Hadley is not pleased with me today.

One of my sources for the package I was putting together bailed on me on Monday when I had to reschedule for that failed trip to the police department. I need one more quote—it’s part long-form piece on multilevel marketing schemes and part advertisement for the scheme that’s put the most money into sponsoring the site. The person I bailed on last Monday was the VP of the “second-most trustworthy” program of them all, at least according to the package, and it has taken me, along with two assistants and three photographers, the better part of two weeks to put together.

My boss stands at the corner of my desk, hand on the hip that’s jutting out to the side, with a scowl on her face.

“This needs to be live by 5:30,” she says again, as if we haven’t been going over what needs to happen for the last ten minutes. But there’s no point in arguing.

“Absolutely. I’m only waiting on a final quote, and I should have that by 3:00.”

I hope.

“This hasn’t been a good week for you, Angelica.” Her tone is clipped, cool, but there’s something in it that makes me think this could be an opening to pry out a little humanity from beneath her battle armor.

I tilt my head to the side, let the corners of my mouth turn down a little. “That’s the truth—I didn’t foresee what happened with my brother over the weekend, and—”

Hadley cuts me off. “If there’s something in your personal life that’s going to begin affecting future projects, then that’s what I need to know. I’m not interested in the details of last weekend.”

Never mind, then. No humanity to be found. Hadley is all robot.

I make a show of refreshing my inbox in case the rep from PeakBody has confirmed any availability for this afternoon. “It’ll be live by 5:30,” I promise. If this woman doesn’t email me back, I’ll find some other quote.

“Let me know the moment it is,” Hadley replies, then turns on her heel and walks away before I have a chance to respond.

The moment she’s out of sight, I lean back in my seat and spin it around.

It does not help that Jett Brandon has been on my mind all morning. I can’t stop thinking about his hands on my skin, the weight of his body on mine, the dirty things he whispered into my ear while he fucked me.

No matter how many times I replay those moments in my mind, I still blush every time.

I rub my hands over my face and check my email again.

Get out of my head, Jett.

He made it crystal clear that our encounter was one and done, even if he did take me to a fancy club for dinner beforehand. And even if he was interested—by some strange twist in circumstances—there’s always the little detail that I helped at least one shady criminal, and probably a crime ring of some kind, gain access to his personal records. Eventually he’ll discover that it was me, and then—oh, Jesus—I’ll probably end up in jail.

Why haven’t I thought of that until now?

Oh, right...because I watched Charlie punch my brother so viciously that he needed four stitches. I have no doubt that he could do much worse to him.

I can’t think about that, either, because the thought of getting arrested and sent to jail for years makes cold sweat break out on my forehead.

It’s always possible he won’t find out.

Charlie and his people haven’t done anything stupid enough to make headlines—at least not yet—so the best thing I can do for now is to not lose my job.

I’m still waiting for an email or a phone call from PeakBody when the text comes in. I’m so on edge that I hear the vibration from inside my purse, which is tucked in the bottom drawer of my desk. As I scramble to get it out, my heart pounds with anticipation.

Maybe I was wrong about Jett.

But it sinks down into my toes when I see that the message is from Charlie.

It’s not good.

I’m going to give you one more chance, it begins, and my stomach turns over. The program you should have installed on Brandon’s machine isn’t working. I’m sending a messenger with a new drive. Find a way to go in person and download the data yourself.

It’s like all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room.

So much for my plan to spend the next couple of weeks thoroughly forgetting Jett Brandon.

OK, I text back. I start to type that I did install the program, but then I delete it. Charlie clearly doesn’t give a shit.

And then I lie. He’s interested in me. I’ll be back at the penthouse this weekend.

The answer from Charlie comes immediately. Don’t fuck this up again.

A quiet panic tightens my shoulders, presses against my chest. How the hell am I going to convince Jett that not only do we need to see each other again, we need to go back to his penthouse? After all that “one night” business? After I played it so cool?

The tension at the back of my neck doesn’t dissipate when the VP of PeakBody calls me at 2:55. I rush through making the final touches on the piece, my hands trembling on my keyboard. By the time another text comes in at 4:30, my nerves are stretched so thin that I’m on the verge of snapping, breaking down in the middle of the office.

This time, it is from Jett.

I need more of you.

When I read his words, it’s tears of relief that spring to my eyes.

Jesus, what is this? Never once in my life did I think I’d feel so happy about getting a second chance to commit a crime.

Play it cool, Angelica.

I wait as long as I possibly can to answer so it gives him the impression that I’m not hung up on him. At the same time, I can’t play hard to get. Not this time. He has to know I want it.

At 5:15, I send my response.

Same.

Let’s eat in. Be at my place tomorrow at 8:30.

It’s almost as if he’s making things easy on me, and I fight off another wave of paranoia. There is no way in hell that Jett Brandon is trying to set me up. I’m a nobody.

A nobody he needs more of.

When I answer him again, my words are honest and true.

I wouldn’t miss it for anything.