Sandra shuts herself in her office for most of the morning while I force myself to sift through the daily deluge of emails, tracking shipments, scheduling, confirming, confirming, confirming. It’s hard to type with jittery hands, a jittery mind. But the work never ends. There’s always another issue in the works, always another set of clothes, models, designers to slot into Sandra’s schedule. It gets done first, or the afternoon will be a nightmare.

That bitch.

The thought bubbles up from behind my barricade of professionalism and I swat at it like it’s in the air in front of me, like I’d swat away a mosquito. Sandra isn’t a bitch. She’s demanding and hyper-focused on her work, and the problem she’s faced with—that we’re both faced with—is something I can’t help her with, even if it takes everything I have not to press my ear up against the doors to her office. A single word. A single word is all I need to take the edge off after what she told me this morning.

Her words reverberate endlessly in my mind. “Williams-Martin is bankrupt,” she’d said, slipping her reading glasses off and placing them precisely back into the drawer. “They’ll need a solution shortly. If one isn’t found, the office will close. In a matter of weeks, I assume.”

Instead of letting my mouth drop open, I pinched my lips shut to keep from screaming.

I’ve been at Basiqué for fifteen months. Fifteen agonizing months. Back in college, I struggled with pulling all-nighters for important projects. I’d start out determined with a stack of granola bars and some off-brand energy drink and by 2:30 in the morning I’d find myself in the dorm-room bathroom, brushing my teeth too hard and fast before a frantic dash back to bed. How long has it been since I went to bed early or slept past 7:00? Months. And all for this job.

The phone on my desk starts to ring, and my hand is on the receiver before the first tone is over. In that split second I register that it’s Sandra calling from her office and not an outside request of some kind.

“Hello, Sandra—” I say before she cuts me off.

“Tell editorial to stop work on the policewoman feature. The content will be substituted.”

“I’ll do that right away.” The line clicks off.

I had been in the middle of writing three related emails—now that Sandra has cancelled this morning’s meetings, the approvals process for a photo shoot scheduled later in the week has to be pushed back, so I need to re-coordinate the photographer and the designer for later in the week at a time that won’t completely screw up the rest of the week. It doesn’t help at all that tomorrow is a bank holiday. I must need to sleep more—how did the Fourth of July slip my mind?—but more sleep is a joke, especially now. I can’t afford to let anything slip.

It’s not an ideal situation, leaving my desk empty so I can go talk to Kirk—the head of editorial—but I slip my cell phone in my pocket and push the “forward” button on my phone. I’ll only be gone a few minutes.

Once I’m in the hallway, striding toward the editorial bullpen, my blood pressure equalizes a little. I have a purpose for being out of the office for a few moments. Nobody can fault me for that.

Kirk is hunched over his desk, fingers flying over his keyboard. I hover for a second, and after a final burst of words, he swivels around to face me.

“Hey, Cate,” he says, his eyes locked on my face. “Come on in.”

He stands up from behind his desk and reaches down to the mini-fridge he keeps tucked between the desk and the window, pulling out an energy drink.

“How’s it going?” I tilt my head toward his computer screen.

“Good, good,” says Kirk, opening the can and downing half of it in one gulp. “You’ve got news.”

“She’s stopping the policewoman feature.”

Kirk lets out an epic sigh, dropping his chin to his chest for several moments. Then he looks up at me, rolling his eyes, and shrugs his shoulders.

I shrug back.

“Any replacement?” he asks, his body already turning back toward his desk.

“Ha, ha.”

“I figured as much.”

“I’ll let you know, okay?”

“Thanks, Cate.”

News delivered, I hustle back down the hall to Sandra’s office. There are a few people lingering in the conference rooms across from the glass doors with a hopeful shine in their eyes. It’s not going to happen for them.

At the doorway, two things happen at once: I reach for the polished handle of the doors, and I see him.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

This would happen. The one time I step away from my desk—and how long was I gone? Three minutes? Four?—someone has to show up. I run through the list of cancelled meetings. No one should be in there right now. Sandra won’t be happy if she discovers that someone has been loitering out here.

I pull open the door and step through, the words already there on the tip of my tongue. “I’m so sorry,” I say, my voice low but confident. “I had to step away for a moment. Ms. Sarzó isn’t—”

He turns to face me and the words die in my throat.

I know the instant that he smiles at me—a cocky, sexy half-smile that’s almost a sneer—and shifts his weight so that he’s facing me head-on, giving me a glorious view of what I am certain is a rock-hard body underneath layers of expensive, understated fabrics, that I want him out of here immediately.

He’s been standing here for long enough that the scent of him fills the air—a hint of spicy cologne underneath a pure clean that sends a bolt of electric lust directly between my legs.

My next breath is an undignified gulp, and then I get my shit together…just enough.

“Ms. Sarzó isn’t available for meetings right now,” I say crisply, crossing to my desk and stepping behind it. The closer I get to him, the more he overtakes me—and he hasn’t spoken a word. Male models are in and out of this office every day, but none of them, not a single one, has ever rocked me like this. Even fully covered by his suit—it must be custom, Italian, no way it came off the rack—his body is muscled, athletic, setting off his razor-sharp jawline.

He considers me with eyes the color of steel. In the sunlight outside, I know they’d be as blue as the ocean. I want to look away—he’s blinding—but I’m not about to give him the satisfaction.

When he finally speaks, his voice is dark and smooth with an edge to it. “She’ll be available for me.”

“I don’t think so,” I say quickly, the heat rising to my cheeks. I don’t know who this man is, or what he thinks he’s doing here, but with each moment that passes I’m desperate for the tension in the air to burst and dissipate.

He leans closer. The expanse of my desk is still between us, but even his slight movement toward me seems to take up all the rest of the space in the room. “And what makes you think that?” The corner of his mouth quirks slightly, like he might laugh at me.

I open my mouth, then close it again, pressing my lips together. “I’m Catherine Schaffer, Ms. Sarzó’s lead assistant. I canceled all of her meetings for the morning. If you’d like to make an appointment—”

Then he does laugh, and the sound is as musical as it is calculating. He must be enjoying this. “So you’re a woman with a fiery personality, Ms. Schaffer?” Crossing his arms casually over his chest, he gives me an indulgent look. “I’ll bet you hate to be wrong.”

My eyes narrow. I can’t stop myself—I’m on the verge of bursting out with an indignant reply. He can’t talk to me like this. He can’t look at me like this.

I’ve opened my mouth to speak when Sandra’s office door whips open.

“Mr. Hunter,” she calls in a cold, clear voice. “Please, come in. We have several matters to discuss, it seems.”

My face burns. Mr. Hunter. There’s another layer to the laughter in his eyes. Something is lit up there, too.

He doesn’t mention it.

Instead, he heads toward Sandra, his hand extended to shake. Holds the door for her while she steps inside. Turns as he guides the door closed behind him.

He locks his eyes on mine one more time, and those blues burn into the core of me.

I might never recover.