At least that’s what I thought he said. I leaned on the bar, told him I didn’t do drugs, and ordered a whiskey.

He frowned for a moment. “Yeah, it’s you. Stone Logan, the writer. I know your face better than my own. It stares back at me from the back of the books on my girlfriend’s bedside table every night. She’s got a stack this high.” He widened his hands, indicating size like he was telling a story about a fish he’d caught.

Women are right, men are full of shit. There was no way I’d written enough books to make a stack the height he was indicating.

“Here, do me a favor.” He pushed a napkin and pen towards me. “Sign that for her while I get your drink. The name’s Juliet.”

I had a choice. I could be charming, or be a dick. I had a reputation for both, and I was feeling like an asshole. Writing Juliet a note to say her boyfriend should respect a person’s right to have a quiet drink without bugging them for an autograph was tempting, but my mood after that meeting with my agent meant I’d probably go too far.

I gritted my teeth. Signed the napkin and exchanged it for my drink. This was, after all, what I’d bought into by building a brand the way I had. You couldn’t just switch it off on the day you wanted some privacy.

The bartender read the napkin and looked at me, waggling his eyebrows like I’d just shared a dirty picture with him. “Thanks, dude, this will get me laid.”

“My pen is mightier than your sword.”

I left him frowning, and headed for a table by the window.

Fuck me, I was turning into a running gag.

This was a day I wanted to forget. For the first time, I hadn’t been able to charm my way through a crisis meeting with Sarah Duncan, and God knows, over the years there had been a few.

My life was chaotic, but at least I didn’t have to think about tidying it up until Monday. Until my new demure assistant joined me.

What the fuck was Sarah thinking, pushing an assistant onto me like I was some sort of kid who had to be carrot-and-sticked into making the grade? It’s only a book. Oh, and a television series, and a big fat fee for Ms. Duncan to lose if I fail to deliver the goods.

The bar filled in a rush as workers finished their day. I nursed my second whiskey, undecided as yet whether the evening’s target was to go for blind drunk, or a hookup. I set my drink to one side to watch the two women who’d just walked in.

Tight pencil skirts rippled over their hips as they sauntered across the room in heels that teetered on the line between corporate and fuck-me. Both wore jackets, identically cut to enhance delicate waists, and hair that fell long in smooth, cultivated spirals. They chose a table close to mine, and the brunette checked me out, head to toe, as she slipped her jacket off.

The blouse was fucking hot. Sheer and low-cut, proving she put just as much thought into the lingerie it barely concealed, as she did into the well-cut suit she wore. I wondered if she wore the blouse for her boss, or for some guy in marketing with a big dick.

Or maybe she was the boss, and she employed a submissive PA who knelt beneath her desk and kept her shoes shiny with his tongue.

My mind flicked back to my new assistant. Katrina should have been unremarkable, but for some reason she was stuck in my mind. I couldn’t recall her clothes, but the blush she wore when we shook hands was oddly arousing.

I tried to clear her from my head, bewildered as to why she’d remained at the forefront of my mind. Most likely, I decided, because I hated the idea of having someone in my personal space for the next six weeks.

The waitress delivered white wine to the brunette’s table before making her way to me.

“Can I get you another whiskey, Mr. Logan?”

Her tongue stuck on ‘whiskey’ and ‘mister’. A lisp, how cute. I let the brunette watch me give the waitress a long, appraising stare because I was still at that fork in the night’s road, wavering between sex or alcohol to make me forget.

I ordered a beer, and checked the name tag pinned to her chest. “Thank you, Suzette.” Would her mother have called her that if she’d known her daughter would hang onto her childhood lisp?

The brunette kept throwing glances my way. Exaggerated moves, body language completely open and aimed at me from the tilt of her head right down to her feet pointing in my direction.

She’d be an easy lay. Another drink and I could probably get her for a quick fuck against the wall in the dark corridor beyond the restrooms. The corporate types were usually up for it by Friday, and the signals I was receiving suggested this one was hungry.

She slid her fingers through her hair, over the top of her head, shaking her hair free. With her other hand, she stroked a fingertip up and down the stem of her glass.

I turned to the beer Suzette had delivered, downing a good third of the bottle, and leaned back in my chair. The alcohol had taken the bite off my nerves and I decided to let the brunette make the first move.

You could almost see the war she was having. A little pout, a word with her friend, a glance my way that we held for increasing lengths of time. Her tongue made a calculated trace of her red painted lips.

Definitely up for it.

I gave her my ‘let’s fuck’ smile right at the moment someone in the street caught my attention. A woman, dropping her bag, papers and contents fluttering around the sidewalk as New Yorkers passed by without offering any help.

The woman darted about in a low crouch, grabbing her belongings, finally joined by a guy with better manners than I had tonight. Together they corralled her bag contents, standing simultaneously as if the move was choreographed.

A classic meet-cute. One that had been written a number of times.

She looked embarrassed, her lips moving quickly, probably saying how grateful she was, and that she wasn’t always this clumsy. The guy placed a hand on her shoulder.

Katrina’s shoulder!

Hands off my assistant, fucker.

Something possessive woke inside of me and I pushed up from the table, sending my chair tumbling backwards. I corrected it, fumbled in my wallet and dropped a few twenties on the table for Suzette, then weaved through the patrons crowded near the door.

By the time I made it to the street, Katrina and the good Samaritan were gone, hopefully in different directions.

This was nuts. There was a brunette with a ready mouth sitting in the bar, yet I was standing in the street wondering if my straight-laced future assistant was okay.

Not my responsibility.

I stopped a cab, climbed in and contemplated having him crawl for a few blocks to check on Katrina, but I didn’t need to add ‘stalker’ to my list of failings.

I’d see her Monday.

“Penn Station,” I said, and sank back into my seat.