The four-letter word blinking in red above my head is like a huge warning bell from hell.

L. O. V. E.

Seriously, I’m afraid to look at a girl without giving her the wrong vibe.

The dance club is named Cupid, and the owners definitely believe in peace and love, because let me tell you, they aren’t shy about flaunting it.

It’s everywhere.

This isn’t the Hollywood super club I remember from Brooklyn’s MTV reality-show days, but aside from the hearts and flowers plastered on the walls, it is pretty damn close. Eight thousand square feet of play space with three rooms, a sunken dance floor, and an elevated DJ booth.

Green screens line the perimeter and burlesque dancers have a stage of their own in the next room. I think pole dancers are one room from there.

I’m content right where I am.

I take the glass of scotch from the cute bartender, who makes certain to make eye contact while she mixes another drink. “Thanks.”

“No problem. Anytime.” She smiles and gives me a nod.

I can read the gleam of interest in her eyes.

Cocktail waitresses, bartenders—they are always an easy score, but like the last six weeks I’m not into scoring, especially tonight.

Without another glance her way, I swirl the liquid in my glass and then take a sip, relishing the tang of the cool liquid on the back of my throat. It’s my second, although technically not really; I never finished my first. It’s been sitting here, untouched.

The club is crowded, the thump of top-forty music loud in my ears. I scan the open space, then the row of low benches against the railing that separates the bar from the dance floor. Not for any reason in particular, but I am curious where Maggie is. After dinner she hopped in another car, and Jordan rode along with me.

I have yet to see her.

Jordan’s body shakes with amusement, and for a moment I had almost forgotten I wasn’t alone. “Come on, Camden Waters, a Gen Ex’er?”

Handing him his freshly poured Cosmo, I take another sip of my scotch and let my eyes wander as I continue my conversation with the head designer at Simon Warren, who, if I take this job, will report directly to me. “No fucking joke. As a reformed Gen Ex’er myself, I probably should come clean that before my days on Wall Street, I lived in jeans and baseball hats worn backwards.”

“But you’d never know it,” he responds, glancing at my black dress shirt and gray dress slacks.

Considering he selected them for me earlier, I’m not so sure about that.

After all, dog-and-pony shows are a Wall Street tradition. And here in LA, I’m not quite sure it’s any different, just that the brass and balls have been replaced with fake hugs and air kisses. Yet, I have a gut feeling Jordan is genuine. “Trust me, Jordan,” I tell him, “any style I have comes from walking into Bergdorf’s men’s department and informing the salesclerk that I worked on Wall Street. Like magic, the suits, shirts, ties, and shoes were presented to me in a mix-and-match kind of way. It wasn’t quite like Garanimals, but it was pretty damn close.”

Practically recoiling, Jordan crushes his hand to his chest. “Never say that word in my presence again.”

Laughing, I have to push the envelope; it’s just my nature. “Garanimals? It’s a shame you don’t like the concept, because I was thinking about having you come up with some kind of mix-and-match coding system for the fall line.”

The little speech he gives me in return about the value of selection and individual style is enlightening. I’d like to think I learned a thing or two over the past five years about fashion, but spending the day in the workroom made me realize that I don’t know shit.

I have a lot of fucking studying to do.

Deep pockets, shallow pockets, cuffs, French cuffs, zippers, pleats, tucks, tapers, folds, plain seams, counter seams, slot seams, metal buttons, wooden buttons, plain buttons, shirt buttons, and that’s not all. The list of fashion terminology goes on and on.

Sure, running a company comes down to knowing your costs and your market, but I’m not stupid, I also know that I have to understand the product, which is why Cam arranged this little two-week lesson of his.

The issue—I am not a good student.

And there is no way Maggie can be my teacher.

Well, there is a way.

Yet, I can’t go there.

Okay, so I can.

Truth is, forcing me to spend time with Maggie wasn’t a bad business decision on Cam’s part. She certainly knows her shit. But I have to say, having her around me is distracting as hell. After the coffee incident, and the memory of her on her knees in front of me, I did my best to ignore her. To listen to what Jordan had to say and step away whenever Maggie and I were left alone.

Her little game was too much for me—and I really hate to admit that.

Besides, my thoughts were nothing but pure filth. Her under me, on top of me, on my lap, on my desk—shit, even behind me in the fucking stairwell.

If I thought the day was long with the hem of Maggie’s dress constantly lifting and those long legs of hers going on for miles and miles, unless she wears a burlap bag, the next two weeks are never going to end. Oh, and Cam can stick needing any further assistance after that right up his ass.

Nursing my scotch, I listen politely to the group of people that has gathered around Jordan and me. And they all want to know everything about me—who I am, where I came from, what I like and dislike, my hobbies—hell, I’m not sure how personal they are going to get.

Condom choices, perhaps?

Favorite fucking position, maybe?

Okay, so the last two are exaggerations, but no lie: earlier today I was asked my height and weight. To be fair, though, that was because the tiny backseat of my Porsche is now loaded with Simon Warren samples.

Feeling restless, I excuse myself from the mix and go in search of what I know I shouldn’t—Maggie.

I can’t stop myself.

After circling the club a couple of times, I finally spot her tucked in a corner booth with some guy with a close-shaved head, who’s dressed in denim from head to toe.

Is that a joke?

Watching them, it becomes very evident that Maggie exudes a certain sexuality that I’m not sure she’s aware of. Trust me, though, when I say this douchebag sitting with her is very aware. As if to prove my point, he tugs a strand of her hair and when she shakes her head no, he leans in and whispers something in her ear. She smiles and gives him a nod and then they both stand up.

Holy shit!

Maggie must have changed somewhere between dinner and arriving here. She’s wearing a very short skirt that I try not to notice hugs her hips just right and an extremely low-cut silk top that I know can’t possibly fit a bra beneath it because it is way too skimpy. She also let her hair down, literally. Her long blond locks hang straight down her back. And to top it off, she’s wearing the same pair of fuck-me shoes she wore all day.

Those really need to be banned from the workplace.

In the few steps she and that douchebag have taken, the strap of her top has fallen off her shoulder. When said douchebag reaches over and tugs it back into place, my body tenses with an odd sensation that feels like small bombs are erupting beneath my skin.

Fuck, I want to race over there and wrap my arms around her just to keep this guy’s eyes and hands off her.

But that would be ridiculous.

She already told me she is done with me.

That my fuck-up is unforgivable.

Yet, I have to admit, I’m not sure she really believes what she says. That spark between us is still there, and if she wants me half as much as I want her, this thing between us is not over, not even close to being over.

The two of them make their way through the crowded dance floor, and from my vantage point up here I’m able to see them perfectly.

As soon as they start to bounce to the rhythm, the dude dressed in denim starts to thrust his hips and I lose my shit.

Even though I know she isn’t what I need right now, and I sure as shit am not what she needs, that doesn’t stop my neurons from firing or my legs from moving.

This is not a good idea.

I have this insane need to defend what’s mine, yet she isn’t anywhere near mine. The thought is so absurd—I’ve never even fucking had a “mine.”

In fact, she’s the only one that ever came close, and I screwed that up when I couldn’t cope with the reality that was my life and just needed to escape it all.

At six feet three inches, I’m able to make my way through the crowd with ease and before I know it, I’m standing in front of these two—the girl I have to see every day for the next two weeks and the guy she must have picked because he’s not me.

“Keen,” Maggie says with a start, as if I caught her with her hand in the cookie jar.

And you know what? I think that is exactly what I did.

She shouts over the music, “This is Elliot Harding.”

Biting my tongue to stop from hissing at him, I extend a hand, and so does he. “Keen Masters.”

“Nice to meet you,” he says.

“He owns Elliot’s, a men’s denim shop a few storefronts down from Simon Warren on Melrose. He wanted to congratulate Jordan, so he decided to join us,” Maggie tells me with a quiver in her voice.

She’s nervous.

Good.

She should be.

This is a work event, for fuck’s sake.

Not an orgy.

“Ready to go?” I ask with a slight curtness to my tone I probably should watch.

She glances at her wrist. “It’s only nine.”

“Yeah, I’m aware of how late it is. And we need to stop at the distribution center before heading back to Laguna.”

Maggie’s feathers are easily ruffled. And right now is no different. “Why? That is really out of the way.”

The denim-clad douchebag, who is already standing a little too close to her, has the nerve to whisper something into her ear.

I’m right here, fucker. I can hear you asking her if she’s staying at her mother’s house.

And no, she isn’t.

She came to work with me.

She’s leaving with me.

I’m her fucking boss—well, technically not yet, since I haven’t officially accepted this job. But if I do, then I will be, asswipe, so don’t be hitting on my girl—my employee, I mean—in front of me.

With a shake of her head toward Elliot—Elliot, who has a name like that anyway?—she glances over at me as if she is waiting for my answer.

At least she answered him with a no because if it would have been a yes, I think I just might have thrown her over my shoulder and hauled her out of this club.

Wouldn’t have been the best way to end my first day of a new job.

I raise a brow. “Not that I need to explain myself, but I need a copy of the spring catalog.”

She wrinkles her nose as if annoyed. “Just ask Jordan to have it couriered to the store in the morning.”

Impatience bites me hard. “I want it tonight. Now let’s go.”

Okay, so I sound like a thirteen-year-old girl having a tantrum. And I fully acknowledge at this point that it is my feathers that are ruffled.

There’s a look of uncertainty on her face, but it seems to clear up when I narrow my eyes at her and with a turn of my head, indicate the door.

“Elliot, I have to go. I’m sorry,” she says.

“It’s fine, I get it—duty calls,” the chump says and leans in to kiss her.

Duty?

Duty!

Is he for real?

My blood is on fire as I watch his lips pucker and I feel like I’m viewing a really crappy slow-motion video, every second more torturous than the last. Then relief flushes through me because she turns her head and his lips land somewhere between her ear and the back of her hair.

Sucker.

To avoid gloating, I turn around and stride through the dance floor.

Once I hit the main level, I turn around to see if she followed.

Sure enough, she’s hot on my heels, but the look she’s giving me tells me she isn’t any too happy.

Good…neither am I.