At the office, I try to deny that having Angelica in the penthouse every night is having any effect on me. The illusion is ruined when, on Wednesday morning, I mistakenly call Emily ‘Angelica’ as she’s on the way back to her desk.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Brandon?”

I wave her away, keeping my face expressionless. “I’ll have a new set of appointments to arrange after lunch, Emily.”

Connor breezes in, saving me from another embarrassing round with Emily. “I think we’ve got everything straightened out.”

He launches straight into a detailed description of the outcome of the negotiations, and then outlines several solutions for bringing this godforsaken media company under our umbrella. I wanted to acquire it in the first place because they have a distribution platform that I think could reach Facebook proportions with the right amount of investment and development, but it’s been such a pain in my ass that I can’t wait to be done with this phase and move on to integration.

Who am I fooling? What I can’t wait to be done with is this work day so I can go home to Angelica.

She surprised me on Monday. Emerald would always dwell on a stressful situation or any perceived slight. The woman could devote an entire afternoon to being pissed off about a wait staff member who hadn’t thought she was as radiant as the sun or some other shit.

Not Angelica.

She wouldn’t allow her bad day to stick with her, and her tense mood seemed to be as easy to cast off as the blouse I’d ripped off her in my hurry to see more of her flawless skin.

Jesus, and the taste of her....

Connor finally finishes talking. “…put together a group that can weigh in on the transition period. Do you have the final documents for me to sign?”

“Yes, right here.” He flips through a leather portfolio that he’s brought with him and shuffles the papers. “Whoops. They must be sitting on my desk. I’ll be back in five.”

Three minutes later, I give in to the compulsion to text Angelica.

Out or in?

Get your mind out of the gutter!!

I laugh out loud.

Dinner, sweet thing. Out or in?

Up to you. I’m the houseguest.

How’s the repairs coming?

:/ They found mold, so the drywall has to come out. It’ll probably be another couple weeks.

I have room.

:) No need, Jett Brandon. I can find a hotel near the office.

I wasn’t giving you a choice

I wait a moment, then send ;).

So demanding...

You like it.

I love it.

My heart beats hard in my chest.

“There.” Connor slaps the portfolio back down on my desk, and it’s open to the page with the dotted line waiting for my signature. “Neat and tidy.”

“No surprises this time around?”

He gives me a cheeky grin. “Not if you’ve got your head in the game.”

I glare at him, then laugh. “It’s in the game, Connor.” The pen I pull from the narrow drawer under the surface of my desk feels weighty in my hand, final.

“One of those big-name pop singers is going to be at the Swan tonight,” Connor says while he waits.

“I’ll be there,” I say absently, scanning the document one final time to make sure there’s nothing out of place. “Wait—no, I won’t.”

“Why, do you have a date?”

“Not at the Swan.”

“Where at?” Connor can’t help but pry. He loves gossip as much as anyone in our circle of friends, even if he’s smart enough to keep it to himself.

“It’s not really a date.”

“Make up your mind, Brandon.”

“I have a guest at home.”

“A guest?”

“Are you going to repeat everything I say, or go back to work so you can keep earning your very generous salary?”

“Who’s the lucky girl?” Connor’s eyes are sparkling. He knows about the shit that happened with Emerald—the failed business deal in London, the bitchy double personality, and the older man she was screwing around with behind my back. He was the very first one to suggest that I come back to New York and get back into the scene.

Because Connor is a black hole in the gossip world, I can be positive that Angelica won’t end up in the tabloids on his account. “A woman named Angelica.”

“Did you meet her at the Swan?”

“In the elevator.”

“Let me guess—you pulled a Jett Brandon and had her panties off before you even got to your floor.”

I sign my name across the line in big, bold strokes.

“You think I’m going to kiss and tell?”

Connor laughs, and I close the portfolio and slide it back across the desk to him. “You don’t need to tell. I can tell by the look on your face that you’re doing more than kissing.” He leans forward, resting his knuckles on the surface of the desk. “So she’s hotter than the surface of the sun, then.”

I grin up at him.

He nods, shaking his head. “You never take long, do you?”

“I’ve never had a problem with timing.”

“You seemed pretty dead set on swearing off women when you left London.”

“Not women—on time-sucks disguised as relationships.”

“You’ve got someone waiting for you at home! What do you call that?”

I shrug. “It’s a story, man. Her apartment got flooded. I own an entire floor of my building. Best of all, I can do whatever the hell I please with my personal life.”

Connor bursts out laughing at my menacing tone. “You think I’m telling you to kick her out? No way. If you’re letting her stay, she has to be a ten. I wouldn’t mind coming home to that every night. How long is she staying?”

“Couple weeks, maybe three at the most.”

He whistles. “That’s a deal at twice the price.”

I roll my eyes at him.

Connor tucks the portfolio under his arm and turns to go. “What a letdown, though, when she’s gone,” he says over his shoulder, before disappearing into the outer office.