How is it that we’ve invented phones advanced enough to stream movies and order groceries with a single tap, but no one can figure out how to make the subway smell less like urine?

Will scientists colonize Mars in my lifetime?

Will subways on Mars still smell like pee?

If people eat asparagus on Mars and pee on the subway, will the subway smell like pee, or asparagus?

These are the mysteries I ponder as I stare across my mahogany desk, wondering if the guy I’m interviewing has any clue I’ve already voted him off the island.

“In conclusion,” Brian says, “by utilizing Six Sigma strategies, I was able to radically streamline our core business process, eradicating inefficiencies in our product development lifecycle and increasing revenues by nine percent.”

Nope. Not a clue.

“Impressive,” I say. “So, you’re a Six Sigma guy?”

“There’s no problem it can’t solve, and as a broker for Seyfried and Holt, I assure you, problem-solving would become my middle name.”

“What’s your middle name now?” I ask. Dick move, perhaps, but this is the seventh interview of the day, and each candidate has been as unimaginative as the one before. Blair was supposed to clear these guys in round one, sending me the cream of the crop.

But apparently she’s looking for docile and predictable, a guy who will toe the company line.

Me? I prefer a little fire.

“Forgive me. Terrible sense of humor,” I say, dialing it down. It’s not this poor guy’s fault I’m being blown off for lunch. No. That honor belongs to one Eleanor Seyfried, who hasn’t bothered to return a single one of my texts.

Ellie Seyfried—now there’s a problem Six Sigma can’t solve.

“Tell me more about your client acquisition philosophy,” I add.

I try to pay attention to Brian’s answer. Honestly, I do.

But this thing with Ellie has me on edge, which is definitely not my standard operating procedure. Sure, she’s always thrown me off my game—even when Ian and I were in grad school and she was still an adorably awkward college kid. But back then, I only saw her for occasional Seyfried family parties. And yeah, maybe I had a little crush, and enjoyed making her laugh way too much, but I thought I’d left all that behind.

Until now.

Having her in the office all week has seriously messed with my head.

Both of them.

If Ellie had any idea the kind of thoughts she stirs up—the kind of dreams that send me bolting for a cold shower at three in the morning, desperate for something to alleviate the ache and scrub my thoughts clean—my ass would’ve been hauled down to HR before the opening bell chimed on the stock exchange. And then she’d have her story gift wrapped with a bow, courtesy of my definitely-not-workplace-appropriate hard-on problem.

Fucking ironic, is what it is.

“…but that’s all thanks to my contacts in the energy and biotech industries.”

I drag my attention back to Brian, who’s supremely pleased with himself. Just like the last guy. And the woman before him. The latest crop of MBA grads isn’t lacking in confidence, that’s for sure.

I let him natter on a bit longer, then wrap it up with a few noncommittal comments about next steps before I usher him out the door.

When my phone pings with a text a minute later, I know I should be embarrassed at how fast I whip it out of my pocket, but I don’t have time for that.

Shit. It’s not Ellie.

It’s her fucking big brother, like an omen from the universe warning me to cool it.

Just locked in the Cruise meeting. Dinner tomorrow night.

Great, I text back. I’ll let Rictor know.

How are the interviews panning out? Anything promising? he asks.

No stand-outs. Setting up a few more next week.

All right, keep me posted. Ellie giving you a hard time?

If he only knew.

Nothing I can’t handle, I text, then toss the phone onto my desk.

I’m trying to decide what the hell to do for lunch now that Ellie’s off the menu, when in walks my assistant, Hannah.

“Eric Webb here to see you?”

“Webb?” I flip through the candidate file on my desk. Nothing for Webb. “I thought we were done for today.”

“Apparently this guy is a friend of Ian’s. He says Ian promised we’d squeeze him in?” Hannah scrunches up her face, her classic WTF look. “I’m guessing this is the first you’re hearing about it, too. And I’m also guessing you haven’t eaten anything since that disgusting kale smoothie this morning.”

“Yep. And nope.” Figures. Ian’s been so focused on the Portland office, it doesn’t surprise me he forgot to mention the additional interview.

“Want me to blow him off and order your lunch?” she asks.

“No, that’s not necessary. Send him in.” Can’t be worse than Brian “Six Sigma” Andover, and lunch can wait.

Gives me an excuse to wait a little longer for Ellie, too.

Pathetic, Holt. You need to get laid, and soon, before you make a fool of yourself.

The new guy steps through the door, attaché case in hand, his smile guarded. He looks nervous—a touch gawky, too—wearing a suit that’s a size too big and a mustache straight out of a 1970s porno.

“You’ll have to forgive me.” I move the folder in front of me to the side. “Ian didn’t have a chance to send over your resume, Mr.—Webber, was it?”

“Webb.” His voice cracks, but he clears his throat and tries again. “Eric Webb.”

“Eric Webb.” I stand up to shake the guy’s hand, which is slim and surprisingly soft—definitely not into pumping iron, this one. “How do you know Ian?”

“At the risk of sounding cliché, he’s a friend of the family,” Webb says as we take our seats. “Our fathers went to Yale together. Frank was best man at my parents’ wedding.”

I nod, relaxing into my chair. Ian’s dad Frank is a hard-ass, but he’s a good man, and definitely knows the business. If this guy is connected to Frank, he’s gotta be good people.

“So. Why should I hire you, Eric?” I give him the fastball, no time for chit-chat. Guy doesn’t miss a beat, though, fielding my questions with an ease his slightly unpolished appearance belies.

“You need me,” he says matter-of-factly, “to diversify your strategic value proposition. You’re getting great returns for your clients, generating lots of buzz on the street. But at the end of the day, you’re still following the same old playbook.”

I cross my arms and raise a brow. “Go on.”

“I specialize in attracting and retaining risk-tolerant, high-net-worth clients looking for unconventional strategies in a time of market volatility and global instability. I’ve got a nose for emerging tech—we’re talking right on the bleeding edge. Things most people never even hear about outside of science fiction.”

Webb has me on the hook now. S&H deals mostly with athletes and celebs—people with lots of cash to play with—and they’re always hot for the next big thing.

If Webb can deliver on that, I want him on my team.

I ask him a few questions about his experience, letting him wax poetic about his ideal portfolio mix. He’s got good instincts, the right blend of education and experience, and he knows his stuff.

But what I really need is a candidate who can think outside the MBA box and carry on a conversation about something other than ROI, APR, SEC, and the rest of the alphabet soup my analysts are swimming in.

I need someone who can charm clients and close deals.

I need someone creative, driven, and passionate.

I need someone who can take my mind off my best friend’s little sister.

“What are you passionate about, Mr. Webb?” I interrupt a story about one of his former clients, surprising us both.

He waits a beat. Two. It’s the first time he hasn’t had a ready answer.

“P-Passionate?” he stammers.

“Yeah, something that lights you up inside, gets your juices flowing.”

“Well, as I said, wealth management is—”

“Forget all that.” I dismiss his comment with a wave. “I want to hear about the real you. Personally. Where do you spend your free time?”

“Personally?” He readjusts his tie, clearing his throat. “Well, I… I like the library.”

Now we’re getting somewhere. “A big reader, huh?”

At this, the guy lights up, a grin breaking his all-business demeanor. “If having my library card number memorized makes me a big reader, then yes.” His mustache twitches with excitement, his eyes sparking.

I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something about this guy… It’s almost like we’ve met before. Maybe at one of Ian’s family gatherings? He said their fathers were friends. Could that be it?

“Tell me the last thing you read for fun,” I say, hoping to catch another glimpse of that spark.

“Dragon Spell.” He says it like he’s daring me to laugh. When I don’t, he continues, “It’s about a wizard trying to resurrect a race of dragons, but he’s the only person who believes they exist.”

Webb goes on about the story, getting more amped up with every plot point. By the time he says, “…and then he discovers he’s descended from dragon shifters,” he’s practically out of his chair with excitement.

In that moment, I know exactly why I recognize the spark in his eyes.

Because they aren’t his eyes.

They aren’t his anything.

Colored contacts, fake mustache, wig, the too-big suit and shoes…

Christ, I can’t believe I didn’t pick up on it sooner, but now that I have, it takes every ounce of willpower to keep my expression neutral.

Because the candidate sitting across from me gushing about dragons? Is none other than Ellie Seyfried in drag.

Do they still call it drag if it’s a woman dressed as a man? I have no clue, but I know with absolute certainty that I’ve just been played. Hard.

Taking a steadying breath, I force a smile. “Tell you what, Mr. Webb. I’ve seen enough to know you’re exactly the kind of candidate we’re looking for.”

“Really?” He—she, damn it—beams. “That’s great.”

“I’m ready to skip the rest of the hoop-jumping and call your references. Is there someone specific I can contact at—who was your previous employer? Hannaford Capital?”

“I… Sure. Of course.” She makes a show of digging through her attaché case before clearing her throat. “To be honest, Mr. Holt, I wasn’t prepared for things to move this quickly. Why don’t I email you the information? Will that work?”

I steeple my fingers, staring at her over the tips. I don’t blink. I don’t look away. I don’t even breathe.

To her credit, neither does Ellie, though I can feel the nervous tension rolling off her in waves.

I can’t take another minute of it.

“Game over, Ms. Seyfried.”

At this, Ellie scrunches up her nose and laughs. She actually laughs.

Jesus, this woman… I don’t know whether to throttle her or kiss her.

“So you find this amusing? This…whatever it is you’re doing?” I gesture from her shiny black loafers to the slightly-too-big suit coat draped over her shoulders, doing my best not to imagine the curves beneath.

“This,” she says with a flourish, pushing out her chest in a way that’s anything but masculine, “is my master plan. Say hello to your newest broker.”

“You’re not a broker.”

“I am for the next few weeks, while I get the deep dive for my story.”

I shake my head. “It will never work. No one’s going to buy it.”

“You bought it.” Ellie’s out of her chair now, pacing my office. “You just hired me!”

“And now I’m firing you.”

“I can talk the talk, Jack. That’s all that matters.”

“It’s not all that matters.” I stand, circling around my desk and stepping into her path. “Do you feel even remotely guilty about trying to con your way onto my team? Is Ian in on this?”

“No, and he doesn’t need to be. This is my story, and I’m willing to do whatever it takes for authentic research.” She lifts her stubborn chin, not wavering for a moment. “Gender inequality in the workplace is a huge issue. And as progressive as S and H is, you and my brother are still operating under the misguided assumption that an organic snack machine and free tampons in the bathroom are all it takes to create a supportive work environment… and…” Her nose wrinkles and her breath rushes out. “What are you staring at?”

“Your, ah…” I swirl my finger in the general area of her mouth, where a strip of brown fuzz dangles precariously from her upper lip. “Your porn ’stache is falling off.”

“Did you hear a word I said?” Clearly flustered, Ellie tries to push the thing back onto her face, inadvertently tearing off the other half. “And it’s not a porn ’stache. It’s—shoot. I had a feeling this would give me trouble.”

“It was too close to your lip. Hold still.” I cup her chin, tilting her face toward the light. Beneath her drawn-on man-brows, her normally blue eyes are dark brown thanks to colored contacts, but they’re still Ellie’s, still swimming with hidden depths and a vulnerability that sends my heart jackhammering.

Without the mustache, her lips are full and soft, practically begging to be kissed, and it’s all I can do not to devour her right here.

Forcing myself back to the task at hand, I press the mustache into place beneath her nose, my thumb brushing the corners of her mouth. Her skin is silky smooth, her upper lip glistening with a sheen of sweat that has me wondering what the rest of her body looks like when it’s glistening, bare and glowing after I’ve brought her to the edge…

Fuck. This is bad. Real bad.

I should back off, put some distance between us before I do something incredibly stupid, but I can’t seem to stop touching her. Can’t pull my fingers away from the velvet heat of her skin…

Get it together, asshole.

“All set,” I manage, forcing myself to return to my chair and silently count backward from ten.

“Thank you.” She pats a finger across her lip from left to right, pressing the mustache in place. “This was kind of last-minute. More of a prototype disguise, really. I just need clothes that fit, some better glue, and—”

“No. You need a better idea. Ian will never go for it.”

“I can pull this off, Jack. It’s the best way to get what I need. I’ve experienced the culture here as a woman—now I need to do it as a man.”

“But you’re not a man,” I say.

And God, don’t I know it. Crossing paths every day in the office last week was hard enough. Touching her? Staring at her mouth? Wondering what it would be like to taste those soft, lush, entirely female lips?

Yeah, I’m totally fucked.

“Please, Jack.” She settles back into the chair across from me, fingers interlaced in her lap. “It’s not like you’re Mr. Rulebook. Ian doesn’t even have to know.”

Please, Jack? Don’t tell Ian…

The words echo in my memory, and I fake a cough to hide my chuckle.

Had to be, what, eight years ago? Harvard winter break. I tagged along with Ian for the holidays, crashing on the couch in their old man’s basement. Night after Christmas, I’d just lit up a joint I’d been saving when I heard footsteps on the stairs.

I tried to play it cool, but Ellie knew right away what I was up to. She flopped down on the couch next to me and nudged my knee with her snowman slipper. “Can I try?”

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” I said. “You’re not even old enough to drink.”

“If you’re drinking that stuff, you’re doing it wrong.” She held out her hand and wriggled her eyebrows in that goofily cute way she had. “’Tis the season for sharing, Jack Holt.”

Wordlessly, I caved, mesmerized by the curve of her lips as they encircled the joint. She sucked hard, making the end crackle and glow.

Then she turned green.

She coughed up half a lung, and I figured out pretty quick she’d never smoked before. Didn’t deter Ellie, though. We shared the rest of it, watched some old Romero zombie flicks, planned an apocalypse survival strategy with the kind of excruciating detail only the stoned can appreciate.

Then she went all in on a bag of Cheetos, freaked out about her father coming downstairs, and passed out on the couch. I spent the wee hours of the morning on the floor, shivering my ass off in a pair of shorts and a black Henley covered in her bright orange fingerprints.

I never told her this, but that was the best Christmas I’d had since I was a kid.

I wonder if she remembers…

“I’m going through with this,” she says now, the softness vanishing from her eyes. “To borrow a phrase from the esteemed Rictor, I need to ‘grow a pair.’ So, you can help me, or you can stay out of the way while I grow my own, but either way it’s happening.”

Great. This isn’t going away.

A laugh escapes my lips, and we both know she’s got me by the balls.

But hell if I’m giving in without busting hers, first.

“In all your scheming, Eleanor, there’s one problem you haven’t considered.” I pin her with the stone-cold gaze I reserve for special occasions, like getting a tight-ass client to part with his money.

She wavers, the space between her man-brows wrinkling. “What’s that?”

I blow out a breath. “You’re not going to like it.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s bad. Probably a deal-breaker for you.”

“Jack, will you just—”

“Our snack machine…” I deliver my final words in a whisper. “It’s an organic, Cheetos-free zone.”

Her gasp says it all.

Oh yeah. She remembers.

Her cheeks turn pink, and beneath that hideous mustache, her mouth rounds into an “o,” sending a bolt of desire straight below the belt.

Hell. Every time I think I have the upper hand here, she undoes me all over again.

There’s no way this arrangement can end well.

“That’s fine,” she says, regaining her composure. “I can bring my own.” She rises from the chair and collects her case. “Does this mean you’re in?”

I waver.

As much as I want to offer the support her inner fire deserves, I can’t help my best friend’s little sister infiltrate our company as a dude.

Not without putting myself in a precarious position with Ian, a guy who’s been a damn loyal friend and the only real constant in my life. Not without violating some ethical standards and probably breaking a few SEC rules.

And definitely not without rocking a constant, raging, highly unprofessional hard-on. It doesn’t matter what she’s wearing—Ellie is still Ellie, and my cock knows it.

But damn it, I can already feel myself giving in.

“Well?” she demands.

I may not agree with her methods, but if Ellie needs my help, she’s got it.

I meet her gaze across the desk and silence the warning bells clanging in my skull.

“Welcome aboard, Eric Webb. You and your porn ’stache start tomorrow, nine a.m. sharp.”