I awake to soft rays of sunlight, streaming in through sheer curtains that flutter in the partially open window. For a blink, I almost forget where I am. I stretch lazily, dragging my hands up under the soft pillowcase, and Lucas’s spiced scent curls under my nostrils.

The memories come rushing back.

Every muscle in my body twinges with fresh aches and pains as I remember each way Lucas brought me to orgasm. Again and again until I lay, splayed out on the mattress, delicious satisfaction draining my energy reserves dry.

I roll onto my side, expecting to see Lucas, but his pillow is empty, the blankets loosely crumpled in the wake of his escape. The kind of escape that reeks of shame. Fuck me. I pull the pillow over my head and scream into it with frustration. Did I really just fall for this again?

My chest tightens.

Impossible. Surely I’m jumping to conclusions.

I sit upright and go still, listening for the soft patter of feet in the bathroom, the trickle of water, any noise at all to staunch the deafening silence of the empty suite. There’s nothing.

Lucas is gone.

Un. Fucking. Believable.

And to make matters worse, I’ve slept in again. The faintly glowing clock beside the bed tells me I have less than two hours to get home, get cleaned up, and get to work—or I’ll face another inquisition. And this time, my friends won’t be as willing to give up.

I swing my legs around so they dangle off the mattress and groan. My ball gown is crumpled on the floor where Lucas eventually discarded it before devouring me again and again. My throat swells. Putting the dress on now, wrinkled and stained, is akin to doing the walk of shame.

“Don’t suppose you ordered me up another outfit,” I mutter under my breath. I laugh without humor at the ridiculous thought. That is exactly the kind of expectation a rich person might have, the absurdity of thinking the whole world is at their beckon call. I did this to myself. No one owes me anything.

Not even Lucas Hammer.

Except maybe the courtesy of a fucking goodbye.

I squeeze my eyes closed. Damn it. It’s like déjà vu, only this time I went in with my eyes wide open, knowing exactly what might happen, consequences be damned. So then why do I still feel like a high-end call girl?

This isn’t Pretty Woman, Eden.

And I ain’t no Julia Roberts.

I grab my cell from the bedside table to call a cab, surprised to see the contact screen open. My stomach flips. Lucas may have slipped out without a kiss, but he left behind his phone number, writing his name in capitals, and adding, in brackets, (Not A Jerk.)

My grin widens until I’m sure my cheeks might crack. I fire off a quick text: No coffee? Definitely a jerk.

I tap my foot on the plush carpet, waiting for a reply. It comes within seconds. Total jerk move. Next time, darlin’.

Those final three words fills me with ridiculous hope, the confirmation that he wants to see me again, that I’ve made some kind of impression. My chest fills like a helium balloon and I practically float through the motions of showering, climbing into my wrinkled dress, and calling for a taxi to take me back to my apartment where I can change into something that doesn’t betray how I—blissfully, happily—spent the night.

Because I can’t possibly tell my business partners about this.

But—

How can I not?

What other excuse will I have for abandoning my assignment, and sneaking away from the party to have sex with…I swallow hard…Lucas fucking Hammer? I drop my head in shame. God help me, I have to tell the truth.

They’ll be shocked. Annoyed, maybe. But I can handle that. I admit, Lucas is the kind of guy we’ve mock at Rubberneckers, but there’s no conflict of interest—we haven’t profiled him or his company, he isn’t a “target” of investigation, not really. It’s conceivable Daylight Holdings is one hundred percent above board, though that may take a little more evidence to convince even me. Wall Street is a swarming nest of snakes I know; some are just more venomous than others.

I’m still working on the wording of my confession as I slide into the cab. After throwing me a knowing smirk, the driver begins to weave through rush hour traffic. Just as I check my cell for the time, it rings, startling me with its pitch. Marnie. I compose myself and answer.

Her voice ricochets through the phone like a shotgun blast. “You will never fucking believe this!”

I pull the receiver away from my ear. “Turn it down a notch, Mar. My ears are still buzzing from the party.”

She harrumphs. “Expect them to be ringing all day then, because we just made Page 6 of the Times again with a whopper of a story about the lawsuit.”

My stomach clenches. “What’s the angle this time?”

It’s been months since the subpoena arrived, along with Mark Newcastle’s accusations that our five-part expose of his company’s shady business practices was libelous, costing him millions of dollars. It’s bullshit, but against the high-powered Wall Street banker, we’ve got no leverage. Even if ethics didn’t demand that we protect our sources, I’d never out the intrepid reporter who dug up the dirt.

And the worst part is that Newcastle has himself some kind of angel investor, an unknown company that blindly champions his cause. Battling the devil you know is one thing, but to go up against a faceless Goliath is something entirely different. The writing’s on the wall, we’re doomed.

“That snake of a reporter from the Times—Buck Andrews—unearthed the names of the assholes bankrolling Newcastle’s vendetta against us,” Marnie says, and then spits out a curse. “Are you sitting down?”

The taxi pulls up to my apartment. I signal the driver to wait, which he acknowledges by rolling his eyes with impatience.

“Ass planted,” I say.

I can’t imagine why it matters. We’re clearly no match for whoever is fronting the cash to bury us in endless lawsuits. Money may not buy happiness, but influence is another thing altogether.

“It’s none other than Daylight Holdings,” Marnie says, smugly, bitterly, completely oblivious to the fact that she has just ripped the floor out from under my feet.

Lucas Hammer’s company.

My chest hollows out, as if someone has reached through my skin, rattled loose my rib cage, and plucked my still-beating heart from my nimble body. My lips part in a soft gasp. Marnie barrels on, her pitch sharpening as anger takes control over her voice. “Those bastards are backing the lawsuit against us, Eden. Can you fucking believe it? What did we ever do to them?”

My throat fills with bile. No. This has got to be a mistake. Tiny cracks fissure around my heart, bringing with them stinging pin pricks of pain. A thousand needles jab at my chest. I am a voodoo doll, going limp with defeat.

“You’re sure Andrews didn’t make this up?” I’m grasping, but I can’t—won’t—believe what she’s saying. It just doesn’t make sense. “Because I saw him last night and he was his usual dick self but he didn’t mention—”

Marnie cuts me off. “He’s a rat, but his sources check out.”

Damn it. A flush of anger rushes through me. Another fucking secret. How could Lucas have kept this from me, after everything we talked about? One lie by omission I can forgive, but this? Impossible.

I squeeze my eyes shut, blocking out the emotions that threaten to bust through my resolve. It’s over. Whatever I thought Lucas and I had, it has to end. For real this time. “I’m on my way in to the office, Mar. We’ll come up with a game plan, okay?”

“There’s no point,” she says, with a heavy sigh. “We’re fucked.”

My cell vibrates, alerting me to an incoming text. “Marnie, I gotta go. See you soon, okay?”

I cut the call short and glance down at my messages. Lucas’s name swims onto the screen and my ridiculous stomach flips end over end. Why can’t I control my responses to him?

Have dinner with me tonight?

My heavy breath seeps out through my teeth. With only a brief hesitation, I hit the delete button, erasing not only the message, but everything to do with Lucas Hammer.