fake the headache.

A dark-haired, young girl smiles at me from the receptionist desk. “Hi,” she says, with a nauseatingly high pitch to her voice. “Welcome to Rubberneckers.”

My lip curls downward. “Who are you?”

She blinks, clearly confused at my gruffness, but recovers quickly. “Sasha. The new girl…”

New girl? No way. Never mind that Rubberneckers is on the brink of bankruptcy and we’ve already had to let our perfectly-capable former receptionist go, but all HR decisions are made jointly. That’s one of the fundamental tenants of our business model. How was this one made in my absence?

“I’m Eden,” I say, still gruff. Still pissed. It’s not her fault my partners have gone behind my back, but she’s not getting a free pass, either. Something about her rubs me the wrong way. “Marnie and Liz in the back?”

Liz peeks her head over the privacy screen. “Hey…we’ve been trying to call you.”

“Cell’s been acting up,” I mutter, and discreetly put it to silent. So much for playing the sick card. My cheeks burn with shame as the lies keep piling up. “What’s with the new girl?”

Liz gives me a tight-lipped smile. “Sasha is a summer student from Ryerson.”

Great. Now even aspiring journalists can go down with our sinking ship. I hang my coat on the hook designated for my things, averting my gaze from where Austin’s stuff once rested. Fresh guilt weighs heavy on my chest. Maybe if I’d handled that differently, he’d still be here—

But then I would never have met Lucas.

I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. Everything happens for a reason.

Marnie clucks her tongue with disapproval. “If you’d answered your phone, you’d know about Sasha.”

I shrug off their obvious disappointment and head back to the lobby, finger wave at the new girl, and grab a bag of freshly popped corn. Before leaving the lobby, I pause at her desk and conjure up my best smile. “So, Ryerson?”

She nods with vigor, which isn’t the only evidence of her enthusiasm. The desk has been wiped clean of our last receptionist’s things—even her picture—and is now peppered with Sasha’s things—a snapshot of her with friends, a framed photograph of the guy she’s likely dating, some questionable knickknacks that I’m sure she’d happily explain if I gave her an inkling of interest. I can’t bring myself to do it.

“You graduated from NYU, right?” she says.

I hesitate a split second before answering, wondering if she’s comparing our programs. They’re both good, but Ryerson has a more prestigious Journalism program. Another reason why an internship here might not be in her best interest “I did— pretty good school.” Not that it prepared me for the kind of lawsuit Rubberneckers faces. Though, who could have predicted this? Liz, maybe. But then, she’s a fretter.

Which is how I know she’s watching this interaction with guarded approval. I slap my palm down on Sasha’s desk and smile as wide as I can without splitting something. “Welcome! I probably didn’t say that very well before.” Or at all. “I’m a bit of a bear until I’ve had my popcorn and coffee.” Or when my partners don’t tell me what the hell is going on.

I mentally retract that last bit of sarcasm because it’s my own fault I wasn’t informed about the hire.

“Noted,” she says, with a nervous smile.

I lob a piece of popcorn in my mouth and slip behind the screen. On the way to my desk, I grab a cup of steaming black coffee, even though I had two cups before I left Lucas’s apartment. Gourmet, not the stuff we buy for the office in bulk at Costco.

That’s when I spot the small package on my chair. It’s paperback novel-sized, wrapped in brown paper, and marked only with my name on the front. The lettering is thick, nearly disguised, but not quite—Lucas has a distinct way of writing the letter “E”, kind of half-printed and half-script. My pulse ratchets up.

“More story research?” Marnie says, raising a perfectly manicured eyebrow. Of the three of us, she’s the most put together. The Queen of the Thrift Store, a master of coupon clipping, and a firm believer that self-care is more important than almost anything—sometimes food. Even in the midst of financial crisis, her nails are painted, eyebrows waxed, and hair freshly colored. This week she’s a ginger. It’s a little too light for her complexion.

“Must be,” I say, wishing I could melt under the floor. If it wouldn’t be too conspicuous, I’d fire off a text to Lucas, reminding him that he isn’t supposed to send items to my office. My partners are reporters—curious and observant by definition—and I’m already under suspicion.

Carefully, I peel back the paper on the mystery package. There’s no way I can avoid opening it in front of Liz and Marnie, both of whom are now hovering over my desk like damn spy drones.

“This is the second parcel in two days,” Liz says, ruby lips pursed with forced amusement. “You’re holding out on us, Eden.”

God, if they only knew.

My palms go clammy. “It’s just a book I ordered,” I say, running my finger along the spine of an antique copy of Jack Kerouac’s On The Road. Jesus. If it’s authentic, it would have set Lucas back at least a couple thousand bucks.

I didn’t order this novel, but there must be a reason Lucas has.

“Ugh,” Marnie says, rolling her eyes. “You love those literary classics. I’m more of a J.D. Ward kind of girl. Give me rogue vamps in shit kickers any day.”

Her voice fades to white noise.

Leaning back in my chair, I open the book, squinting at the carefully handwritten inscription.

Last night was for me—tonight it’s all about you. Meet me at the White Horse—9 p.m. sharp. Bring the book.

* * *

A goateed, bespectacled man sits on a stool, a newer copy of the same Jack Kerouac book that Lucas sent to me in his hands, preparing to read aloud.

We are seated at a table in a dimly lit bar amidst many other people here for this showcase, celebrating the noted author’s most famous work.

I shift in my seat and cross my legs. My mouth goes dry. I take a sip of champagne while the overhead lights dim.

Seconds later, a bright spotlight shines on the man as he begins to read in a loud, melodic voice. I glance at Lucas, who whispers, “Reminds me of a college lecture.”

I almost burst out laughing but everyone else here is remarkably serious, and I manage to quiet myself.

The passage is familiar—I’ve practically memorized this book—but then Lucas’s hand drifts from my knee up my thigh, casually slipping under my skirt.

My body tenses. I shoot him a nervous look, but he pretends not to notice, his lips twitching with amusement as he studies the man reading on the stage.

He leans in close to whisper in my ear. “What do you think?”

“It’s…” I struggle to breath as his hand continues its journey up my thigh.“…very exciting.”

“I agree.”

His hand is dangerously close to my center now, and I feel my breath hitching as the threat of an orgasm begins to creep through my core.

I wondered at first why Lucas had thought to bring me here, but then he’d reminded me about my book collection.

While at my apartment, he’d noticed my collection of Kerouac novels nestled among the works of Shakespeare, Dickens, and Roald Dahl.

And I have to admit, something about being at a literary event with Lucas strikes a chord—though I’ve lived in New York for many years, I’ve yet to participate in anything like this before.

I swallow a sip of champagne, my head already growing weightless.

As the man reads on the mic, I try my best not to moan aloud, while beneath the table, Lucas works his magic.

Lucas’s fingers creep further up my thigh, just barely touching the lace edge of my panties. My pussy begins to tingle. I hold my breath, fighting the urge to squirm and make a scene. I know exactly what’s coming, but still, I blow out a soft gasp when his thumb gently slides across my slit.

My legs part of their own volition, allowing him easier access.

I feel my cheeks flush. I’m not opposed to PDA, but this kind of behavior in public is—

Ridiculous.

Dangerously fun.

Lucas leans in and whispers, “Just act normal.”

Normal? Impossible when his deft fingers so expertly navigate the shallow cleft of my sex. He pinches my clit. I flinch. A low chuckle rumbles from his throat. Sweet Jesus, he’s enjoying this, the jerk.

I’m shocked to realize that I am too. Lucas’s fingertips move in small, careful circles, caressing my clitoris.

The tension inside me is almost unbearable now, and I am on the brink of orgasm. Sweat beads across my forehead. My skin is goose pimpled, cool despite the heat from the stage lights and the liquid warmth of too much sparkling wine. I clench my butt cheeks and grip Lucas’s arm, silently begging him to stop.

He does, but the reprieve is short-lived.

His fingers hook on the edge of my underwear and push them aside, giving him clean access to my sex. Jesus I’m wet. My thighs are slick from my juices, and my pussy aches. Every nerve in my body buzzes like a livewire.

Lucas rolls his thumb around and around my clit, and then uses it and his forefinger to pinch the tiny nub with gentle force. “Don’t worry, darlin’,” he whispers, before nipping my earlobe with his teeth. “No one is watching you.”

I allow myself to relax, sinking back in my chair, parting my legs even further, as though in a trance.

I imagine Lucas’s mouth, warm between my thighs, tongue swirling the hard pebble that is pinched between his fingers. I pretend he is licking and sucking the juices that drip from my core and through my skirt and onto the chair. In my fantasy, he laps up every lost drop. Sucking and nibbling, sucking and ...

My hips gently lift off my seat, my head tilts back, and a soft sigh hisses through my lips.

Before I know it, I begin grinding against Lucas’s hand, swirling my hips in slow, easy motions, bringing myself to the brink of orgasm. My clit tightens, the release mounts, fuck me I’m going to—

The sudden roar of clapping shocks me abruptly back to reality. I snap open my eyes, humiliated that I’ve somehow forgotten where I am. My pussy clenches around his fingers to trap the release, and heat crawls up my neck.

Now turned on beyond my comprehension, I’m desperate to go somewhere, anywhere to finish this off. My body aches to me fondled and fucked.

Lucas leans toward me, emerald eyes going violet beneath the blue overhead lights. He grins sexily. “You brought the book with you, as instructed?”

I bite my lip and nod. It’s like my words are strangled at the back of my throat.

“Good girl. Shall we go home and pick up where things left off…?”

The swelling in my esophagus enlarges. “You want me to read to you?”

He nods.

And then I have a bright idea. “Naked?”

Lucas narrows his eyes and stares with an intensity that makes my knees go weak. “Why don’t we start at the beginning…and see where things end up.”