That was a disaster.

Or it was a disaster narrowly avoided.

I can’t decide which.

I don’t want to decide which.

I go back to my penthouse on the Upper East Side and pour myself a drink, then abandon it on the kitchen counter.

What’s happening between me and Vivienne Davis? One minute she’s fire, and the next she’s ice. It doesn’t make any sense.

I thunder into my bedroom. I’d love to be in a bedroom with you. What about that statement made her suddenly remember that she was there for a ride home and nothing else? And why am I so pissed about it? Most women never have a chance to get cold feet about doing anything with me, but the few who have gotten the privilege would never dream of it.

I can’t bang open the dresser drawer in my walk-in closet, because it opens automatically at my touch, which leeches a little bit of the rage out of my chest. I don’t even know why I’m so angry. I’m flirting with failure because this woman is taking all of my attention, and I have bigger things to worry about—namely, the FBI investigation trying to catch someone who’s stealing information from my company to give to the Chinese government. Or someone worse than the Chinese government. Either way, I can’t fathom who it would be, can’t fathom how this is going to play out.

I’ll keep my word to Chris. I’ll sit on this for another few weeks. But it makes me furious, this waiting game.

But the way Vivienne turned on a dime—it renders me perfectly helpless. Like when I watched my father destroy his own business by investing more of himself in vacations and hobbies. Like when my mother destroyed herself because she couldn’t bear the loss.

Screw feeling helpless.

Why did I open the dresser drawer in the first place? I peer down into it, finally registering that it’s a drawer with neatly folded workout clothes, all in a row—socks, shorts, custom tanks that are tailored to fit me and made from a cutting-edge fabric that was released last year. This is what I have to enjoy instead of Vivienne, and it all pales in comparison.

I snatch an outfit out of the drawer and strip off the clothes I wore to the office, throwing them into a hamper built into another section of the closet.

Five minutes later, I’m running on the treadmill in my exercise room, appointed with top-of-the-line equipment, staring out at the lights of Manhattan and not seeing any of them, as I crank the speed up increment by increment until my lungs are screaming and my legs are burning, and still, all I can think of is Vivienne and wondering what it was that made her run from me.

If I was willing to take the risk, why wasn’t she?

I run until I can barely draw in a breath, then go to the free weights, running through an old routine until my muscles are screaming at me to stop.

It’s still not enough to wipe her from my mind.

If anything, she’s taking up more real estate there because of what happened tonight.

Forget her.

I ignore my own order.

Forget her now.

I ignore it harder.

She’ll destroy you.

It’s bullshit, and I know it. She wants to be mine. I can see it in her eyes until the very moment I can’t see it anymore, and then I don’t know what the hell I’m seeing.

I put the weights back on the rack and head to the shower.

It’s well after eleven by the time I get out from under the steaming water, skin sensitive from the heat, and pull on clean boxers and a t-shirt. My sheets are the highest thread count available on the market, and I slide between them, relishing the smoothness against my aching limbs.

It’s a long time before I fall asleep.

At five in the morning, I give up.

I can’t stop thinking about her, and no amount of exercise is going to cure that, so I order breakfast to be sent to my room and start checking today’s news. I make it until six-thirty before I head into the office. I might as well get a head start on whatever paperwork I need to wade through. I can lose myself in contract details until…

Until the day ends, and then I’ll figure out something else to do, lest I lose my mind.

I’m so distracted that I get into the regular elevator and let myself off on the ninth floor instead of going to my office. I don’t know what the hell I think there is for me on the ninth floor—most of it is still in semi-darkness, the morning light not yet filtering in through the windows at full strength.

I’m about to turn around and get back into the elevator when movement in one of the offices catches my eye.

The bank of executive offices runs along the back of the floor, but the movement is coming from the opposite end, near one of the cubicles. Whoever it is leans awkwardly over the station, clicking through something. His movements are hesitant, like he’s not quite sure what he’s looking at. Something about this doesn’t seem right. Most of the people at this level don’t come in until 9 a.m., a perk I’ve allowed for several years.

When he straightens up, I see that it’s not one of the executives, it’s someone from the staff. Probably one of the people on the tech team. He pulls his phone from his pocket, swipes across, and then scurries off to one of the other offices. Undoubtedly tech support. Those guys work strange hours, coming in early to make adjustments to the system.

I get back into the elevator and go up to my office.

The day stretches out ahead of me, endless and empty. The office is quiet—even Emily doesn’t arrive until seven forty-five most days—and though the scene outside my window is bathed in early summer light, it doesn’t make an impression.

She’s still all I can think of.