My place on the Upper East Side isn’t cutting it. Not if I’m going to be at the Midtown headquarters until all hours, whipping Brandon, Inc. back into shape. No more distractions. No more slip-ups. There’s no point in dwelling on what happened with the media merger—Connor is already working on a way to sort it out—but I’m not going to waste any more time sitting in traffic.

And I’m not going to let that bitch Emerald have a hold over me.

I’ll never admit it to anyone, but the reason I’ve been staying at my place on the Upper East Side since I returned from London is because Emerald’s prints are all over the Midtown penthouse.

Things moved fast between us, and at first it didn’t seem much different from any of the other women I’ve taken home with me since I graduated from college. But Emerald got under my skin, got her claws deep into my organs, and I made the mistake of letting my guard down. She moved into the penthouse inside of a month. I was the dumbass who let it happen because the sex was hot.

I shake my head as I slide into the car on Tuesday morning. I’m done thinking about her. Done.

The most important item on my agenda is getting all my things moved back into my penthouse. That’s a job for Howie, my personal assistant. At nearly fifty, Howie has been with my family for almost twenty-five years. He handles everything I don’t have time for, and with discretion. Three texts is all it takes, and he’s got people packing and moving things from one place to the other. By the time I get home this evening, the penthouse will be back in order.

I sit through my breakfast meeting with laser focus, and by the time Stuart pulls the car up next to the curb to pick me up, I can’t wait to get to the office.

My ass has hardly met the seat when my phone rings.

“Brandon.”

“Mr. Brandon, this is Emily,” Emily sounds out of breath, and there’s a weird echo in the background like she’s taking the stairs instead of the elevator.

“What is it?” I ask tersely.

“Building security called to let us know there’s a gas leak. They’re evacuating the building.”

Jesus Christ. “Do they have an estimate for how long it’s going to take to fix the problem?”

“Not that I’ve heard, Mr. Brandon.” That call is probably going to come through to my cell at any second.

“I’ll be sending out an all-staff bulletin from my email account in a few moments. Coordinate an alternative workspace for the division heads as soon as you get onto the sidewalk. This is not a day off, Emily. Work wherever you need to, but be available.”

“Of course, Mr. Brandon.” She tries but fails to keep the disappointment out of her voice. I end the call.

Fine. I don’t need an office to get work done.

“Stuart, change of plans. I’m working from the penthouse today.”

By the time I climb out of the car when Stuart pulls up in front of my Midtown building, I have confirmation from Emily that she’s rented out several offices in a shared space close to the office but far enough away that if, God forbid, the building explodes, none of my employees will be harmed. All the paperwork I was intending to finish at the office can be printed off and sent over by courier if we can guarantee there will be no duplicate copies. No more sloppy mistakes.

That’s where my mind is—blessedly free of Emerald—when I stride through my building’s lobby, extending a nod and a smile to the doorman as I wrap up a final phone call with Emily. There’s one elevator car about to head up, and I’m not waiting for the next one. Even though the doors are closing and are nearly shut, I stick my hand through the slight opening, putting my muscles to work, forcing the door to start reopening.

The woman standing inside the elevator lets out a sharp little gasp, before stepping back from the door as I step into the car.

Holy shit.

The creature standing in the elevator with me is gorgeous. I haven’t seen her around the building before. I would remember. How have I not seen her? She’s petite—she can’t be more than five foot four or so, and at over six feet tall, I tower over her. But it’s her eyes that get me. An intense blue-gray, they’re sparkling and huge. Her cheeks are a little flushed, set off to perfection by her ash-blonde hair, which is swept back from her face, leaving a chic wave to frame her sharp jawline. She’s wearing a black sheath dress cut above the knee, and it hugs every curve like it was made for her. Her grip tightens on the handle of the designer purse she has tucked under her arm.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” I say, my voice dropping a notch.

“Oh, it’s—it’s no problem,” she stammers, and when she smiles I forget all about the paperwork. I want to lean down and kiss her full lips right now, but I resist.

A glance at the elevator panel tells me that the button for the penthouse is already illuminated. I arch an eyebrow at her. “Were you going up to the penthouse?”

She looks from me to the panel, then laughs. “I must have hit the wrong button. No, I’m going to the eighth floor.” She reaches out with one delicate finger, but I beat her to it, our hands almost colliding in midair.

“Thank you,” she says, her eyes glued to my face. “Which floor are you going to?”

I cut my eyes over to the panel, then back to her face, and she turns a deeper shade of red.

“You live in the penthouse?”

“I do.” I extend my right hand to her. “Jett Brandon.” She sucks in a breath.

“Wow,” she says, another megawatt smile illuminating her face, and then her voice lowers. “I’m almost a little disappointed that I didn’t get to go all the way up.”

A voice is screaming at me in the back of my head not to make any moves. But why? Emerald is in the past, and I want to wipe away every memory of her and replace it with something better. This woman is the perfect palate cleanser: totally fuckable and starry-eyed enough that I’m not going to have a problem getting her to sleep with me—or ending it when I’ve had my fill.

“Angelica Chandler,” she says, releasing the death grip on her purse to shake my hand. When her smooth skin touches mine, it sends a jolt of heat streaking up my arm, down my spine, and straight to my cock. Angelica bites her lip and looks away for a split second.

“Thursday night,” I say, as the elevator starts its smooth ascent upward. It’s not a question.

She does a double-take, then gives me a quizzical smile. “Thursday night?”

I step a little bit closer to her, lowering my voice as if we’re in the middle of a crowded room. “I’m telling you we have a date for Thursday night. When I see something I want, I take it.” Then I step back. “You might have a different opinion.”

Angelica bites her lip again, and her breathing becomes more rapid. She lets her eyes rake over my suit-clad body. “Won’t your wife be upset?”

It makes me laugh. “Sweetheart, I’m in control of my life, not another woman. We are free to get to know each other on Thursday night.”

“Can I get back to you on that?” she says, and her voice is low but sweet. “Jett Brandon,” she says, like she’s tasting the words in her mouth.

“Take my number.” I’m pleased when she shoves her hand into her purse, coming up moments later with her phone. I reel off my personal cell number. She types it in, hands trembling.

The elevator car glides to a stop, and the tone sounds. But when the door slides open, Angelica doesn’t move. She looks up at me, her phone still in her hand.

I break the moment. “Your floor,” I say with a roguish smile, and she startles, turns, and steps out.

As the doors slide closed, she raises a hand and gives me a little wave.

I’ll probably never hear from her—or see her—again.