I trail behind the woman in bottom-saggy dark dress pants, across the lobby of a fancy skyscraper. The kind of building I dreamed of working in, once.

“No drinking, no rowdy behavior...” she continues ticking off the commandments.

“I don’t...”

“No further hanging out with unsavory characters.” The older woman ignores my attempt to protest my innocence – big surprise there. She spouts out my orders as though I never made that lame attempt at setting her straight. “No getting into fights and definitely, and this one is very important, no drugs of any recreational variety.”

She has me all wrong. So wrong she could be speaking to someone else. You know when someone thinks they know you, not thinks, assumes? They look at a chart and assume they know everything about you. How you think, what you want. Even what you’ll do next, before you do.

Except they don’t.

My adviser, counselor, or whatever they call this sort of parole officer, gives me the list of commands that will allow me to stay out in the world with the nice folks. Like I’m some delinquent who drinks and fights and ‘hangs’ with inappropriate people.

I’m not that girl.

I wasn’t.

“I don’t do any of those things,” I hiss. I refuse to run to keep up with her.

She throws me a look over her shoulder and I know that if I continue to protest my innocence this will only go on longer. So I add; “I won’t.” Just to get this over with.

“Good. You won’t believe me right now but rebellion isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It doesn't mean you’re smart or glamorous, it just gets you into this kind of trouble.”

Don’t I know it.

Still, I force myself not to roll my eyes and simply nod with the right amount of humility. I learned that well in the last six months.

“I know we’re a little early but there’s supposed to be someone to take you in hand and tell you what to do. Wait here, I’ll go to Miss Markle’s office, see if she can help us.”

I wish I possessed the kind of rebellion she’s talking about. Or I did, before I got that one whiff of it and it turned around and bit my ass.

I was the good girl.

The one that worked to get good grades and hoped to make something of her life.

Something better.

There weren’t too many like me in the forgotten town I grew up in. In fact there weren't any like me, who thought beyond a job in the refinery or being married to someone that had one. I was on the right track to the other side of the tracks and set my jaw like a sword before me, After marching through teenage years with determination not to be cajoled and teased into the expected lifestyle, I slipped up.

I admit it.

Do I need to be punished forever?

I try to do as the officer of the court, Cynthia Treadwell, told me and stay put in the hallway. But we passed the break room a few doors back and I need a pick-me-up badly. I haven't had a decent brew in months. There are two things I’m desperate for – coffee and – you know. Even office coffee will be like fine Italian espresso after the dirty dishwater I had to drink inside. And a paycheck with enough left over to buy a vibe and get off.

I look up and down the deserted hall then slip into the small kitchen. I throw open the cupboards until I find the filters. Then flipping the switch on the industrial machine, I wait for it to spurt into life before sliding out the jug, filling it with water and methodically pouring it into the top reservoir. Then I pull apart the package of coffee and inhale the aroma that makes me think of exotic lands. I lay a frilled filter into the bowl and then tip the coffee into it so the scent fills my nostrils at the same time a shiver runs down the back of my legs.

Suddenly my back prickles and I’m filled with the certainty that someone is watching me. I feel the heat of a presence behind me and it makes my legs literally tremble. I’m being ridiculous. I refuse to look behind. Never show your fear. As I snap the machine into action a small raspy clearing of throat forces me to turn and my body jolts in surprise.

“You know how to make coffee,” the gorgeous guy leaning up against the door frame, one leg casually crossed over the other like he owns the joint, says. One side of his mouth tips up into a smug grin as he adds; “That’s a good start. You can bring me one.”

“I’m not here to make coffee,” I snap.

I’m all shivery with awkwardness by the dude gazing at me so blatantly. His eyes travel down the length of me, lingering on the parts that interest him and that betray me by jumping up in eager response.

I ought to be enraged.

But it’s too tough. His perfect face, the jaw all dark with new stubble I'd like to rake my fingernails over. A body I could climb all over because, even in a rumpled suit, his muscles are bristling beneath the fabric hard enough to burst it apart. Both are combining to seriously destabilize my fragile equilibrium.

“What are you here for then?” he asks, the smile never leaving his full lips.

“I...don’t know yet.” getting a grip on the shivery feeling running all around my skin would be a good start. And remembering not to blurt out; ‘My parole officer just went to find out’. What I do let him know is; “But it is definitely not to wait on office dudes.”

Seriously? His eyes are taking another slow meander down the length of my body and not even bothering to try to disguise the fact that he’s sucking up every part of me, visually speaking. My brain expands with irritation at the blatant eyefuck but my traitorous body starts quivering even more because even creased and with dark circles under his eyes like he’s been up all night, this guy is hot enough to steam milk for the coffee.

I know I’ve been separated from men for a while but losing all control over a sexy one gets me into trouble. Isn’t that what got me into this lousy situation in the first place?

“Not here to make friends obviously,” he quips.

“You got that right,” I say, putting him in his place. Some guys think that any new girl in the office is ripe for a chance. “The plan is to stay away from all humanity, especially those of the Y chromosome variety and get on with my job.”

“Except you don't know what it is.”

“Not exactly, but I’m about to find out.”

I pour my coffee and blatantly ignore his demand for one. He can pour his own damn coffee, I’m done waiting on men and their demands. As I’m about to reconsider – because there’s no need to be rude at least not on the first day – he starts moving across the room. Filling the small space with his masculine presence until the air seems to be squashed out.

Gasping, I have to turn away from him advancing on me, my cheeks filling and beginning to burn up with the blood rushing into them. Why the hell am I blushing? And why can’t I get some control over my body?

I grip the edge of the counter and take a deep breath, willing myself to calm down. He’s just a man in an office albeit a godlike one. I reach for the coffee jug at the same time he arrives at the counter behind me and does the same. Our hands collide on the handle and his hard fingers almost entangle into mine sending sparks into my chest and straight between my thighs.

“Sorry,” I bluster and snatch my hand back.

But not before a sudden vivid image of him bending me over the counter right there, pulling up my skirt and… Jesus, I have to get those thoughts out of my head. I hope every delicious man I come within ten feet of isn’t going to have this effect on me. I’m going to spend every day in the office shuddering with lusty desire. I have to remember what these kind of feelings lead to. That should remind me to keep my filthy needs under control.

“Don’t be,” he says, his voice raspy with tiredness and something else, visceral, almost animal. “Don’t ever be sorry.”

I turn my eyes up to his. He’s almost a foot taller than me and his chest is so broad it’s a wall trapping me up against the counter even without touching me. But he’s close. So close I could lift my hand and touch my fingers to the solid muscle ridges carving into the white cotton. His tie is loose, as though the knot was finally too much of an irritant and I almost reach out to tenderly slide it back into place. Make him perfect again.

I’m compelled to touch him, to trail along the sharp line of his tense jaw, heavily stubbled with rough growth that makes him look even sexier in his disheveled state. My heart is fluttering and lifting against my throat repeatedly so my breath comes in short gasps.

He must think I’m a little idiot because now he’s close, I see he’s older than I thought. I’m not sure how much older than me but even though he looks tired, the glint in his eyes and the tilted grin are devastating. As he holds me trapped in his stare, his head seems to tip down toward me, his warm breath falls on my upper lip and lifts goosebumps along my arms.

As he lifts his hand I lock on defiantly and stare him down. I know now that flinching gets you a lynching. But when his fingers dagger into the hair at the nape of my neck and tug, I’m helpless.

Hard – not enough to hurt but with enough force to pull my head back, tipping it up to face him.

I’m sure he’s going to kiss me. I want him to kiss me so bad and if he does I don’t know what I’ll do. Because I’ve sworn off men and this one is way above my pay grade – which is zero anyways. Ex-cons don’t get careers. This guy is far too sure of himself to be anything other than bad for me. Very very bad.