A construction company had moved into my forehead.

That was the only possible explanation for all this banging and hammering.

I cracked open an eye, and rued the day I was born.

Usually I was good about drinking enough water to prevent hangovers, but after my fiasco last night, I’d wanted to drop into unconsciousness as quickly as possible. And oh, was I paying for it now.

The light from the window hit my one open eye, and I groaned. And then I groaned again, because even the sound of groaning hurt my head, and then basically I was trapped in a vicious circle of hell.

And as a special bonus bit of torment, I could kiss goodbye any chance of Hunter ever seeing me as a professional. He was probably going to pack me off to Washington on the first train or plane he could book me a ticket on. He was probably going to distribute my photo to all his security people too, to make sure I didn’t go all crazy stalker on him.

I made myself roll out of bed and crawl to the dresser, where I pulled on the most uncomfortable, unflattering outfit I could find. This was my penance. It wasn’t enough.

But before I got fired, I needed to get myself some goddamn coffee. And of course all the single-serving cups that went in my suite’s coffeemaker were gone. It figured.

* * *

Somehow, I miraculously made my way to the manor and into the kitchen without getting lost or dying from the worst hangover ever known to man (or woman).

The smell of baking pastries only made my stomach roil, and I filled up my coffee mug quickly, grabbing a glass of orange juice as well. If I could just keep that down, my electrolytes might be replenished by the time I was combing the want ads for a new job back at home.

“How’s the head?”

I almost dropped my cups.

There was Hunter, looking good enough to eat in a tight shirt and loose khakis. I blushed, thinking of how I must look in a tattered bathrobe over my frumpy outfit. And after the things I’d said last night—after the things I’d done--

Hunter laughed sympathetically. “Not great, I take it.” He grabbed an egg from the refrigerator and cracked it into my orange juice. His hand wrapped around mine, nudged me towards the fridge. “Just add some Worcestershire sauce to that, and you’ve got a foolproof hangover cure.”

I eyed the cup, my brain torn between confusion, lust, and suspicion. Was he actually feeling this casual? He couldn’t be. I just wished I could think clearly, instead of fighting through the headache and the insistent urge to check out his abs.

“I think I’ll stick to coffee,” I said, my face flushing. I could feel the heat radiating off his body. Why did he always catch me at my worst?

“It’s your head,” he said with a shrug. He leaned closer, his eyes dancing. “Seems like your research methods have been a lot more fun for me than you, on the whole.”

R-rated images danced a tango through my head, and this time, it was my turn to make my excuses and flee.

* * *

Since I was, somehow, not fired, I took refuge under a willow outside the library, where I could look over my notes with no risk of the elements damaging the original texts safe back inside. There, hidden beneath its copious leaves, I managed to get some work done.

Until Hunter managed to track me down three hours later, and I forgot everything except how yummy he looked in a tight white t-shirt.

“I’ve got something to show you,” he said.

And it probably wasn’t his abs. I braced myself for the ‘it’s just not working out, I’m going to get someone new from your company’ speech…

But he pulled out his cell phone instead.

“You’re making a bad habit of taking calls while talking to me,” I said. Maybe reminding him of our night together wasn’t the smartest move, but what the hell, how much more trouble could I get in?

His lips quirked for a second before he passed me the phone. “I wanted to show you this.”

It was a text conversation from Chuck. At first I didn’t get it—Chuck was just talking about some kind of meeting. Then he mentioned something that was supposed to be in my purview. And then he mentioned a name.

Harry.

Chuck was at a meeting with the Douchebros, and they were going to try to steal my project away from me.

I looked up at Hunter, speechless.

He nodded grimly. “They’re trying to cut you out.”

Emotions warred in my chest. I was touched that Hunter was sharing this with me, but confused. He didn’t care about the ad campaign, he thought it was all worthless. And after last night, why would he care if Chuck brought in new blood? “Why would you show me this?”

“Because if Chuck thinks he can get away with this, he’ll cut me out next.” He looked away and kicked at the dirt, his face vaguely embarrassed. He muttered, “Besides, your idea is worth a hundred of theirs.”

That was probably less a measure of how much he liked my idea and more a measure of how much he hated theirs, but it still gave me a warm glow inside.

I stood, and met his gaze, letting him see my determination. “Well, then we just won’t let him get away with it.”

* * *

Hunter and I didn’t bust into the meeting so much as stroll in casually, but Chuck and the Douchebros still started guiltily in their seats like kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

Chuck recovered first, barely pausing to shoot an angry look at Hunter before going into full smarm mode: “Allison! I’m so glad Hunter decided you should join us. I’m sure you don’t mind that we’re exploring multiple options, do you? It’s so important to consider all perspectives, don’t you think?”

I gritted my teeth as I smiled, wishing he wasn’t so powerful within the Knox corporation, so I could tell him to his face what I thought of his patronizing crap. But he was powerful, and so I couldn’t give him an excuse to dismiss me.

“Of course,” I said. “Let’s hear those ideas. I’m all ears.”

Between my bitterness and my hangover, the forced smile on my face was actually starting to hurt, but if they wanted to bro it up, I was going to be right there with them.

Chuck smiled ingratiatingly. “Excellent. Let’s get to it, then. But it’s looking a little crowded in here, so why don’t we reconvene someplace a little more…comfortable? I know just the place.”

* * *

I pushed away the fried pound cake, the few bites I’d been able to take sitting heavy in my stomach. The Douchebros had pitched all during dinner, Hunter’s face unreadable, Chuck visibly excited, and it was worse than I’d thought: apparently they’d taken Hunter’s earlier critique to mean that their previous pitch hadn’t been sexually exploitative enough. They now wanted, among other things, to hire “Knox knockers,” professional strippers who’d visit college campuses and dance in showers of bourbon while free samples were given out. Gag me.

I’d spent most of dinner wanting to throw up, and it hadn’t helped when Chuck accidentally-on-purpose slipped his hand over my knee.

I may have accidentally-on-purpose stabbed him with a salad fork.

“Aw, Ally, you sacrificing your dessert for your diet?” Harry said. “Don’t worry, I like my women with a full figure.”

I smiled at him in a way that I hoped communicated that he shouldn’t feel safe just because he was out of stabbing range at the moment.

“Now, now,” Chuck admonished Harry. “Allison’s not like that. She’s one of the boys, isn’t she?”

He glanced slyly at all the Douchebros, and there was hastily suppressed sniggering all around the table. I flashed back to the whispered conversation I’d seen Chuck and Harry having when I came back from the bathroom. Those assholes were planning something.

“Now what I think,” Chuck went on, with all the sincerity of a politician campaigning for reelection, “is that we should show Allison how much we accept her, by welcoming her into our sanctum santorum. Would you like to join us there, Allison? For a free and open exchange of ideas?”

He looked like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, but the sniggering around him intensified. Oscar-level actors, his minions were not.

I knew it was a trap. It couldn’t be more obvious if he had painted the words ‘IT’S A TRAP’ all over it. But he’d maneuvered me into place, and I couldn’t afford to back down without coming across as a fun-hating bitch and looking bad in front of Hunter, who was probably already regretting hiring me after the ass I’d made of myself last night.

“Sure,” I said, my smile as fake as a spray tan.

“Wonderful,” Chuck said. He tossed his keys to Harry. “If you’d do us the honor of leading us to the Galenorn Gentleman’s Club?”

Shit.

* * *

“No, I do not want a lap dance!”

The Douchebros roared with more laughter than if I had been a professional comedian as I fended off an enthusiastic stripper in a g-string and pink sequined pasties.

I tried to avoid getting an eyeful as she sauntered off, offended, but there was nowhere safe to look. It was butts, boobs, and poorly conceived costumes as far as the eye could see. And while I’m certainly comfortable with the human body, I’m most definitely not the kind of person who wants to spend a night watching tastelessly outfitted strippers exploit themselves for cash. I could kill Chuck.

I mumbled something about needing to use the restroom and shrank backwards into the clouds of cigarette smoke. I needn’t have bothered; the whole crowd of them forgot me instantly in favor of drooling over a barely legal girl in a loincloth and an Egyptian headdress that was totally not historically accurate, with a fake rubber snake curled around her neck.

I rolled my eyes so hard I was surprised they didn’t alter the orbit of the moon.

Hunter sidled up next to me. I braced myself for some double entendre, but he just looked at me sympathetically. “Not into it, huh?” he asked dryly.

It was the cigarette smoke making my eyes water, not the unexpected kindness. I covered with snark. “That’s not even the right outfit for an Egyptian theme. Even a temple prostitute would be more clothed than she is. And she definitely wouldn’t be wearing a Mayan belt, that’s completely the wrong continent.”

Shock flitted across Hunter’s face, and then he grinned. “Well, aren’t you full of surprises.”

I shrugged. “Hey, a semester of historical costuming stays with you.”

“Your school did something other than Civil War reenactment costumes?”

I gave him a Look, capital L. “Don’t tell me you did those.”

“Okay, I won’t.” He put his hands up defensively when my Look intensified. “Hey, it’s a great place to pick up chicks. You die a dramatic death throwing yourself in front of some fake musket fire, clutch their hands, look deep into their eyes…a winner every time.”

I snorted. “Don’t tell my mom. She’ll have me in hoop skirts before you can say Robert E. Lee.”

He raised an eyebrow. “The matchmaking sort?”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“My mom could get that way too, sometimes.” He shifted his eyes away, but not before I caught a flash of deep sadness in them.

I tried to distract him by joking about the costume of the next girl set to go on. “What’s she supposed to be, a Playboy bunny or the Easter bunny?”

He smiled, shaking his head at me. “I think she’s supposed to be a sexy cavewoman.”

“Ah, yes, that well-known trope,” I said sarcastically. “Uuuurgh. You Tarzan. Me Jane. Lap dance twenty mammoth, private room extra.”

Hunter snorted, and reached over to take my hand, pulling me closer. It was probably only to make sure he could be heard over the pounding music, but my heart still stopped as his breath tickled over my ear.

“Want to head home? I can’t wait to get out of here either.”

My hand fit into his like they were made for each other. I squeezed his hand, and looked up into his golden brown eyes with a smile. “I know I’m definitely not getting any work done here. What are we waiting for?”