“Hi, I’m here to see Zeke Harris.” I put my hands on the cold stone surface of the tall counter. I give the receptionist a polite smile. If we’re going to start seeing each other every day, maybe it’s a good idea to be friendly.

“Do you have an appointment?” asks the pretty twenty-something blonde with a stern expression. Briefly, I wonder if she has decided that she doesn’t like me, or if she just has a bad case of the Resting Bitch Face.

“Yes, at nine,” I answer, just as curtly. I’ve come early, so there’s nobody else in the lobby of this office building.

“Can I have your name, please?” Her hands hover over the keyboard, frozen in the air as she looks at me expectantly.

“Alejandra Martin.” Already, I can feel a tired sigh coming from deep inside me.

“How do you spell that?”

Damn it. I knew she’d ask me to spell it out. I hate when that happens, because it happens too damn much.

Sometimes I wish there was a famous person with the same name as me, just so people would learn to spell it. Man, if they can spell Kardashian, they can spell my name.

“A-L-E-J-A-N-D-R-A,” I say, knowing she probably won’t need me to do the same with my last name.

Her fingers start to dance, filling the big, quiet space with the tapping of her keyboard. She adjusts her glasses and says, “Okay, I found you. You’re early.”

“Yes.”

“Well, Mr. Harris is in a meeting right now,” she says, her eyes glued to the computer screen. “But you can go up to the eightieth floor and wait for Mr. Harris there. He’ll be with you right after he’s done with his meeting.”

“Okay, thanks.” I walk across the lobby toward the rows of elevators, my shoes making loud click-clacking noises against the marble floor tiles as I do.

Zeke must’ve spent a fortune on this building. Considering his background, he has done impossibly well.

Compared to him, my life has been going downhill. It’s hard to admit, but I think I’m one of those people who peaked in high school.

Sure, I’m not unattractive or impoverished, but I’ve been better—way better. I guess that kind of gives me a skewed perspective on life.

I enter an empty elevator and check my reflection in the mirror.

I look professional enough. I’m wearing a loose navy-blue blouse, a gray pencil skirt, and a black blazer. It’s a pretty basic outfit. Millions of American workers are probably wearing something similar right now.

But to me, this is a poor imitation of what I used to have.

In my parent’s mansion, I used to have a personal stylist who updated my clothes for me.

At the beginning of every season, I’d open my wardrobe and find all-new items that had been tailored to fit my measurements perfectly.

A new set of clothes was usually the first sign of a new season for me. I’d enter my walk-in wardrobe and go, “Oh, the heavy jackets are gone. They’re replaced by floral dresses and light sweaters. I guess it’s spring time now.”

Of course I could shop on my own as well. But my stylist would regularly go through all my purchases.

She’d come up with outfits for me, taking polaroid pictures and sticking them on my inspiration board.

She’d also throw out or return items that she didn’t think would work with the rest of my wardrobe. For the rest, she’d get them altered to fit me. As a petite girl, I often needed hemlines and shoulder straps shortened.

Having a personal stylist is as awesome as it sounds.

I’ve learned a lot about dressing for my body from my stylist, which is why I look okay now, even though these clothes will probably get destroyed after a few cycles in the wash.

I run my fingers through my dark brown hair, removing any tangles and strays. I bare my teeth to check for any remnants of my breakfast. I blow onto my hand and find that my breath is still perfectly minty.

This is the first time I’m seeing Zeke again, after seven years. I shouldn’t have any feelings left for him—it’s been way too long. But my heart is beating so quickly, and it’s not just because this is my first day at work.

I’m nervous to see what he’s like, now that he’s all grown up. And I’m anxious about him seeing me. I’m excited and worried, all at the same time.

The elevator door opens and my heart goes wild, sending a rush of blood throughout my body. I look around, expecting to spot him.

Stop being an idiot, I chide myself. The receptionist already said he’s still in a meeting. It’s going to take a while until I finally get to see him.

I walk through the glass doors with the Harris Holdings logo on them.

“Hello,” greets another pretty blonde in her twenties. This one is friendly. She’s smiling, at least.

“Hi,” I say as I approach her desk. “I’m here to see Zeke Harris. I was told to wait here.”

“Miss Martin, right?” she asks cheerfully.

“Yes.”

“My name’s Dana, by the way. I’m Mr. Martin’s personal assistant,” she says. “Your appointment has been moved back by half an hour. I sent you a text message to let you know. Didn’t you get that?”

I fish my phone out of my bag and light up the screen. Sure enough, there’s a text from an unknown number about the appointment.

“I did,” I admit. “I don’t know why I didn’t read it. But it’s okay, I can wait.”

“If you go down this hall, you’ll find the waiting room,” she says. “I’ll let you know when Mr. Harris is ready to see you.”

“Thank you.”

My heart pounds so hard in my chest that my legs feel weak as I make my way down the hallway.

I try to distract myself from my anxiety by studying the black-and-white photographs hanging on the wall. They all depict strange, foreign lands. I used to love to travel, but that was a long time ago.

When I finally reach the sitting area, I plunk myself down on the couch. I grab a magazine from the coffee table and put it on my lap.

But my legs start to shake, making it hard for me to read . If this keeps up, I’ll fall down on my face before I even get to see Zeke.

I’ve gotten through about half of the magazine when the personal assistant finds me and asks me to follow her.

More blown-up black-and-white photographs line the walls of the hallways we pass through. Zeke must really like this set of pictures—or maybe his interior decorator does.

Luckily, Dana walks me all the way to the door of Zeke’s office. She smiles at me as she knocks. The wood sounds thick and solid, but my ears are straining to hear something else: Zeke’s voice.

“Yes,” he says from behind the door. His voice is deeper now. Manlier. There’s confidence and authority behind it.

Chills run down my arms. I glance down and realize I’m getting goosebumps just from hearing him. That voice, it burrows under my skin and refuses to leave.

Dana pushes the door open. How is she so calm? How does she stand to work every day with Zeke?

I take a few deep breaths, realizing how crazy I’m being. Zeke probably doesn’t affect this girl the way that he affects me.

I don’t know what it is about him, but from the first time we met, it has always felt like there were magnets pulling us together.

“Miss Martin is here to see you, sir,” she says.

Jealousy grips my heart when I hear her call him “sir.” I know the term is not always sexual. But I also know that Zeke used to like some power play in bed. This Dana may be a perfectly nice girl, but I don’t like how close she is to Zeke.

“Send her in,” he says, in that same deep voice.

“Yes, sir,” Dana says. Her voice suddenly sounds grating to my ears.

But I don’t have time to worry about Dana.

I’m about to see Zeke Harris. The one man who has been haunting my thoughts and my dreams, pretty consistently, for ten years.