The blurred text on my computer screen strings together to form one ridiculous, incomprehensive paragraph. I’ve been chipping away at this piece for more than an hour, but it’s like my satirical wit has gone MIA. It’s tough to muster snark when all I want to do is cry.

I tuck my legs up under my buttocks, and shift the laptop to take some of the heat off my bare thighs. Every few minutes, I cast a longing glance at my cell, at once willing it to ring, while begging it to stay silent.

Any hope I have of forgetting Lucas Hammer hinges on him not making contact. No phone calls or texts. No chance meetings. I shouldn’t be thinking of him—I am. Shouldn’t want him—I do.

Fuck me. At this rate, by morning I’ll need a full-on exorcism.

I try again to focus on the article, but a knock at the door diverts my attention. Setting the laptop on the coffee table, I tip toe across the room, pulling my plaid nightshirt down over my butt as far as it will stretch. Damn thing keeps shrinking in the dryer.

Pressing my face to the peephole, I peer out into the hallway, squinting with one eye to see who is at the door. The silhouette on the other side is unrecognizable thanks to a burnt-out light bulb in the corridor, another “odd job” that hasn’t made the resident Handyman’s “To Do” list. Though small, my apartment is at least a step up from the dive I lived in when I first moved to New York, but it’s still in a sketchy part of the city. I make a mental note to harass the landlord about that light again—one can never be too cautious—though it doesn’t solve my current problem.

Another knock, this time louder.

I clear my throat. “Who is it?”

“I brought you something important.” The voice shakes me to my core.

I know I should ignore it but I just can’t. I wonder what he brought me? Another summons for a new court case against me?

My guts twist as I shakily open the door and the silhouette figure morphs into an all-too familiar shape. “What the hell are you doing here?” I snap.

“Bringing you dinner.” Lucas holds up two take-out bags of Chinese.

I survey the bags, and breathe in the aroma of sizzling peanut stir-fry. My favorite— and I’m fucking starving. “Not interested,” I lie. “Go away.”

His mouth turns down in a frown. “Did something earthshattering happen between now and this morning because I thought things went well between us.”

Arrogant SOB. “I didn’t return your text because I don’t want to see you again, Lucas.” My voice catches a little. “Clearly you can’t take a hint.” I deflect the hurt I see reflected in his eyes with a continuation of my rant. “Yeah, we slept together.” Multiple times. “But that doesn’t give you permission to track me down like a rabid dog and just assume I’ll be at your beck and call.” Maybe it happens like with the other girls, but I’m not one of them.

I won’t—can’t—be one of them.

Lucas shoulders past me and sets the bags of Chinese food on the small kitchen counter. I watch in wide-eyed shock as he rummages through the cabinets in search of plates, cutlery, and wine glasses. Fresh anger thrums through me. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

He turns to me and blinks. “There’s no point in wasting food, Eden. Let’s sit down like adults and have a civilized conversation about whatever’s bugging you.”

His condescending tone grates on my already frayed nerves. “What’s bugging me is that your company—Daylight Holdings—is bankrolling the lawsuit against Rubberneckers and you didn’t have the decency to give me the heads up.”

“I honestly didn’t see the point,” he says, almost dismissive in his calmness.

Holy shit. My breath comes out in a harsh puff. “Are you for real? We had this discussion.”

Or one very much like it. Honesty. Transparency. Surely to God he isn’t oblivious to how much keeping this important fact from me stings.

Without comment, he helps himself to a bottle of cheap white wine from the fridge, unscrews the cap and pours us each a glass. “It’s not personal Eden. The lawsuit was started by a friend of ours before I even knew you.” He sips the wine and scrunches up his nose, clearly disappointed by the taste. “We agreed to help him, yes—but it’s not personal.”

I push my glass aside. “It absolutely is!” My heart is a jack rabbit on full sprint. “The lawsuit is threatening to ruin my life, Lucas. It could bankrupt us. Me.”

My eyes glass over, and I avert my gaze, taking in my sparsely decorated apartment. Bare bone necessities. Every piece of furniture handpicked, each accent carefully analyzed prior to purchase. I never splurge.

I admit, Rubberneckers isn’t my dream job, but I’m proud of its steady progression—and suddenly, fiercely protective. I cling to that pride like a pit-bull with his jaws clamped around a bone. “How can you say it isn’t personal?”

Lucas begins to unpack the bag of food, setting out first the fried rice, the almond chicken, and an extra-large container of ginger beef. One whiff and I’m already starting to cave. Damn him.

“The decision isn’t up to me,” he says, finally showing some semblance of remorse, albeit thin. His shoulders slump into a half-hearted shrug. “I have two business partners who feel strongly about supporting this…friend. I couldn’t stop them if I tried.”

“Bullshit,” I snap. “That’s a copout and you know it.”

“Whatever makes you feel better, darlin’.”

Argh! I’m so frustrated I could scream.

Lucas spoons the food from the cartons onto our plates, and then stabs a string of ginger beef with his fork. He dangles it in front of my lips. “You have to taste this—it’s the best Chinese in New York.”

Stubborn, I keep my mouth closed and fold my arms across my chest.

“You’re missing out,” he says. He pretends his fork is an airplane and swoops it under my nose. A buzzing noise vibrates between his lips. He circles around again, this time swiping the meat across my lips to that I have no choice but to lick them clean. He’s right, the sauce alone is noteworthy. My stomach grumbles.

“God, you’re such a kid,” I say. It’s meant to be an admonishment, but the truth is, he’s adorable, and while part of me wants to slap that boyish smirk off his face, I’d rather be running my fingers through his hair.

“Growing up is for suckers,” he says, with a dry chuckle.

My annoyance flares up again. That’s easy for someone like Lucas to say. One snap of his fingers and he can command whatever—whomever—he wants. But I live in the real world, and it’s not that simple. I don’t have indispensable wealth at the tip of my fingers.

Lucas slumps down on the chair. “Come on Eden, what do I have to do? I like spending time with you, and I think you feel the same. This doesn’t have to come between us.”

Some of the anger dissipates, replaced by defeat, “There’s no way this can work.”

“Because of the lawsuit?”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. I’ve been racking my brains looking for a way out of this, some kind of escape clause that lets me have both. And so far, I’ve come up blank.

His eyebrow quirks up. “So, let’s pretend it doesn’t exist.”

I laugh without humor. “Cute, but impossible.”

The lawsuit is like an albatross over my head, permeating the environment everywhere I go. Tensions between Liz, Marnie and I are at an all-time high. We’re arguing over little things, petty things, the kinds of stuff that high school kids bicker about. No way I can just pretend it doesn’t exist. It’s a ridiculous solution.

“Not forever.” Lucas puts the fork down and takes my hand in his. “Give me one week.”

My palm is slick with nervous sweat. I try to pull back, but he hangs on and waits for me to look up into his eyes. In them, I find sincerity.

My mouth goes dry. “And after that?”

Lucas offers a small smile. “If after seven days of spending time together, we still like each other, we’ll figure out what to do about the situation.”

My heart flutters with indecision. “Nice try. You just want to spend a week fucking me without any strings or repercussions.”

His eyes go smoky and sexy. “Don’t you want me to fuck you every day for a week?”

Yes.

The word catches in the back of my throat. It’s the answer he wants—the one I’m desperate to give—but it’s also the path fraught with the most danger. Once again, my brain, my heart, and my body are at war, but this time, the battle isn’t even close—I want him. Badly.

Not just for a week, I realize.

But if that’s the offer on the table, I’ll start with seven days and see where it goes, because I’m not strong enough to walk away. Not yet.

Jesus, I’m in big trouble here.

“One week,” I say, lifting my chin as if this was my plan all along.

“One week, plus tonight,” Lucas says, grinning wolfishly. “And I don’t intend on wasting one second of it.”