MONDAY, 4:45 A.M.

Andrew Mulroney pushed through the revolving doors of his apartment building and out into the dark Monday morning drizzle.

It was one of the few times in his adult life that he was off schedule, fifteen minutes earlier than usual, but if he had to be out of his routine, better to be ahead of schedule than behind.

One of his clients was in Bali on her “divorce-moon,” whatever the hell that was, and the time difference necessitated him getting into the office earlier than usual if he hoped to catch her on the phone before her cocktail hour.

He didn’t mind. Fifteen minutes were nothing in the grand scheme of things.

Although . . .

These days, fifteen minutes in the early morning hours meant the difference between seeing Georgiana Watkins and not seeing her. His earlier-than-usual morning meant that he’d miss her today, and thank God for that.

The socialite was everything that he abhorred. Self-indulged, flighty, useless . . . ridiculous.

And yet . . . Andrew took a sip of his chocolate protein shake, pausing to dig his umbrella out of his bag, trying to ignore his inconvenient thoughts.

Thoughts that told him his feelings about missing Georgiana this morning had a lot more to do with disappointment than with relief.

It wasn’t like he wanted to see her, and yet there was just something about the woman that got to him. He had no use for pampered princesses who shopped during the days and partied their nights away. And yet there was an irritating kindness to her—a warmth that she bestowed upon everyone who crossed her path.

Except for him.

He popped open his umbrella, annoyed with himself.

Andrew had just started in the direction of his gym when a flash of yellow caught his eye. He glanced up, watching as the taxi door opened and one high-heeled sandal emerged, followed by a shapely female calf.

The woman stepped onto the sidewalk, wobbling just the slightest bit on the skyscraper heels as she slammed the taxi door shut.

Andrew dragged his gaze up the slim legs and mostly bare thighs, all the way up to the light brown waves.

His throat went a bit dry. Apparently he wasn’t going to miss Ms. Watkins this morning after all.

Georgiana was waving goodbye at the departing taxi. No doubt she’d become best friends with the driver. She was also holding her usual pink box filled with donuts, or cupcakes, or whatever junk food nightmare she insisted on stuffing the front-desk guys with.

Andrew watched her for a moment and contemplated crossing the street to spare them both. Yes. He’d do that.

Just as he was about to turn away before she could spot him, she took a step forward, not quite stumbling, but not exactly steady either.

His eyes narrowed. Just unsteady on the high heels, or . . .?

Georgiana hiccupped, the sound echoing in the quiet morning.

Jesus.

The ridiculous girl was intoxicated. He waited for the annoyance, but felt only . . . protectiveness.

Still, he glanced around for the doorman, who was paid handsomely to deal with such situations. But there was nobody on the sidewalk but Georgiana and himself.

She took another step, another wobble. Not quite stumbling, just a little unsteady, like a foal taking its first steps. Andrew figured the chances of her making it across the slick pavement and the slick marble of their building’s foyer without tumbling were about fifty-fifty. Her gait was pathetically slow, and the rain was coming harder, plastering the short, bright blue dress to slim curves.

He moved toward her before he could rethink it. She glanced up as he approached, wide brown eyes blinking up at him through wet, spiky lashes.

He expected some sort of slurred put-down, but instead she gave a dismayed sigh. “I’m late. I thought I was early, but I’m late.”

“What?” Andrew asked irritably as he held the umbrella over her. He started to walk toward the building, but she’d skidded to a halt, apparently trying to dig something out of her purse. “Where’s my phone? I need to see what time it is.”

He rolled his eyes and glanced at his watch. “It’s four forty-seven.”

Her nose scrunched. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” he said, carefully hiding a smile.

“How?”

“Because I know how to tell time, and because I’m now late.”

“You’re not late. You’re early. You’re not even supposed to be at the front desk for another . . .” She counted on her fingers. “Thirteen minutes.”

“Will you please just get inside so I can get to work?” he said with more irritation in his tone than he actually felt.

Her smile faded as though he’d hurt her feelings, and he opened his mouth to say . . . what? He never knew what to say around her.

“Oh, for God’s sake.” He snatched her clutch out of her hand, placed it on top of the donut box, and then shoved his travel mug at her. He wrapped his free arm around her waist and half pushed, half dragged her the remaining few steps toward the front door, holding the umbrella over both of them.

The revolving door seemed too complicated in her current state, so he dug his key fob out of his pocket and used the side door, pulling the umbrella closed before ushering her into the lobby.

Georgiana seemed uncharacteristically agreeable. He glanced down warily, thinking of how determined she usually seemed to be as difficult as possible.

He cursed under his breath. She was drinking his breakfast.

Andrew jerked the mug back out of her hands, his eyes reluctantly locked on the way the tip of her tongue flicked across her top lip. “That tastes better than I expected. Like cold hot chocolate.”

“Try it again sometime when your body’s not starved for nutrients after too much vodka.”

Georgiana sighed heavily. “You’re right. I remember now why I don’t do this sort of thing anymore.”

“Why’d you do it now?” he asked, trying to keep his eyes on hers, and not on the way the cold rainwater had made her nipples tighten beneath the slip of a dress.

She sighed again, and this time the sound was sad. “You’ll say I’m ridiculous.”

His lips twitched. “Probably.”

Georgiana looked back up at him, her eyes wide and guileless. “I was sad. Dumb, right? Trying to drown sadness in shots?”

“Why were you sad?” he asked quietly.

Damn it, what was he doing? Why was he letting this mess of a creature put him more behind schedule by the minute?

She’d opened the donut box, although she shut it again without taking one out. “It’s my parents. I wish they were . . . I wish we were more of a family. A different kind of family, I guess I should say.”

Please don’t cry, please don’t cry.

He watched as she bowed her head, wondering what the hell he was supposed to say. She couldn’t have picked a worse shoulder to cry on. Sure, he knew how to make sympathetic noises when his more heartbroken clients bemoaned their ex’s infidelity or inattentiveness, but he never really knew what to say when it mattered.

Somehow it mattered here, now, with this mess of a girl, and for the first time in a long time, he wished he were better with the touchy-feely shit.

Then again, in her current state, it was more than possible that she wouldn’t even remember having this conversation, or this entire encounter. A part of him hoped she didn’t. Keeping Georgiana Watkins at a distance felt . . . safe. Smart.

Georgiana shook her head as though trying to banish all the sad thoughts. Before he could react, she’d reached out and wrapped slim fingers around his wrist, pulling his watch face toward her.

Then she grinned, her melancholy mood apparently behind her. “There we go.”

“There we go what?” he asked gruffly, trying not to register the feeling of her fingertips against his skin.

“Five o’clock,” she said, dropping his hand. “Right on schedule. Shall we start arguing now?”

“I don’t have time to argue with you. You’ve already made me late enough.”

She didn’t seem to notice his sharp words, her vodka-soaked brain already moving on to the next subject. Georgiana was glancing down, and she made a happy sound when she looked at his feet.

“Your Dorothy slippers! They’re back!”

She started to bend as though to touch his gym shoes, and Andrew cursed, grabbing her arm and pulling her upright. Enough already.

“Mr. Ramirez,” he called across the expansive lobby to where the concierge had been discreetly minding his own business, “Ms. Watkins’s shoes are a little slippery from the rain. Can you help her to the elevators?”

Ramon immediately started moving toward them, and Andrew slid his hand from Georgiana’s small wrist to her elbow, making sure she stayed steady on her feet until he could hand her off.

“You okay?” he asked.

She didn’t answer. She was rummaging around in the donut box, saying, “Eenie, meenie, minie—”

“Hey,” he said firmly, grabbing her chin gently, lifting her face to his. “Don’t eat that. You don’t need the sugar right now. Let Ramon get you upstairs, take an Advil, wash it down with two glasses of water, and eat a banana if you have one.”

“I don’t have one. But I have a leftover red velvet cupcake from Sprinkles. Does that count as a substitution?”

“Why would that—You know what? Never mind,” he muttered as Ramon approached.

He and the other man exchanged a brief look and a nod of understanding as Ramon placed a hand beneath Georgiana’s elbow. “Careful now, Ms. Watkins. Let me just help you to the elevators. I’ll have someone clean up the water on the floor right away.”

The water wasn’t the problem, and he and Ramon both knew it, but Georgie seemed oblivious, linking her arm in Ramon’s like they were best friends and happily chatting about the bakery throwing a complimentary pumpkin spice old-fashioned into the donut box.

Andrew watched them a moment longer, making sure that Ramon’s grip was enough to prevent Georgiana from falling on her face. Once she made it to the elevator, Andrew started to turn away to get on with his day, but then he heard his name.

He glanced back and saw Georgiana waving at him happily, much as she had with the cab driver.

Don’t wave back. For the love of God, man, don’t—

Andrew lifted his hand, just briefly, in acknowledgment.

Damn. She really was the most ridiculous creature. He carefully hid his smile until he was back outside.