Like one of those accidents that is not really an accident, Maggie brings me my coffee, black, and then accidently spills it all in my lap.

Right down the front of my pants while I’m sitting in a chair, a leather chair, which doesn’t absorb the liquid.

Okay, maybe I provoked her, but fuck, a man has his limits.

What happened between us wasn’t about her. It was about me, and me losing my life, everything that I thought was important to me.

Yet I know I was wrong. I should have reached out to her, even if was just to let her know I wouldn’t be around. And I have tried to explain…but she shut me down. I want to let her know that my entire life went down the drain the day I lost my job, and that I had nothing to give anyone, not even myself. Which is why I went into self-preservation mode.

I can’t change that. I wouldn’t even if I could. I needed that time alone to realize maybe Wall Street isn’t the right place for me. And that maybe, just maybe, I don’t want to be alone anymore.

However, I’m not selfish. I get that she was hurt and doesn’t want me to see it. I get that she has a wall ten thousand miles high up.

That’s why for her, I tried to go along with the ruse that we aren’t eventually going to end up together.

I tried to back down.

Be nice.

Be understanding, which is so not in my nature.

None of that worked.

Somehow being a better man only made things worse. Her condescending tone, coupled with the fact that she was blatantly ignoring me, and we hadn’t even been here an hour, had pushed me to my limit.

I’d had enough already!

What else could I possibly do?

What did she want—blood?

The gloves had to come off.

I had to exert my authority. I am the boss, after all.

And you see where that got me.

“Fuck,” I hiss, jumping up and doing a little dance that is anything but impressive in front of my prospective employee.

Her hand flies to her mouth. “Oh, I’m so sorry, sir.”

Sir.

Like she’d ever call me sir.

Not that I wouldn’t enjoy it, just not in this setting, and not with my clothes on, or hers.

“It was an accident,” she tacks on.

Accident.

Accident my ass.

She is purposely trying to ruffle my feathers because I had to remind her that I was the one making the decisions.

But really, it’s not like I was going to ask her to bring me my latté on a daily basis—I don’t even fucking drink lattés—or run out and get me my lunch, cooked to order every afternoon.

But I admit, I might have gone overboard.

You see, by the time Jordan Cartwright, the head designer for Simon Warren, introduced himself and addressed Maggie as “dear,” I had already had my fill of her attitude. So when he asked if I wanted any coffee, and he was the only one in the workroom besides Maggie and me, I couldn’t resist saying, “Yes, I’d love a cup. Maggie, why don’t you be a dear and get us both one.”

The look in her eyes was lethal.

And much to her chagrin, so was her delivery of my morning beverage.

Unfortunately, Jordan’s freak-out isn’t something she planned for, and I can tell that by her deer-in-the-headlights look.

Too bad the remorse is for the guy on the floor and not the one who got his balls burned off.

Down on his hands and knees with a swatch of purple fabric that he hurriedly pulled off a nearby worktable, Jordan starts to pat me down.

Jordan is a tall, thin man with blond hair that I am certain is a bleach job. He wears heavy black-framed glasses that I’m not certain aren’t just an accessory since he takes them on and off every few minutes. And bottom line: I only had to spend ten minutes with him to know he is talented as fuck, but that doesn’t mean I want him touching the hardware.

“You have to get this out before it stains,” he proclaims, looking up at me, his voice trembling with worry over the fabric.

“It’s fine,” I say, trying to remain calm. The fact that I’m not hissing through my teeth is testament to just how calm I am. Thank fuck I didn’t go commando. The extra layer might be retaining the liquid, but at least I’m certain the goods aren’t that badly scorched. Not that I’m aware of.

Shit. I’m not sure I can feel them. “Where’s the restroom?” I ask in a sudden panic.

Maggie is standing utterly still, like a mannequin at a department store, and I am almost certain her remorse for Jordan is gone, and now she’s really trying to hold it together and not laugh her ass off at me.

“Yes, yes, go to the restroom.” Jordan points through the frosted glass walls of the workroom. “It’s just a few feet from my office.”

Right, his office. Fuck me right now. Like I know where that is.

A tour would be nice.

I think I’ll wait to ask Maggie for that until later.

Standing up, Jordan rushes to the phone. Twisting around with the receiver on his shoulder, he says, “Maggie, be a dear and show Keen where the restroom is so he can get those dreadful pants off while I call down to the wardrobe closet to get some fresh clothes brought up,” and then twists right back.

The evil gleam in her eye matches the fake smile on her face.

Yet my smirk is completely genuine. “Yes, Maggie, be a dear and help me out of my pants.”

This is me keeping my edge, while trying to figure her out.

Hate.

Lust.

Disinterest.

I have no fucking clue what she is feeling right now.

In the meantime, I might as well get something out of this.

Maybe she’ll be a dear and pat me down, too.

Marching past me with narrowed eyes, she takes hold of my tie and yanks me out the door, muttering something under her breath.

Looks like asking for a handy is out.