Be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it.

It’s one of my father’s favorite sayings, one I heard over and over again growing up. Like the time I begged for a pixie haircut (disaster). Or when I fought for a place on the track team then decided I hated running, jumping over hurdles, and just about everything track-flavored except hanging out with my friends on the way to the meets.

And then there was the Harvard Business School disaster, landing that coveted spot only to realize finance and I went together like peas and caramel corn.

Dad refused to let me quit track, and my regret didn’t magically restore the twenty inches of hair I’d hacked off, but I did transfer from the business school to the journalism program halfway through my first year of grad school. I wasn’t raised to be a quitter, but I can pivot when I need to.

Like when my sanity depends on it.

I could pivot right now, stay hidden at the back of the elevator, and ride it back down to the first floor where my roadkill-scented mustache and I can exit onto Vesey Street and disappear into the suited throng swarming the financial sector in search of coffee, bagels, and a place to smoke a pre-work cigarette.

No one would know I chickened out.

Well, no one except Jack, and he thinks I’m ridiculous anyway, so no journalist street cred lost there.

But I’m not ridiculous—I’m taking risks to get a unique angle on this story—and I’m not going to let fear win.

I’ve got this. I’m wearing a new suit that fits where it should and sits low enough on my hips to hide my curves. My wig is Broadway quality, borrowed from the best costume-designing neighbor in the world, who also agreed to part with his second-best fake mustache—as opposed to the fourth-best ’stache I wore yesterday.

Having a neighbor who has a collection of fake mustaches—and the skill with cosmetics to teach me how to work masculine magic on my face—is a sign that my plan is destined to succeed. Jack only saw through my disguise because he’s known me for years and yesterday’s attempt was admittedly half-assed.

But today, I’m ready.

I’m a testosterone-fueled man-beast ready to take my new office by storm! Grr!

Rolling my shoulders back, I suck in as deep a breath as possible with two elastic bandages squishing my breasts into pancakes, ignore the dead-animal stink of the super-powerful spirit gum holding my smaller, less porn-tastic mustache in place, and step out into the S&H reception area.

But after getting up an hour early to put on my man face, all I can think about now is an extra-large cup of coffee.

The underling break room is a simpler affair than the executive lounge where my brother and the higher ups recharge, but still far swankier than any water-cooler situation I encountered in my years of working in a newsroom. There is a full kitchen, two stainless steel refrigerators, the Cheetos-less organic snack machine, a variety of seating options, and a gourmet coffee station that puts Starbucks to shame, complete with everything I need to make a caramel latte.

Now to find my way through the crowd swarming the machine and figure out how to work the milk frothing thingamajiggy…

“Hey, new guy.” Hannah, Jack’s assistant, a curvy, freckled redhead with kind brown eyes smiles as I sidle up to the coffee queue. “Eric, right?”

I nod, dropping my pitch as low as I can manage. “Yeah. Nice to see you again, Hannah.”

Her brows bob in surprise. “You, too. You’re good with names, I see.”

“I try to be.” I smile my new, careful smile. Men, especially financial sector men, don’t smile as widely as women, and caution is good for keeping the mustache in place.

“That’ll serve you well, but don’t be afraid to ask if you forget someone. It’s a big office, and we’ve all been the newbie.” She laughs before gesturing toward the break room door. “And remember, I’m down the hall if you need anything. Jack asked me to keep an eye on you, make sure you get settled in okay.”

“That was nice of him,” I say, figuring now is as good a time as any to start putting out my undercover feelers. I asked around last week, but people weren’t inclined to dish with the boss’s sister. Now that I’m a peer, I’m hoping they’ll be more loose-lipped. “Jack seems like a fun person to work for. I’m looking forward to being part of his team.”

Hannah’s smile widens. “He is fun. Fair, too, which isn’t always a given.”

Before I can ask what she means, a seal-bark of laughter sounds from the door. “No, you get the hell out,” Rictor shouts, jabbing his thick finger at someone farther down the hall. “Yeah, I do kiss your mother with this mouth. Ask her.” Still guffawing, Rictor swaggers into the room. “Hey there, Hannah Banana. Any almond milk in here? The lounge is out.”

“Why don’t you open the fridge and check, Stephen,” she says, lips tightening at the edges. “And meet Eric while you’re at it. He’s the new broker.”

Rictor thrusts an arm into the air between us as his eyes sweep my frame. But his gaze is calculating, not speculating, giving me my first taste of the difference between being Ellie and being Eric.

Ellie had her boobs checked out and was complimented on her skirt. Eric gets a firm handshake and a, “Great to have you on board, man. What’s your specialty?”

As I roll through my spiel about emerging technologies, Hannah backs toward the door with a wiggle of her fingers.

I stop mid-sentence to wave and say, “Thank you, Hannah. I appreciate the welcome.”

“My pleasure,” she says before stepping out into the hall and the salmon run of people hurrying to get to their desks before the stock exchange opens.

Rictor grunts out a laugh as he crosses to the fridge. “Don’t even think about it, bro. She looks like a firecracker, but under all that ginger, she’s cold as ice.”

“Excuse me?” I turn to him with a frown.

“Getting in her pants,” Rictor clarifies, his voice low. “It’s a no-fly zone down there, I promise. Better men than you have tried.”

My jaw drops. I can’t believe he’s taking the conversation there not thirty seconds after meeting me—and with six other employees, most of them women, standing less than four feet away at the coffee machine.

I’m still trying to figure out how “Eric” responds to stuff like this, when my butt begins to vibrate. “Barbie Girl” by Aqua blasts from the speakers, filling the break room with a sugary-pink pop song so girly I might as well rip off my pants and prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that I’m in possession of a vagina.

I struggle to pull my phone from my tiny back pocket, sweat breaking out beneath my fake ’stache. Finally, I wrestle my cell free and silence the pop-abomination amidst giggles from the women stirring creamer into their coffees a few feet away.

“Got a thing for Barbie, huh?” Rictor casts serious side-eye my direction.

“My neighbor’s daughter must have done that last night,” I say as I decline Spencer’s call. I’m not ready to give him a breakdown on project Trojan Mustache just yet. “She borrows it to play Scrabble and then changes my ringtones to the most embarrassing things possible. It’s part of a prank war she started when she was eight and decided a wo-working, um…” I clear my throat with a nervous laugh. “A working guy living alone needed a kid influence in his life.”

Shoot, I almost said “woman living alone.”

I almost blew it five freaking minutes into my first day!

“Prank war, huh?” Rictor grunts. “I think it’s safe to say the kid won.”

“Well, I think it’s cute,” a rosy-cheeked brunette I don’t remember meeting last week pipes up from near the snack machine. “It’s sweet that you’re good with kids. Shows character.”

“I don’t know that I’m good with kids in general,” I confess. “But Sonia’s a good friend. Her other dad passed away a few years ago, and since then our whole floor has chipped in to help Spencer out. Being a single parent isn’t easy anywhere, I’m sure, but it seems extra hard here in the city.”

More murmurs of appreciation fill the air and one woman presses a hand to her heart as she announces, “That’s it. I’ve got my new favorite broker. Anything you need, Eric, you let me know. I work support for Bruce Maddox and Kyle Hershman, but I can always fit you into my schedule.”

Cheeks flushing with embarrassment, I thank her and excuse myself, fleeing the room without coffee while Rictor glares at me with thinly disguised contempt for my less-than-manly display. Back at my desk, I settle in with headphones and the Seyfried & Holt orientation video queued up on my computer, determined to get back on track and stay under the radar.

I’m here to blend in, bear witness, and bring back observations from the front lines of the gender-inequality war, none of which is going to happen if I blow my cover on my first day.

Thankfully, the rest of the morning passes peaceably, and I spend my lunch hour in a booth at the back of a nearby Russian bistro, eating spine-strengthening red cabbage soup and steeling myself for another five hours of manliness.

But I probably should’ve eaten two orders. By the time the two o’clock meeting rolls around, I’m already drained.

I’ve underestimated how exhausting it would be to micromanage every move, every breath, every word and non-verbal response, from the way I laugh to the sound I make when I bang my knee—hard—on the metal leg of the conference table.

My high-pitched yip of agony goes mostly unnoticed in the chaos as people settle in for the meeting, but Jack’s sharp green gaze shifts my way, his lips twisting with disapproval. I smile reflexively—my usual anxious, Jack’s-in-my-vicinity grin—before I remember to be manly and take my grinning down a notch.

But the anxiety triggered by Jack’s glare remains.

It’s the first time I’ve seen him since our one-on-one time in his office yesterday, and for some reason I can’t stop staring at his hands. At his fingers, to be precise, those strong, capable fingers that so gently pressed my mustache into place while Jack’s body heat made my skin flush beneath my ill-fitting suit and Jack’s unique scent bloomed in the air around me, a heady mix of eucalyptus, fennel, and a spicy, clean scent that makes my mouth water.

The man smells good enough to eat.

Or at least to lick.

To lick all over, up and down, until I’ve explored every inch of his tanned, toned, utterly delicious—

“I’d also like to welcome Eric Webb to the team,” Jack says, motioning my way.

I flinch in my chair—must pay attention and stop thinking about licking my fake boss, who is every bit as off-limits as if he were my real boss, if not more so—and lift a hand, wiggling my fingers. “Thanks. Excited to be here.”

“Excited to have you.” Jack’s frown belies the words of welcome. He’s clearly not thrilled about his role in my sting operation, but I do my best to ignore his grumpiness and hope my coworkers will do the same.

I cross my legs and snatch a pen from the middle of the table, ready to take notes and contribute to the best of my ability. But focusing isn’t easy when Jack keeps shooting judgmental, disapproving, and even one vaguely nauseated look in my direction, making me wonder if other people can smell my icky glue stink. I thought I was the only one suffering, because it’s literally right under my nose, but maybe I was wrong.

Thankfully, Jack guides the meeting with a steady hand, and by the time three o’clock rolls around, he’s sending everyone back to work with a “good job team, keep it up.”

Snatching my notepad from the table—my loopy, flourish-filled cursive might be a lady-tell, now that I think about it—I leap to my feet and start for the door, only to hear Jack’s deep voice call my fake name.

“Webb, meet me in my office in five.”

I turn to face him, mortified by the pity that flashes across the faces of the two men easing around me to get to the door.

Why is he calling me out on my first day? Drawing attention to me when the best thing for my article is to draw as little focus as possible?

I’m about to ask him these exact questions—under my breath, of course—when he pauses in front of me and says in a husky whisper, “Your mustache is slipping. Again.”

My fingers fly to my lip. I adjust it as best I can and mumble, “I’ll put some more glue on in the bathroom.”

“Do that, and then come to my office. Immediately. Do not pass go, do not flounce to the break room for coffee, do not—”

“Flounce?” I prop my hands on my hips with a huff. “I have never flounced a—”

“And hands off your hips,” he murmurs. “I can see everything you’re trying to hide, Eleanor.”

My lips part and my hands drop to my sides as a wave of completely inappropriate heat washes through me.

Damn it, why does his voice have to be so motorcycle-idling-by-the-ocean sexy? It makes everything he says sound vaguely suggestive, and apparently vaguely is all it takes to make my skin tingle and my body ache.

“Everything’s fine,” I whisper. “No one suspects a thing.”

His gaze drops to my mouth and lingers there long enough to make breathing difficult. “You now have two minutes,” he finally says, breezing past me with a disinterested expression.

I spin, intending to tell him I don’t appreciate the alpha-hole behavior, but several coworkers are still hovering near the door. I swallow the retort and head for the bathroom, getting so close to the ladies’ room that my hand is reaching for the door handle before I remember what kind of parts I’m supposed to have and dart across the hall to the mercifully empty men’s room instead.

After locking myself in the only stall—thank God, sweet stall—I pull my compact and glue from my suit pocket and make the appropriate fixes to my stinktastic ’stache before tugging out my phone and shooting Spencer a text: Even the super stinky super glue is failing me, Spence. Got anything else I can try to keep me from losing my facial hair in my next cup of coffee?

Oh no, he texts back. If it stinks, it’s probably expired. I’ll pick up some fresh on my way out of the shop after the show tonight. How’s your debut going?! I’ve been on pins and needles all day!

Stifling a groan, I reply, Not awful, but not great. I’m about to get a dressing down from the boss man.

Don’t let him grind you down, honey, Spence texts. I respect your commitment to your craft. Stay the course, and the boss man will, too.

I type out a quick thanks, but Spencer’s sweet words aren’t as encouraging as they would usually be.

What if I don’t have what it takes to pull this off? What if my acting skills and my journalistic skills are both subpar and this entire endeavor is destined to fail?

And almost as worrisome—what if this weird awareness of Jack as a delicious creature worthy of hours of devoted licking gets worse?

I’ve always been anxious around Jack and aware of him in a way I’m not with most men, but I’ve never wanted to straddle him in his desk chair and explore his stupidly sexy mouth with my tongue before. I mean, maybe I did…a little, but I could always ignore the forbidden voice of temptation.

“And you’ll keep ignoring it,” I whisper to my reflection in the compact. “Because he is off-limits, a cocky egomaniac, and most definitely not thinking of you as anything but a pain in his ass he would like to have surgically removed ASAP.”

With a nod, I snick my compact closed and head for Jack’s office, mustache and defenses firmly in place and fingers crossed that they’ll stay that way.