I rub one hand across the back of my neck, trying to work out the knot with my fingers.

This job wasn’t nearly the in-and-out production that I thought it was going to be, and the last ten days have been hell. It’s at the point where I’ve almost stopped looking for Dominic’s car in the mornings while I’m moving along that last block to the office.

It’s been a long evening on the phone with people ten hours away in a different time zone, and my back aches from sitting in the chair. My eyes are dry and they ache behind the glasses I’ve been wearing instead of my contacts, and I’m starving—but it’s over.

The project is almost over.

I searched out the perfect block of time in the midst of the three executives’ tangled schedules, booked a conference room from halfway across the world, triple-checked the details with six different staff members, and even coordinated a meal to be delivered at the ideal interval for a break.

I lean my head into the phone, listening to the final few moments of the meeting. The words are starting to blur together—I’ve been up since five this morning—but the men’s voices sound jovial, satisfied.

“Thank you, Ms. Davis.” Mr. Childs’ drawl breaks into my thoughts, and I bolt upright in my chair. “I think we’re done here.”

I’m proud of myself for not giving any sign of how unbelievably exciting this is, even though I want to leap out of my seat and jump up and down. “Wonderful,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. “Is there anything else I can do for you, gentlemen?”

Overhiser says something in a low voice, but I catch the general tone of it, and the tone makes my skin crawl even from a continent away. The room around him is filled with chortling from the other men. The past ten days have given me a little window into what these people are like, and Overhiser raises the hairs on the back of my neck. It’s a tingling sensation that tells me something’s up with him. I let Jeffries know about it today, before the big meeting began.

“I have a feeling about him,” I told my boss, stabbing my fork into the takeout salad I had for lunch.

“Do you have anything a little less cliché? Any solid evidence?” My boss laughed, his deep voice rumbling across the line.

“No. I have the sense that I’m zeroing in on the inside contact.” There’s been some debate on the rest of the team about whether or not the information is being leaked by someone who infiltrated Wilder Enterprises from the outside, or someone who’s been here all along, and the more time I spend on this project, the more I’d put my money on Mr. Overhiser.

“Follow it up, Viv,” he’d said, and I heard the approval in his voice. Follow it up. I’ve done so whenever he’s given me the green light, and it’s served me well so far.

“That’s all, Ms. Davis,” Mr. Childs says once the background laughter has faded out. “The notes should be hitting your inbox any second now.”

My computer pings. “Confirmed. I’ll have a summary up to Mr. Wilder in no time. Have a good flight back, gentlemen.”

They sign off with a chorus of goodbyes, and then the line goes dead.

“Yes.” I punch my fist into the air, then sag back into my seat.

It’s over—except for one thing.

The summary for Mr. Wilder.

Get it done.

I desperately want to go home. I want to go back to my place—the only place where I can be my real self—and take a shower that lasts for a year, curl up in front of the TV with a bottle of wine and an enormous amount of sushi, and relax.

But that’ll put off this work until tomorrow morning, which will push back everything else, which will make it take one day longer to close this case.

I rub at my neck one more time, then straighten myself up in the chair, pull up the meeting notes, and glare at the screen.

It’s probably the least taxing part of the entire project, but my hands tremble over the keyboard as I type up the summary, save it as a document, and attach it to an email.

Dominic Wilder has almost certainly forgotten about me by now. He might not be so forgetful when he sees my email signature at the bottom of the note.

Dear Mr. Wilder,

I pause, my hands loitering over the keys, and think of his eyes zeroing in on me in the rain, drinking me in, burning through me, that electric hum that raced up my arm when I put my hand in his, the way it felt to steady myself on his arm and breathe in his clean, spicy scent.

I’ve been meaning to thank you for—

I delete that line. So unprofessional, and I already did thank him. Didn’t I? I roll my eyes. Dominic Wilder is not lying awake at night, three weeks later, thinking about how I didn’t thank him for doing what any decent man would do.

I start again.

Please find attached to this email a summary of the meeting with executives Feldman, Overhiser, and Childs for your review.

So far, so good.

I’m available at any time if you have any questions.

I delete that line, too. Like he’s going to have questions for me. This is his company.

I hope you find this helpful.

Delete.

It’s late, and I’m tired. I bite my lip, trying to think of the right phrase to use. Finally, when a yawn takes over my entire body, I slam my hands back down onto the keyboard.

I’m happy to answer any questions about my work.

Best regards,

Vivienne Davis

Executive Support

Then, before I can think about it for another second, I hit send. The email goes on its way with a little whoosh.

I stand up from my desk, rising up on my tiptoes to stretch my calves, and then slip my feet into my high heels. Home. Home now. Then it’s Friday, and then I’m going to spend all weekend reviewing case information, interspersed liberally with Netflix and popcorn.

I’m putting my purse over my shoulder when my computer pings.

“No way,” I say under my breath, and reach for the button on the monitor to put it to sleep for the night. It’ll automatically log me out when I do that.

But the email sender’s name stops me dead.

Dominic Wilder.

What the hell is he doing answering emails at ten o’clock at night?

My heart beats overtime, and both my hands tremble. I should go. I should go and check the email in the morning.

I can’t do it.

I click the mouse furiously, opening the email, ready to be disappointed if it’s an auto-response message, ready to pretend I’m relieved.

Ms. Davis,

Thank you for the summary. Are you available for a quick question?

Dominic Wilder

President, Wilder Enterprises

The next moment, the phone on my desk rings, shattering the silence enveloping the floor, and I give a little shriek, then get myself under control.

My heart in my throat, I snatch up the handset.

“Vivienne Davis.”

“Ms. Davis.” The voice on the other end of the line is his, unmistakably his. “It’s very late to be in the office. I’d like to offer you a ride home.”