“Good morning,” I chirp as I pass Kath’s desk. I drop a take-away coffee from Rocky Road Cafe down in front of her. “Thought you could use that.”

She looks suspiciously at it, then back at me. Her eyes travel up the length of my legs, and I ignore the judging expression on her face. Maybe the dress is a little short. So what?

Okay, maybe it’s a lot short. But it’s still professional. It’s not like I’m wearing pasties and a garter belt, here.

I force myself to keep smiling at Kath, who still hasn’t said anything. “Is Logan … I mean, Mr. Cartwright … in yet?”

She hesitates, then gives a brusque nod.

“Great.” Warmth fills my belly, though I try not to let my face betray any hint of what I’m feeling. Because what I’m feeling is very, very inappropriate.

Ever since yesterday, I haven’t been able to get that kiss out of my mind. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the way Logan’s lips felt on mine, the way his hands felt tangled in my hair, the way he looked at me like he wanted to devour me.

Because ever since yesterday, I’ve found myself wondering … just what it would be like to be devoured.

I know my sisters think I’m a party girl, and it’s true that I love going out and having fun. No one can dance up a storm quite like me. But I don’t really sleep around. The last guy I slept with is my ex-boyfriend, and we broke up over a year ago. He was a fun guy but, well, he was sloppy. Both in bed and out of it. You know, the kind of guy whose car is filled with fast food wrappers and who always seems to have that single dirty sock on the nightstand next to his bed?

Something tells me that nothing about Logan Cartwright is sloppy. Something tells me that everything about him is finely tuned, like a sleek Ferrari. I shouldn’t be thinking about him like that. I know I shouldn’t. But all the shouldn’ts in the world can’t stop the way my body comes alive when I’m in the same room as him.

Kath clears her throat, and I realize that I’m still standing there in front of her desk. And that I might be panting a little.

“Well … enjoy the coffee!” I bleat. She grunts something that I’m going to go ahead and assume is a thank-you, and I make a mad dash out of the lobby.

Once I’m at my desk, I take a couple of fortifying swigs of my own coffee and then grab the cappuccino I picked up for Logan. I’m still on a high from yesterday’s win with the gift for his mother, so I figured presenting him with a proper coffee — instead of one of my crime-against-humanity cappuccinos — was a better way to go. Might as well at least try to stay on top for a little while longer, right?

I take a minute to fix my hair and reapply a slick of pink lip gloss, and then I take the coffee to this office. I find him already sitting behind his desk, focused on the laptop in front of him, as always. He’s got on a navy suit today, and it sets off his dark blond hair perfectly. If I could see his eyes, I know they’d look bluer and icier than ever.

Nope, definitely nothing sloppy about Logan Cartwright.

Except, to my eternal dismay, Logan doesn’t look up.

“Blake. I need you to run an errand.”

“Oh. Okay.” I try to keep the disappointment out of my voice. “I brought you a cappuccino. From Rocky Road.”

Instead of answering, he just points to an empty spot on the desk next to the laptop. I scurry over and set the cup down. I straighten my skirt and wait for him to notice me, but his eyes remain steadfastly trained on the computer screen.

“I need you to get three tickets to The Lion King,” he says. “For next Saturday. First or second row. Nothing further back than that. And certainly nothing with an unobstructed view.”

“For Saturday?” I squeak. “Um, I’m pretty sure tickets are sold out. At least, all the good seats will be.”

He finally looks up, but only for a fraction of a second. “Don’t be silly. The show’s been out forever.”

“Yeah, but it’s still really popular.”

“Blake,” he sighs. “Do I pay you to argue with me?”

Ughhh. Here we go again. Hot and cold. So much for my plan to stay on top. “No, sir.” Did that sound sarcastic enough?

He doesn’t look up, but I swear I see the corner of his mouth twist up into a quarter of a smile. “Good. My niece and nephew are coming into the city next weekend, and I promised them we’d go see it. I don’t want to disappoint them, Blake. Got it?”

“Got it.” Now it’s my lips that turn up into a tiny smile. I guess if he’s going to be an ass, doing it for family isn’t the worst reason.

“Of course, if you can’t get the tickets, there’s really no reason for you to come back here.”

I blink in surprise. Is he seriously insinuating that he’ll fire me if I can’t get the stupid tickets? “Oh, I’ll get them,” I assure him. And then I’m going to shove them right up your…

Logan starts typing something on the laptop, and by the way the air in the room shifts, I know I’ve been dismissed. I straighten my skirt once more, tugging at the, okay, way-too-short hem. But Logan still doesn’t look up. With a silent sigh, I leave his office.

Still, as I make my way down the long hallway, I swear I feel his eyes on my ass. I just can’t bring myself to turn around and find out for sure.

Ten hours.

That’s how long it takes me to get the stupid Broadway tickets.

Actually, make that ten hours, thirty-seven frantic phone calls, one huge favor, a cab ride out to Long Island, a near-collision with a belligerent homeless woman and a runaway shopping cart, a pigeon shit incident, and what I think was a marriage proposal from a cheesy radio DJ. Oh, and top it all off with a freak downpour. It’s been … a day. But when I walk triumphantly back into the Cartwright Diamond offices that night, it’s with four tickets to The Lion King nestled safely in my purse.

It’s past seven o’clock by that time, and I don’t expect anyone else to still be in the office. The hallways are dark, and Kath’s work station looms empty when I pass by. I intend to just leave the tickets on Logan’s desk — no way am I going to risk taking them home with me. With my luck, I’d end up dropping them down a sewer grate or something.

As I walk towards Logan’s office, I yank out my wet braid. Did I mention the freak downpour? My long hair is drenched, and it drapes heavily against my back. My dress clings to my body, and what was once just too short is now borderline obscene. Even my feet are squelching in my pumps. All I want to do is go home, shower, pull on one of my many pairs of leggings, and sample whatever sweet treat Lucy’s spent the day concocting. I can practically already taste the wine I’ll no doubt be pouring myself.

I round the corner towards Logan’s office and freeze when I see him sitting there. Head down, fingers on the keyboard. Exactly how I left him this morning. I could swear the man hasn’t moved all day.

I slow my pace. I wasn’t prepared to face him tonight, and especially not now that I look like something the cat hacked up. I pause long enough to wring out my hair, but so much water squeezes out that it makes a spattering noise as it hits the lacquered floor.

Logan looks up, startled. Then his eyes darken when he sees me. Even from here, out in the hallway, I can see it happen. His fingers are still poised over the laptop, but his eyes are trained on me.

“Hi,” I say, trying to recover. I force myself to start walking towards him again. My shoes make wet squeaking noises with every step. It seems to take a painfully long time for me to get to his office door.

Logan doesn’t answer. His eyes travel up and down my body, lingering where my dress clings to my chest, to my hips. Pausing over my bare thighs.

“It’s raining,” I say, somewhat stupidly.

His lips turn up into a fraction of a smile. “I see that.”

He gets up and wordlessly goes through a door at the back of his office. When he emerges again, he has a fluffy white towel.

“Thanks.” I reach for it when he holds it out, and for a second, our fingers brush. A shiver runs through me, all the way from the sopping wet roots of my hair to my frozen toes. “I didn’t know you had a linen closet back there.”

“A whole bathroom, actually.”

“Really?” I stop toweling my hair long enough to gape at him. “I had no idea.”

“See for yourself.” He steps aside, gesturing for me go past him. I creep by, self-conscious about the sounds my shoes are still making, and find myself in a full bathroom, complete with a modern marble shower.

“My father had it installed years ago,” he explains, when he sees my incredulous expression. “He used to spend a lot of late nights here.”

“I see the apple didn’t fall far from the tree in that regard.” I try to focus on running the towel through my hair and over my exposed skin, but Logan is standing so close to me now that it’s hard to even breathe.

“No. I suppose it didn’t.”

He’s so close that I can see the way his chest rises and falls. I can see the fine silver threads that run through his tie. I can see each hair that makes up the dark shadow covering his jaw. I can see his lips twitch slightly as he watches me.

“I got the tickets,” I say, taking two big, safe steps backwards.

His forehead wrinkles. “The tickets?”

Oh my God. Is he serious? I fish them out of my purse and thrust them towards him. “To The Lion King. For your niece and nephew.”

“Oh.” His eyes widen as he takes the tickets from me. I grit my teeth when our fingers touch again. “Ohhh. Really? I thought they’d be impossible to get.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Well, they almost were. But I made some calls …” I let the sentence trail off, hoping that it makes me sound like a worldly and capable person. You know, the kind with connections, the kind who can just call someone up and make something happen.

Logan’s lips purse into something that’s almost a smile. “You made some calls,” he repeats, as if this is amusing to him.

“Yes.”

“And who did you call, exactly?”

“A friend in the business.” Well, it’s sort of true.

“Really.” It’s not a question. The way he looks at me feels like a challenge. I try to meet his gaze, but there’s something too deep and dark in it. I can see why he’s as successful as he is … I find it hard to believe that anyone could come up against Logan Cartwright and come away unscathed.

“Fine,” I deflate. “My roommate has a friend who works in PR, and she hooked me up with a radio station that was doing a giveaway on tickets. All I had to do was be the twenty-ninth caller. And sing the first verse of Hakuna Matata live on the air.”

Logan snorts. It’s the closest thing to laughter I’ve ever seen from him.

“You sang? On the radio?”

“Yes. And then I think the DJ might have proposed to me. I’m not sure — the whole thing was very confusing.”

“Hmm.” Logan’s jaw ticks, and I can tell he’s trying not to laugh. “I’m impressed.”

Once again, I flush under the glow of his praise. I refuse to let him see that, though. “Well, someone told me not to bother coming back if I didn’t have the tickets. So I figured I’d better find a way to get them.”

“You did good, Blake.”

“Thank you.” My skin’s gone to goosebumps. I blame it on the lingering cold from the rain, but it might actually be the heat of Logan’s gaze. In the moment of silence that follows, I realize that we’re all alone here at the office. Everything is quiet, the hallways are dark, and I’m acutely aware of the thudding pulse of my own heart. I clear my throat. “Well, I should head home. I’m soaking wet and starving, and I have an entire unwatched season of Scandal waiting for me.”

“Right.” He swallows, his throat bobbing tightly as if it’s straining somehow. Then he blurts, “I ordered Thai food.”

“Great. Enjoy.” Why is he telling me this?

“I mean, if you’re hungry. There’ll be lots. It should be here any minute.”

“Oh.” The invitation catches me off guard. The idea of eating with Logan is terrifying and appealing all at once, which is probably a sign that it’s a bad idea. “I should really go home, actually. I need to change and …”

I would have made it out of there if the food hadn’t arrived at that exact moment. I smell it seconds before the delivery guy rounds the corner, accompanied by one of the building’s night security guards. He smiles broadly when he sees us standing there in the single, brightly lit office.

“Delivery from Jasmine Thai,” he announces, as if there’s any doubt as to who he is.

“Right here,” Logan says, gesturing to his desk while he fishes his wallet out of his jacket pocket.

As soon as the guy sets down the bags, I automatically start unloading them. My mouth waters. Even without opening up the containers, I can smell coriander, coconut, peanut sauce, some kind of charred meat …

By the time I look up, the delivery guy and his armed escort have disappeared, and Logan is watching me lay out the food across his desk.

“I told you there’d be plenty,” he says. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay?”

“Well…” I peek under the lid of one of the containers and breathe in the fragrant green curry. “Maybe I could stay for a quick bite.”

Logan’s mouth twitches into something like a smile, and I can tell he’s pleased.

I, on the other hand, am wondering if this might just be a terrible idea.