I pace back and forth in my office. How early is too early to open the scotch?

I glance at the old mahogany clock that hangs on the wall — another one of Luke’s designs. Apparently it’s not even ten o’clock yet, which I suppose even I have to admit is too early for day drinking. Although if I didn’t have that meeting with the head of distribution later, I would probably just fuck off for the day and go home.

I still can’t get last night out of my head. SweetVixen — whoever she is — is ruining my life. Even after jerking off twice last night and once more this morning, she’s still all I can think about.

Why do I want her so bad? I have women practically falling at my feet. I can go to any bar in this city and find someone more than willing to fall into bed with me. Hell, it doesn’t even have to be a bed. Half of them would be willing to get down right in the bar bathroom. Or in the back of my car.

I could go out right now, at ten in the morning, and find someone to fuck.

The problem is, I don’t want any of them. I want her. And it’s driving me crazy.

I check my Lovemail messages again but I still have nothing new, not since I’d gone against my better judgement and actually said please. And that’s not a word I use lightly.

The temperature of my blood raises by another few degrees as I stare at the empty new messages icon.

I still don’t understand why she ran. I mean, I’m a good looking guy. That’s not being arrogant, it’s just the truth. The Whittakers have good genes. Me, Luke and Jace all look like our dad, and he was imposing as fuck. Strong jaw, aristocratic nose, deep soulful brown eyes. Well, Jace has Mom’s blue eyes, but that’s the only way we differ.

Even when Dad died, despite the ravages of cancer, he was still a silver fox. Charming the nurses right up until the end. It was just the Whittaker way.

So why in the hell had she run off when she saw me? It doesn’t make any sense.

I scroll through our emails. An entire month’s worth. There was lots of dirty talk but there was so much other stuff in there too. I had told her things I hadn’t told anyone before — how hard it was losing Dad, how much I regretted the falling out Luke and I had had with our brother Jace, how much I missed him since he’d moved to New York.

I’d even told her about Lara. Not all the gory details obviously — even Luke didn’t know those. I fully intended to take that story to the grave.

Yet I’d told SweetVixen parts of it, at least. About how I’d been engaged and it had ended, leaving me with a broken heart and a deep mistrust of marriage. She’d said she understood, that she had her own broken heart. Something about a guy who worked in finance, who sounded like a real dick if you ask me.

I refresh the Lovemail app. Still no messages from her.

I had dashed that first email off last night in a fit of anger, drunkenness and horniness — but I still meant every word of it. She might be telling me not to try to find her, but the way she had looked at me last night, with equal parts fear and desire, told me otherwise.

That’s why I still have every intention of finding her.

And when I do, I’m going to make her mine. She’s promised me too many things — too many delicious, dirty things. When I saw her last night … that sweet innocent face, that curvy body, those fuckable lips … I just knew I had to have her.

I’m not sure exactly how I’m going to find her yet, but I’m a man of many means. I’ll find a way.

Suddenly I realize something. I have an entire damn IT department at my disposal.

I fall into my desk chair and pull up the company directory. I don’t intend to bother Lottie with this — she’s a little too much like an aunt to me, and I wouldn’t exactly want an aunt knowing what I was up to — so I find the number for IT myself and ring them up.

“IT Support, Lena speaking.”

Fuck, it’s a woman. Of course it is.

“Hi Lena. This is Trent Whittaker speaking.”

There’s a scrambling and then a crash on the other end of the line.

“Lena?”

“Sorry, sir.” She sounds breathless. “I dropped the phone for a second.”

I resist the urge to chuckle. “All good now?”

“Yes, sir. What do you … uh, what can I help you with?”

“Can you trace an email?”

“An email?”

“Yes. If I have a few emails, are you able to trace where or who they were sent from?”

I hear her gnawing on something — her own lip, maybe. “Might be able to. It depends on a lot of things — what the device was, whether any encryption was used. We could probably at least get the IP and figure out the general area it was coming from.”

“Okay. Great. That’s great. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to send you a couple of messages. I need you to — discreetly — see what you can find out about who sent them.”

“Sure. I mean, yes sir. I can definitely do that for you.” I can hear the nervous excitement in her voice, as if this is a Mission Impossible covert op. She probably thinks I’m going to send her some spy emails or something.

“Thank you, Lena. What address should I send them to?”

She gives me an email address and I thank her and hang up the phone. I comb through my emails, trying to find a couple of messages that don’t have anything dirty in them. They’re few and far between, but I manage to find a few that won’t scandalize poor Lena. I send them off to her with a personal note of thanks.

Once I’ve done that, I glance at the clock and realize I still have another ten minutes or so before my meeting with distribution. I’ve already wasted enough of this morning, so I use that time to fire off a quick email to Luke.

I try to keep my tone light — no pressure, just checking in to see how the designs are going. I don’t know why I bother — we’ve been over this so many times and he knows I’m waiting. If he had made any progress, I would have heard from him by now.

Just as I send off the email, Lottie raps on the door. She hands me a plastic folio of notes.

“For your meeting with distribution. They have questions about the collection.”

“Don’t we all,” I mutter.

Lottie raises her eyebrows, but I wave off her unasked question.

“I’ll do my best,” I say, exiting my office. “But I have the feeling nobody’s going to be happy with me today.”

* * *

By the time I get back from my meeting, I’m wiped. Two hours of telling them I still don’t know when the collection is going to be ready. They would ask a question, I would give them my stock answer. They would ask another question, I would give them the same answer. They would tell me how hard I was making their job, I would give them the same answer.

After awhile, it turned into almost a little game. How many times could I give them that answer before they’d finally give up? Turns out the answer is: exactly an hour and fifty-three minutes. I could have wrapped the meeting up earlier, but it actually started to entertain me, and I could use some work-related entertainment these days.

I head back up to my office and find Lottie’s left my lunch on my desk. Bless that woman.

I’m just about to dig into the corned beef sandwich from the deli down the street when the phone rings. I wipe my hands off on the napkin and then hit the speakerphone button.

“Trent Whittaker.”

“Mister Whittaker? It’s Lena. Lena Yu? From IT?”

“Yes, Lena. Do you have something already?”

“I do.”

“That’s great.” Spit it out, girl, I want to say.

“Well, sir, the, uh, the call is coming from inside the house.”

“I’m sorry?” I sit forward in my chair, trying to understand what she’s telling me.

Lena coughs lightly. “Sorry. I mean, it came from here. From our servers.”

I shake my head, still not quite comprehending.

“What does that mean, Lena? In non-tech speak, please.”

“It means that whoever sent those emails works for Loft & Barn.”

At her words, everything clicks into place. It’s like finding a single missing puzzle piece and suddenly being able to see the whole picture.

That’s why SweetVixen had run last night — she recognized me.

I sit forward in my chair, excited now.

“Can you find out which department it came from?”

I can almost hear Lena smiling on the other end of the line. “I can do better than that. I can tell you exactly who sent it.”