Scrolling through my phone, I pass nearly ten contacts of potential women to help with my mood this evening. Each contact I pass has a warning label next to her name, warning me not to give them another chance.

I need someone who understands what one night means. The idea of getting into a relationship gives me anxiety. I want things simple. It’s how I like things. I’m a man who knows what I want, and if that makes me a shallow asshole, then so be it. It works for me.

I’m ready to give up and get reacquainted with my right palm before hot liquid hits my chest, causing me to drop my phone and the files in my hand. I let out a roar and quickly pull my wet button-down shirt from my chest. Leaning over, I flap my shirt in and out, trying to relieve the burning sensation.

“What the fuck?” I snarl, grinding my teeth together in an attempt to hold back all the other things that I’d rather shout.

I look up and see a nervous petite woman with long auburn hair. She’s the same woman who ran into me this morning as I stepped off the elevator. And here she is again, causing another delay in my already rushed day.

“You!” I point at her and narrow my eyes. “This is the second time today.”

Without thinking, I take her by the arm and bring her to my office. She tries to pull away, and when we’re in my office, she rushes to the door.

“You can’t do this!” she yells.

Quickly stripping out of my shirt and suit jacket, I walk over and hand both to her. “You want to continue rushing around here, slamming into people, like you own the place, fine. You can bring these to the dry cleaners on West Washington Street and have them rush it.”

She looks at me, stunned and speechless, and I have to control my anger and temper after the conversation with my mother this morning. I take in a deep breath and try this again, only kinder this time.

“If you would so kindly do this, I would appreciate it.”

Before she says anything, my mother knocks on my office door and comes in, looking at the both of us and then eyeing me with a cocked brow.

“Sweetheart, why in the world are you shirtless? And, Reagan, darling, are you okay? There was so much commotion out there.”

“I wasn’t looking where I was going and spilled your coffee on him.” Her voice is a bit shaky, and suddenly, I feel like an even bigger asshole than I do on a normal day.

Mother narrows her eyes at me. “Andrew Oliver, put on some clothes, and send out your own dry cleaning. Reagan is my assistant, and I’d like to introduce you to her properly.” She turns to Reagan and smiles. “Reagan, this is my son, Andrew—”

“Drew,” I correct her.

She huffs. “Drew Powers. He’s the CFO with his cousin, Remy, whom you will meet later. Now that that’s out of the way, put down his clothes, and come with me. Busy day, dear.”

“Okay.” Reagan looks up at me with poise. “Again, I’m sorry about spilling coffee on you. It was an honest mistake, but I’ll be sure to be more careful going forward.”

I don’t miss the sarcasm in her tone and kink my brow in her direction. It would appear my mother’s new assistant has an attitude of her own.

“Have a great day, Andrew.”

“Yeah.”

I watch as her long, lean, tan legs and amazing ass walk out of my office behind my mother. That skirt hugs her body like silk, and I can imagine those legs wrapped around my waist while I senselessly fuck her.

Damn, she’s beautiful.

And, since she’s working for my mother, I’ll have the chance to see her and get to know her more.

Even after she heard I was the son of her boss, she still didn’t budge or turn into putty in front of me. She challenged me with a stare I hadn’t seen often—one with dominance and composure. Usually, the moment a woman becomes aware of who I am and my family’s success, they grow weakened by the idea of what I can offer them. They shift to a pathetic form of themselves, doing whatever possible to gain my attention in an attempt to impress me.

But not her.

And this makes me want her.

I grab another button-down shirt and suit jacket from my closet. I finish putting on the jacket just as Remy walks in, shaking his head and pointing his finger at me.

“You’re in trouble.”

“What?”

“I saw your mom’s newest assistant, and she’s beyond sexy. Seems sweet, too.”

I shrug, not needing Remy to know how I agree with him. “Are we still on for tonight? Do you want to go to ROOF or Allegro?”

“ROOF sounds good. You don’t have to do this, man. I understand why you couldn’t come to Vegas. No worries.”

I slap Remy’s shoulder as we walk out of my office to our meeting. “Nah, a night out seems fun, and Jennifer’s taking Dawson for the evening. Have to celebrate your birthday.”

“Well, thanks, sugar. I’m assuming you’ll dine me before wining me?”

“Anything for you.”

* * *

The bar’s packed for a Monday night. I keep my tab open and order a bottle of vodka and whiskey for Remy’s birthday. Some of our friends agreed to meet us as we celebrate once again.

A few women try to gain my attention, but I have Reagan on my mind. I can’t seem to stop thinking about her. The simple way she challenged me with only a stare or her pursed lips and the slight wrinkle of her brow.

How is it that I can spend an entire evening with a woman and not remember one single detail, but less than three minutes in Reagan’s presence, and I feel as if I’ve been looking at her every day for years?

I'm a man of detail in my professional life, but my personal life is nothing more than a quick fix before moving on. Only this girl has penetrated that rule and has me questioning my own logic.

When I finish my drink, I get up to talk to a few people when I notice Reagan walking past us and to the bar. I watch as she’s greeted by a…well, someone not like me, and he orders for her, as if he knows her well enough to understand her likes and dislikes. Something about that doesn’t sit well with me. He’s tall and lean with glasses and an outfit I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing.

I look around the bar, and everyone’s dressed to impress—the women in dresses or classy shorts and flashy tops and the men in slacks or khakis with a polo or button-down shirt. But her date, or whoever he is, is sporting corduroys and an awful wrinkled T-shirt. A fucking T-shirt.

Remy notices my stare and nudges my shoulder. “Isn’t that your mother’s newest assistant?” He releases a slow whistle. “Damn, she’s looking hot tonight. Why don’t you go over and rescue her? See if she wants to join us instead?”

Without a second thought, I nod and make my way over to her and the sad excuse for a man. When I approach behind her and place my hand on her shoulder, she turns, and her smile disappears from her face almost immediately.

“What?”

The fuck?

“Hello, Reagan,” I say, trying to remain calm, even after she barked at me as if I were the Antichrist. “Nice seeing you here.” I point toward the direction I just came from. “We’re over there, celebrating Remy’s birthday, if you’d like to join.”

She looks over my shoulder, and I can’t help but notice the black dress that plunges in the back and the black heels she has on. When she turns to face me, her addictive green eyes capture me, and I’m rendered speechless from what comes out from those full lips.

“Not interested,” she says without even the smallest indication of a smile. “Good-bye, Andrew.”

I’m not a man who begs for a woman’s attention. Nor do I allow rejection to sting. But hearing her so easily dismiss me isn’t sitting well. I give her a tight smile and ignore whoever this chump is before walking back to the party I’m throwing for Remy, doing my very best to appear unaffected by her attitude.

Lynly, a woman I occasionally see, walks over to me, sliding her hand down my arm and pressing her body against me. She’s whispering in my ear, but I’m not paying attention. I’m watching Reagan at the bar, playing with her glass that holds some fruity pink drink. I don’t think she’s taken a drink since it was placed in front of her. My gaze swallows her, taking her all in, and I’m dying to know what she feels like beneath my palms.

“Need anything, Drew?”

Lynly is a sexy, confident, and successful woman. I’ve enjoyed being friendly with her since we met a few months ago. Our relationship has yet to take an intimate turn, though I know she’d be up for it if I extended the offer. She hasn’t ever hidden her interest in me. She’s a caring woman, and she asks about Dawson whenever we’re together. Right now, I should be turned on from her breasts in my face and her hot body begging to be touched, but I feel nothing.

“I’m staying at the Omni while my apartment is being remodeled. I’d love the company if you’re able to come over.”

I hear the suggestion in her voice and push it away.

“Some other time perhaps.”

“Oh.” Lynly’s hand moves away from my arm, and she gives me a smile before joining a group of women near where I’m standing.

A few hours pass before Reagan gets up from the barstool and grabs her handbag before making her way toward the exit. I excuse myself from Remy and another friend of ours and follow her out of the bar and into the busy Chicago streets.

“Reagan! Wait up,” I holler.

She pauses near the street and quickly whips around, her long hair spreading through the air. An annoyed expression plays on her face, and I stop walking a few inches from her. I wonder about her mood and what I did to cause her to be so cold.

“Why don’t you come back and hang out with us? I’ll get you a drink, and we can talk.”

“I don’t drink.”

“But you’re at a bar.”

“And?” she says in annoyance. “Andrew, just because someone’s at a bar doesn’t mean they drink. Maybe they like the atmosphere, the music, the chaotic rumble of people interacting around them.”

“Please call me Drew,” I insist as I did earlier. “All of my friends do.”

“Well”—she smirks—“we aren’t friends, Andrew,” she repeats. “I’m your mother’s assistant, and we’re coworkers. There’s nothing further between us.”

I hold my hands up in defense. “Okay, okay. I didn’t mean to assume. But come back inside, so we can talk. There’s no harm in that. I’d like to get to know you more.”

She rolls her eyes, and I don’t miss the icy tone when she says, “No. No, thank you. You men are all the same. Thinking you can come on to a woman and throw some cheesy lines or suggestions. Then, boom, they immediately drop their panties for you.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Not interested,” she states as she lifts her hand in the air, signaling for a cab. “Never will be interested. Have a good night.”

Before I can respond, she walks away toward the awaiting cab and doesn’t look back.

My interest in Reagan Halloway has heightened immensely.