Hadley’s micromanaging is going to drive me insane.

She spends most of Thursday morning “checking in” with me every six minutes to make sure I’m “managing my time effectively,” which is honestly a new low for her. Something must be going on in her life to make her this neurotic, because as long as I’ve worked at Sisterspark, she’s always been the type to bark out instructions and then correct your work after the fact.

It gets so bad that before lunch, she stands behind my chair and dictates an email that I’m sending to one of my sources. It’s for a post on organic smoothie recipes. It’s not like we’re handling state secrets. I have no idea why this kind of attention to detail is necessary. Yet the rent is due, so I type out the stilted email and let Hadley proofread it for any errant typos.

“Good,” she says with a firm nod. “Send it. Get back to me when there’s a mockup with images, all right?”

“No problem.” She turns to go. “Hadley?”

“Yes?” Her gaze is immediately locked on my face, her mouth framed in a thin line.

“Is everything all right?”

Her eyes narrow. “What do you mean by that?”

I give a little shrug, being sure to keep my face open and innocent. “You seem like you’re spread a little thin this week. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Hadley’s jaw works, but then her face softens. “I shouldn’t get into it.”

I nod my understanding. I start to turn back to my computer, but Hadley stops me.

“Advertising revenue has taken a hit over the last couple of weeks.”

Oh, shit.

We spend a minute in thoughtful silence. I’ve been with Sisterspark for almost three years, which in New York City might as well be fifteen. I know what happens when ad revenue drops. We might have a floor in a fancy building in the Garment District this week and be out of business by next Tuesday. Bigger websites than Hadley’s have been toppled overnight by inexplicable shifts in ad revenue.

“Have that mockup on my desk as soon as it comes in,” Hadley says abruptly, putting a swift end to our moment of camaraderie. Then she’s gone, breezing back to her office.

The rest of the afternoon she doubles her efforts at being a pain in the ass. It’s extremely helpful that now, in addition to worrying about what Charlie might do if I can’t pull off this undercover spy routine and hoping to hell that Adam has gotten himself out of Manhattan, I’m also wondering if I might be out of a job before October rolls around.

In three weeks.

It’s impossible to hide the tension that’s forming knots in my shoulders from Jett when we’re both back at his penthouse for the evening. I do my utmost best to hide it from him—I’m sure the last thing he wants to deal with is some needy, anxiety-ridden content producer living in his apartment—but he notices anyway.

“Do I need to buy out that company and fire your boss for you?”

I laugh like he’s telling a joke, and judging by the half grin on his face, he is...but the tone of his voice tells me there’s a nugget of truth behind his absurd statement. He could buy out Sisterspark, probably tonight if he wanted to.

The fact that he’d even think about offering it—even as a joke—is what makes my heart speed up. I’m supposed to be focused entirely on double-crossing him, helping Charlie and his thugs steal information—and I’m assuming money—from him, but with every kind gesture, Jett works his way deeper into my heart.

“Nah,” I tell him with a broad smile. “Although she would probably like it if you bought out the website right about now.”

Jett cocks his head and unbuttons his jacket, then shrugs it off. “What is her company again?”

“Sisterspark.”

To his credit, he doesn’t laugh. “And it’s in dire straits?”

“I don’t know all the details. She dropped a hint that the ad revenue was down earlier today, but it’s a website, so....”

He shakes his head, and it occurs to me that Jett Brandon probably never has to think about things like ad revenue. He probably lives off the interest from his billions.

“So it could go under if the revenue keeps dropping. And then I would be out of a job.”

“And you’re not worried about it?”

“Oh, I’m plenty worried about it,” I say, kicking off my shoes and sinking back into the sofa. Jett joins me a second later, leaning against the arm of the sofa and looking across at me like he’s discovering an alien society for the first time. “...what?” My grin is only slightly self-conscious.

“What makes you so...resilient?”

I swallow in the hushed silence. This is by far the deepest thing Jett has ever asked me, and it sends a thrill of pleasure down my spine that he’s interested in me on this level. It also makes my stomach turn over, because....

I keep my tone light. “It’s going to make me sound like a total gold-digger.”

“I doubt it.” He doesn’t take his eyes off me.

“I grew up in a small town in Michigan. My mom worked in a factory there.”

Jett’s eyes widen for a split second at the mention of a factory. I’m sure that for him, a job like that would be unthinkable. “When I was nine, the factory went out of business. She didn’t have a degree, so—”

“Your mother didn’t go to high school?”

“College,” I say quickly, my cheeks heating up. “She only had a high school diploma and factory jobs used to be a lifetime gig. You went to work right after high school and stayed until it was time to retire. Anyway, she was by herself. My dad walked out on her not long after Adam was born, and then when she lost her job, things got hard.”

“Jesus,” he says softly.

“There wasn’t a lot of work to go around when it wasn’t tourist season, so she cobbled together multiple jobs to make ends meet. Adam and I had to fend for ourselves.” This is bordering on a sob story. Gotta wrap it up. “So, yeah, I’m worried that Sisterspark will go under. But I’ll be able to handle it. I always keep my resume updated.”

Jett is looking at me like I’m a different person. Someone impressive. Someone worthwhile.

Thank Christ.

I wait another moment for him to change his mind—to tell me that he’s not interested in having some piece of trailer trash living in his penthouse, or to look at me like I’m a money-grubbing bitch—but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans in and kisses my cheek tenderly.

“Angelica Chandler, you’re something else.”