I exit the hallway to the lobby, wave when the receptionist greets me, and keep moving, exiting the offices, to the exterior section of the floor. I cut to the bathroom to the right of the elevators. Shoving open the door, I pass three empty stalls and enter the final larger one, and lock myself inside before sinking against the door. My chest is tight, the ball of emotions I’ve been suppressing for months building there, threatening an eruption I can’t have now. This has to wait until I’m out of here, but really, it’s so appropriate that secrets and lies have forced me to Denver and now they’re tearing me apart while I’m here.

Pressing my hand to my face, I shove hair from my eyes, only to have the folder fall to the ground, the contract slipping out. I squat and grab it and my gaze catches on the name “Nina Thompson” and the conversation I overheard last night comes slamming back into my mind. I told you Shane would buy the Nina Thompson story.

The exterior door opens, jolting me into shoving the paperwork into the folder and standing. Footsteps sound and I move to the back wall to avoid being seen.

“Emily.”

I squeeze my eyes shut at the sound of Jessica’s voice. “I’m in here,” I say, but make no move to open the door.

“You okay?” she asks, now at the other side of my stall.

“Yes,” I lie, because if she believes it, maybe I will too. “Of course.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Okay. That went well.

“I buzzed Brandon Senior,” she continues. “I told him he’d have the contract within an hour to buy you some time. Open the door.”

“Not yet.”

She’s silent a few beats. “How do you know Shane?”

“I … What?”

“Obviously there was something between you two and it didn’t start here.”

She’s direct and in a world wrapped in lies, I actually respect that about her. I inhale and open the door. “I don’t know how to answer.”

“He trusts me. You can too.”

“Has he told you?”

“He said it’s none of my business.”

She’s honest again. God, I like this woman. “It’s complicated.”

She snorts. “When is anything not around this place? How about we go to lunch today?”

“No,” I say quickly and when her eyes go wide I quickly add, “I mean, thank you but Shane will misread it. He’ll think Brandon Senior has me nosing around for information.”

She smirks. “No one in this place believes they can get information from me. We’ll do lunch. I can try and get details from you and you can keep dodging my questions. I enjoy the challenge.”

“Shane won’t like it.”

“I’ll take care of my boss. How’s noon?”

“Jessica—”

“Noon it is.” She turns and exits the bathroom, determined to get her way. She won’t. I’m not antagonizing Shane after what happened this morning. I glance down at the folder. I told you Shane would buy the Nina Thompson story. I need to tell Shane, but he might think coming from me that it’s a trick. I could tell Jessica, but I don’t know if Shane really trusts her. E-mail could be hacked and so could internal phones. That leaves only one option.

Decision made, I rush for the door, and I don’t stop walking until I find the security of my desk, relieved to find Brandon Senior’s door shut. Hurrying to my desk, I sit down and slip the contract into my top drawer before removing my cell phone and clicking Shane’s number. Not sure it’s really him, I pull up the text message option and type: This is Emily. It’s urgent. About a work thing. Are you there?

Him. I think. I’m here.

I study it and type: Please prove it’s you.

Him again. Your bra is hanging on a light above my balcony.

Impossibly, I laugh, quickly shaking it off to type: Before I give this contract to your father, I overheard Derek say quote: I told you Shane would buy the Nina Thompson story.

There is a long electronic silence before the he replies with: Give him the contract.

That’s it. I stare at it. And stare at it some more and then finally it beeps again with: Thank you, Emily.

Emily. Not Ms. Stevens. I stare at the screen all over again, and I type: I’m sorry. Then I erase it. I type it again, but I don’t hit send. The truth is, even if I could open that door with Shane again—if he’d let me, which I doubt—I can’t. And I really hate the reality that creates that certainty. I erase the apology and put my phone back in my purse, shutting the drawer, and with it, the short chapter of my life that was me with Shane Brandon.

If a man is dumb, someone is going to get the best of him.

—Arnold Rothstein

CHAPTER ELEVEN

EMILY

The rest of the morning, my cell phone does not ring with even one single call about a job, but the phone on my desk rings incessantly. It becomes abundantly clear that the primary business Mr. Brandon is involved in is the investment side of the company. Presently, he’s packaging a high-dollar hedge fund that has tensions elevated between him and his potential investors, and I’m getting the brunt of it all. By midday, my list of things to do is a mile long, I’ve been yelled at by him and at least three other people, coordinated two conference calls, both with groups of complete asses, and I’m pretty sure I’ve started to grow horns of my own.

It’s nearly noon when the intercom buzzes and I hear a loud cough. “Get in here, Ms. Stevens.”