Marriage: The legal union of a couple as spouses. The basic elements of a marriage are: (1) the parties' legal ability to marry each other, (2) mutual consent of the parties, and (3) a marriage contract as required by law.

“What did you just say?”

My sharp question earned me a sharp look from Ms. Opal. She eyed me from across the room. Mouth pinched into a disapproving pucker, my coworker’s gaze lingered on the cell in my hand. Ms. Opal didn’t do this often—send me disapproving looks— just whenever I spoke too loudly. Or laughed. Or smiled. Or showed any emotion.

None of which I did with any frequency.

“Sorry,” I said to her, even though my sharp question hadn’t been directed to Ms. Opal.

It had been directed to the person on the other side of my call. The unexpectedly disastrous, panic-inducing call.

I heard a chair creak, and then he repeated, “He’s planning to have you committed.”

“Please wait,” I whispered, dipping my chin to my chest, allowing my hair to fall forward. Blocking my face from Ms. Opal and anyone else who might walk through our shared space, I whispered, “Let me call you back. I’m at work.”

Uncle Eugene huffed, the sound ripe with impatience. “At work.”

“Yes. At work. As in my job.”

“Your job.” His words were as flat as matzo.

“Please give me five minutes. Thank you,” I said on a rush.

Not waiting for his response, I ended the call and clutched my cell to my chest. I stared unseeingly at the dark, solid wood surface of my desk while trying very, very hard not to FREAK THE FREAKITY FREAK OUT!

Oh God, oh God, oh God. What am I going to do? Why now? Why—

“Kat?”

I stiffened, instinctively straightening my spine, and managed a raspy, “Yes, Ms. Opal?”

I sensed the older woman hesitate, and felt her disapproving eyes move over me. I was familiar with this look of hers. It was the kind of look I imagined mothers gave their kids during teenage years. The kind of look parents everywhere administered to children when they were acting like a fool, as I sometimes caught Ms. Opal muttering under her breath.

Struggling to paste on my polite smile of perpetual calm, I glanced at the older woman. We’d been working together in the same space for going on five years and I’d grown accustomed to her pointed looks, usually. But today, as Ms. Opal lifted her eyebrows and narrowed her eyes, my throat tightened and my cheeks heated.

I was officially off-kilter.

Discovering one’s cousin wishes to send thee away to a nunnery will do that. And by nunnery, I mean a mental hospital. And by send away, I mean lock away forever.

As far as coworkers went, I liked Ms. Opal a lot. I appreciated her exacting nature. We were the two highest-ranking administrative employees in the firm, and we worked well together. She was no-nonsense, dedicated, and never gossiped. The woman was always five minutes early and fully prepared for all meetings. Sometimes I thought she liked me too, like the time she came back from vacation and discovered I’d organized the copy room according to her preferred design. She hadn’t given me a pointed look after that for a full six weeks.

Presently, she cleared her throat. “I need a few number-ten envelopes from the supply closet. Will you please retrieve them for me? I’ll cover your desk.”

Startled, I stared at her. She was still giving me a pointed look, but even through the wild jungle of my panic I recognized that it wasn’t a look of disappointment. She seemed concerned.

“Yes. I will.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Forcing myself to nod, I stood from my desk. As my chair made a clumsy scraping noise against the floor, I darted out of our shared office. It wasn’t until I was three cubicles away from the supply closet, and one of the senior architects gave me a weird side-eye, that I realized I hadn’t stopped nodding or clutching my phone.

It didn’t matter.

Maybe nothing mattered.

Maybe not even cheese mattered.

Ceasing my inane nodding, I redirected my attention to my sleeve, fiddling with the buttons in order to avoid eye contact. I then pulled at the keys attached to my waist and unlocked the closet. Once inside, I shut the door behind me and flicked on the light, hoping none of the staff architects had spotted my mad dash.

Architects were like junkies around office supplies, insatiable. I didn’t understand their preoccupation with mechanical pencils and graph paper, especially since all their work and renderings were done using computer models. Regardless, we could never keep either in stock.

I once had a junior architect buy me a fruit basket for a packet of highlighters. I felt like saying, Dude. Anyone can buy highlighters. Just go to an office supply store. Instead I wrote her a thank-you note.

Staring at the screen of my phone, I pushed past the rising tide of fear and redialed Uncle Eugene’s number.

He picked up the phone immediately. “Hello?”

“Hello,” I said. Waited. When he was quiet, I added, “It’s me. It’s Kat.”

“Yes. I know.”

I waited again. When he said nothing else, I asked, “What am I going to do? Please tell me what to do.”

“You don’t have many options.” He sounded grim, but then he always did. I appreciated his consistency.

Eugene Marks wasn’t really my uncle. He was my family’s lawyer, but I’d known him since I was a kid, and he’d always been nice to me. Grim, but nice. The bar had been set so low by my blood relatives, to the extent that Uncle Eugene had been my favorite person growing up. I always remembered his birthday with a hand-stamped card and an edible bouquet of mostly pineapple. Pineapple was his favorite.

“Please, tell me my options.” I paced within the small closet.

“Fine. First option: you allow your cousin to become the guardian of your person and your property. He will promptly commit you, take control of your inheritance when the time comes—specifically, your controlling shares in Caravel Pharmaceuticals—and you may spend the next several years institutionalized. He’ll have control of your accounts and finances, therefore you’ll have no funds legal representation.”

See? Grim, right?

“Please explain to me how any of this is possible. I’ve been—voluntarily—going to counseling for just over two years now. I earned my GED, and my AA all on my own. Now I’m putting myself through the part-time business program at the University of Chicago, maintaining a 3.9 GPA while working full time.”

“Yes. Even though some of those actions will work in your favor, it won’t be enough.”

“Please explain.”

“Firstly, you aren’t ready to lead a multi-national pharmaceutical empire.”

“I agree. Of course I’m not ready.” I kept my tone calm, firmly dispassionate. “But I have been flying there two weekends a month, haven’t I? I’ve been meeting with you, the board, learning, preparing. As far as I know, the board is happy to vote my father’s shares as a collective until I reach thirty-one. That was the plan we all agreed to two years ago, and I’ve done everything asked of me.”

“Except quit your job and move back to Boston.”

I shook my head. “We’ve already discussed this.”

What I didn’t say, what I hadn’t admitted to anyone, was that I didn’t know if I’d ever be ready to move back to Boston, to assume the role I’d been born into. I’d been stubborn, stalling, putting off the inevitable, because just the thought of living that life, living in that empty mansion, sequestered from the real world, filled me with misery.

“Caleb has never been a proponent of the plan. He believes the shares should reside with the family, not with the board.” Eugene’s reminder was unnecessary.

Whenever I saw my cousin, he mocked me, told me how I’d failed my family, and how I’d never be capable of leading the company. He’s say I was too shy. Too inexperienced. Too timid. Crazy like my mother. His favorite taunt was that I could snap at any time.

I wasn’t shy. He mistook my silence for timidity. I saw no reason to converse with people I didn’t like and the truth was I didn’t like him. Just thinking about the weasel made me want to throw spoiled milk on his weasel face. And then heft loaves of maggoty pound cake at his weasel face. And then rotten tomatoes. And then drown him in a vat of sewage. And then bring him back to life just to burn him in a dumpster full of dead rat carcasses . . .

I might have unresolved anger issues.

That said, on the bright side, dealing with weasel-like Caleb and his weasel face had forced me to become more assertive. The intensity of my desire to prove him wrong was 49% of the reason why I’d stayed the course over the last two years.

“Whether that . . . Caleb is pleased with the plan or not makes no difference,” I seethed through clenched teeth, acknowledging the uncomfortable spike in my blood pressure for what it was, an uncharacteristic display of emotion. “I am Rebekah and Zachariah’s child. He is not.”

“Yes. But Caleb is your closest living relative. Well, closest relative who is not institutionalized.”

I had to swallow my sorrow before I could respond. “How is that relevant?”

“He will make the case that you, like your parents, are unstable.”

“Again, please explain to me how he can make a case that I’m unstable.”

“Because he will, and he’ll win. He’ll use your voluntary dilution of responsibility—handing over voting control to the board—as proof of your instability.”

“No—”

“Try to look at this from a judge’s perspective. You are the sole heiress to the single largest privately held pharmaceutical fortune in the world, which employs over one hundred thousand people across four continents. You choose to be a secretary in Chicago and haven’t accepted a single cent from your family in over seven years. You can’t just be ‘stable.’ Your mental health must be above reproach, because there’s too much at stake.”

“Begging your pardon, but I’m not just a secretary.” I seriously, seriously despised it when people called secretaries and administrative professionals just a secretary. Being a secretary was a multitasking marathon, a daily gauntlet of making everyone happy all the time. “I am the executive assistant to the CEO. Not taking money from people doesn’t make me crazy, but I will point out that I do allow reimbursement for my travel expenses to and from Boston.”

“Family history is not in your favor. Your mother—the last heiress in your position—was diagnosed with schizophrenia shortly after your birth, close to the age you are now. She was in and out of treatment facilities until she was committed by your father when you were five. You were hospitalized as a teenager for a suicide attempt and diagnosed with bipolar disorder—”

“I didn’t try to kill myself and I definitely don’t have bipolar disorder. I’ve been seeing a therapist—”

“You refused treatment at fifteen and ran away from home. You lived on the streets for almost three years. You have a history of illicit drug use, engaging in promiscuous and risky behaviors—”

“That’s not—” My face burned brighter.

“Again, you’ve refused to move back to Boston. You’ve refused help from your family.”

I snorted at this—another burst of uncharacteristic emotion—because bitterness burned my throat. By “family,” he meant Caleb. Help from my “family” was no help at all.

“All of this has been well documented by your cousin, and I know he has a parade of witnesses to support this version of events.”

An agitated laugh tumbled from my lips and I clamped a hand over my mouth.

Okay.

I was really losing it.

I needed to calm down.

I told myself to calm down.

“I have witnesses, too. I have friends here, people who will speak to my character and stability.”

“But you won’t have access to the funds. You won’t have money to pay a legal team to fight this because—as I said—he will have control of the accounts as your guardian. We can try to stay ahead of Caleb, start shifting the money under your control now, but at this point it will be too late. The wheels are already in motion, the accounts will be frozen.”

“But you’re the trustee! You have control of the—”

“I won’t. It’s too late.”

“What do you mean it’s too late?”

Eugene hesitated, finally saying, “Trust me, it’s too late.”

I struggled with my composure. “Fine. It’s too late. I don’t like this option.”

“I didn’t think you would.” His chair creaked again. I was going to have to call his assistant about getting that chair oiled.

“What is my next option?” Proud of the deceptive calm of my voice, I released a slow exhale.

“Option two: you execute a medical power of attorney pre-emptively to someone close to you, but your cousin will definitely contest that appointment.”

The panic began to recede, finally. This was good news. “Oh. Okay.”

“Not okay.”

“Why? That’s better than option one.”

“Yes, but not by much.”

“Why not by much?”

“At best it’ll only buy you some time. When I say Caleb is motivated, I mean he is motivated. He’s not going to stop until you’re under his thumb. Voluntarily assigning someone your medical power of attorney is basically admitting you’re not mentally competent to make your own decisions. Most judges will agree that a family member has priority and is better suited in this role than a friend selected by the incompetent person. Plus, you would be subjecting this friend to intense scrutiny and litigation.”

I stopped pacing. “What about option three?”

“Which option is that?”

“You tell me.” There had to be an option three, because neither option one or two were acceptable.

He was quiet for a long moment, and then said very, very grimly, “I assume you are considering the transfer of your shares to Caleb? A buyout?”

My gut response was, hell no. Not only was Caleb a terrible cousin, I was convinced he was a terrible human. For the last several months, whenever I visited Caravel headquarters and reviewed division earnings, I’d always left with a creeping notion that something wasn’t right. The numbers added up, but they were too good to be true.

Profits were soaring with Caleb as the CEO, which meant the board was ecstatic. Yet, the sudden sharp profit margin concerned me. We’d had no new properties come to market in five years, spending in drug development was down, and I’d identified obvious inefficiencies in our clinical trials subdivisions. Vague revenue reports from several of the most lucrative divisions culminated in a nebulous sense of anxiety about executive operations.

What would become of my grandfather’s company under Caleb’s tenure if left unchecked?

Whereas my brain and heart asked, Why not? Why not walk away?

I didn’t want the responsibility. I’d never wanted it. No one—especially not father when he was still fully cognizant—believed I was capable of it. Even on my best days, I doubted myself in the extreme.

Why not just wash my hands of it? Walk away. Live a normal life.

Eugene didn’t wait for me to respond. “I discussed that option with him, suggested a buyout of your shares. He . . . did not appreciate the suggestion. Firstly, he doesn’t have the money. As you know, the CEO’s compensation package is capped at five million, inclusive of pay-for-performance and share options. That puts him at far less than his contemporaries. Secondly, he said he wouldn’t pay you a single cent, that he’s taking what’s rightfully his. As he put it, ‘what I’m owed.’”

“Hypothetically speaking, not that I’m considering this,” I hesitated, choosing my words carefully, “couldn’t I just sign it all over? Free of charge? Just give it to him?”

“The bylaws disallow that. As the controlling shareholder, bylaws require you be compensated at least one hundred and ten percent the average stock price of the last two years, and current stock is at an all-time high.”

Well, there went that idea.

Despite the suffocating lump in my throat and tears pricking my eyes, I was able to whisper, “Eugene, there has to be another option. Talk to me. Give me some hope. What can I do?”

His chair creaked once more, this time giving me the impression he’d been struggling to find a comfortable position. “There is one more option.”

“What? What is it?”

“Do you have a boyfriend? Or a girlfriend?”

My eyes flickered over the neatly organized shelves of office supplies, my brain stuck on the word boyfriend. “What?”

“Are you seeing anyone?”

I thought about retorting with, “Other than a string of enormously substandard first dates last year, which make me question the solvency and continued relevancy of the male portion of the human species, no. Not anyone of note.”

Or, “How the heck am I supposed to find someone to date when I have work, school, and flying to Boston twice a month for heiress lessons?”

Or, “Do you really think it’s wise or even possible for me to date anyone when I know eventually what I’ll become? What they’ll have to put up with?”

Instead, I replied, “No. Why?”

“You could get married.”

“Married?” Panic resurged, causing me to shriek, “Eugene! I can’t get—” I stopped myself, swallowing, endeavoring to breathe. Breathe. Breathe . . . Calm down. “Sorry for my outburst. I apologize.”

“Caleb could try to contest a marriage, this is true.” Now he sounded less like his grimly pragmatic self and more like he was trying to soothe and pacify; this alteration in his voice did not help my mood. “But his chances of success are minimal, especially if you marry immediately.”

“I am not irrational, Eugene. You do not need to use that tone of voice with me.”

“Fine.” He sighed, and when he spoke again he sounded like good-old grim Eugene. “In the absence of a valid medical power of attorney by a mentally competent person, your spouse would be the default for all medical decisions. Therefore, it’s not as though you signed anything over or admitted—or even implied—mental incompetence. In the eyes of the law, the bond of marriage typically surpasses all other relationships, familial or otherwise.”

“Married.” Now I definitely couldn’t breathe. I was dizzy. I needed to sit down. Spotting a stack of printer paper, I lowered myself onto the top ream.

“Yes. Married.”

“This seems implausible.” Married? What a ludicrous suggestion. “This isn’t a movie, Eugene. Sorry, but I do not believe people just get married to protect themselves from greedy family members’ nefarious scheming.”

“Yes. They do. People get married to avoid being deported, to obtain a green card, to avoid testifying in court, to secure medical insurance or other tangible benefits, and—yes—even to avoid greedy family members’ nefarious scheming. It’s why marriage fraud is against the law.”

“Marriage fraud? Are you suggesting that I commit a crime?”

“No, I cannot suggest you commit a crime. That is completely unethical and I could be disbarred.”

My head was spinning so I lowered it between my legs. The last thing I needed was to faint in the supply closet. “But you can break attorney-client privilege with Caleb and warn me about his intentions?”

“I was just one of seven lawyers present during Caleb’s last visit to Sharpe and Marks. Your family’s estate employs the firm, and you are the sole beneficiary of your father’s estate. I have—personally—been on retainer, paid by your father since before you were born, since before Sharpe and I founded the practice.”

“I thought you were retiring.”

“I will be next month, for the most part, with some exceptions. The most notable exception being Zachariah Tyson. I hold your father’s power of attorney and I’m the executor of his estate, the trustee. I have fiduciary interest in carrying out your father’s wishes. You are Zachariah’s sole beneficiary. Caleb assumes too much. I have no reason to believe Caleb is ignorant of my freedom to discuss estate matters with you, at my discretion.” If I didn’t know better, Eugene almost sounded like he was grinning. “Nor have I identified any cause to clarify this point with him or any of my colleagues—including Sharpe.”

Spoken like a true lawyer.

He continued, “As long as you intend to make a life with the person you marry, it’s not marriage fraud. If you marry immediately, Caleb’s request for guardianship will look like a reaction to your marriage rather than the other way around.”

“You’re serious.”

“As my billable rate.”

Darn. “I see.”

I lifted my torso, placing my elbows on my knees; my forehead fell to my hand.

“Again, you would have to intend to make a life with this person. Kathleen, this has to be someone you’ve known for a while. Trust that Caleb will have him—or her—investigated, how long you’ve known each other, etc. He may try to invalidate the marriage.”

Tears of frustration stung my eyes. “What if I don’t know anyone I can ask?”

Wait.

That wasn’t exactly true.

I did know someone. My good friend, Steven Thompson. I’d known him for two and a half years and I loved him dearly. He was my plus-one whenever I had a business function, or went shopping, or wanted to go see a play.

“Kathleen, I’m not exaggerating.” Eugene cut into my thoughts with more grimness, more urgency. “There has to be someone you can ask, and not a stranger or a casual acquaintance. Because, this is it. This is your only hope. This is the only way. But it is by far your best option. The chances of invalidating a marriage in situations such as these are very slim. The chances of Caleb—as your cousin—becoming your guardian are therefore also very, very slim. Sorry to break it to you, kid, but you need to get married, the sooner the better.”

I lifted my eyes heavenward, wanting to ask, “And just how does one propose marriage to a person in a situation such as this?”

Oh, hey. I know you’re gay, but my family thinks I’m crazy. Marry me, maybe?

“Let me reiterate, this person must be someone you trust implicitly because . . .” He paused, and when he spoke next his voice was laced with uncharacteristic urgency. “Caleb will try everything, even bribery, threats, everything. Please make sure he or she knows what’s expected.”

“Please explain to me how can I do that when even I don’t know what’s expected.”

“You misinterpret my meaning. Don’t ask a friend who might have feelings for you. We don’t need that kind of complication. Let them know a platonic, trustworthy affiliation is what’s expected for, by my estimation, at least five years.”

I shut my eyes. Eugene didn’t need to worry, because Steven definitely didn’t have feelings for me. I didn’t have a choice. I had to ask Steven. If Steven wouldn’t marry me, I didn’t know who I would ask.

Maybe Marie? Marie was a good friend from my knitting group, and—more importantly—the only other single friend I had.

That’s not true.

Ms. Opal was also single; her husband had died a few years ago . . .

Am I really considering this? Asking my widowed coworker to marry me? Am I this desperate? Think of what you would be asking of her!

Whoever agreed—if anyone agreed—I knew Caleb would not hesitate making both our lives a complete hell.

How can I ask this of anyone?

I cleared my throat of sentiment and asked, “How soon?”

“With your father. . . you need to move fast.” I listened as he took another deep breath, palpable worry turning his tone a new, troubling shade of bleak. “Kathleen, please, please listen and understand. This blindsided me. I wish I could’ve given you more warning, but this will keep you safe. Getting married today wouldn’t be too soon. We’ll . . . talk soon.”

Eugene ended the call and it felt like I’d been tossed off a cliff. Numbly, I glanced at the screen of my phone. We’d been talking for twenty-three minutes. Twenty-three minutes was all it had taken to completely scramble my world.

My phone was almost out of battery.

I hastened to call Steven. He didn’t answer and I cursed, turning off my phone before it went dead. I then indulged in five more minutes of allowing myself to feel. Then another five minutes of hiding within the closet of despair while I collected myself.

When I stepped out of the supply closet, I had Ms. Opal’s number ten envelopes. I was also calm, cool, and focused.

I was on a mission. I would hold myself together until that mission was complete, and that mission started with finding Steven.

Both Steven and I worked in the Fairbanks building in downtown Chicago; he worked on the top floor, I worked on the fifty-second.

Steven had a fancy job title at Cypher Systems—a corporate security firm—that translated to a senior accountant type of position. We’d been introduced by my friend Janie, a member of my knitting group (except she crocheted). Janie used to work with me at the firm, but she’d been let go when her ex-boyfriend’s father pulled some strings and had her downsized.

It had all worked out, because that’s how Janie met her husband, Quinn Sullivan.

Anyway, that’s a long, convoluted story with very little relevance on what was happening today.

Steven worked for Janie’s husband’s company and we all worked in the same building, that’s the important part. Moving on.

Wearing my detached resolve like armor, I tucked Ms. Opal’s envelopes under my arm and took the elevator to the lobby. Cypher Systems headquarters was on a secure floor and a keycard was needed to access the level. My plan was to ask the security guards to call Steven’s desk, and then have my friend escort me to his office where we would talk.

So I can propose marriage.

Acutely nauseous, I placed a hand over my stomach and walked out of the elevator doors as soon as they opened to the lobby. But then I stopped as soon as I saw who was standing at the security desk.

Dressed in all black, looking the definition of ruggedly gorgeous, was the man of my dreams. Literally.

It was Dan.

Dan the Security Man.

My façade slipped.

I did not appreciate his ability to discombobulate me by merely existing.

Daniel O’Malley was second in command at Cypher Systems and my . . . my . . . Honestly, I didn’t know how to describe him.

We’d almost had a thing, but I’d messed it up before anything real could happen. He was that guy. That guy I’d been successfully avoiding ever since I messed everything up. That guy I’d known for years and against whom all other men were compared.

Basically, I lusted him.

Before I’d ruined my chance, I used to frequently wish I were someone else. Anyone else. Maybe someone who’d grown up in a middle-class, two-parent household. With a family dog rather than a pack of German shepherd/wolf hybrids who ferociously guarded the gates of my grandparents’ compound in Duxbury.

And a mother who tucked me in at night with a kiss, rather than a billionaire heiress who hid me in the second attic in the east wing from the imaginary clown in her head for a week and a half when I was four.

And a father who took me to baseball games instead of having the house butler drop me off at boarding school when I was five and never visiting me. Or allowing me to go home to visit instead of me running away one too many times and being expelled.

But enough charming and hilarious anecdotes from my childhood, let’s talk about Dan.

As I looked at him, standing behind the lobby security desk talking to one of the guards, I hesitated. The call with Eugene had left me off-kilter.

The last time I was off-kilter and within Dan’s proximity, my brain had suggested topics like, Talk about the weather. My mouth had translated ‘weather’ to mean, hurricanes are a type of weather, let’s talk about death by drowning.

Did I want to interact with Dan while off-kilter?

No.

No, I did not.

But what choice did I have? It was almost noon. Eugene had been adamant, time was of the essence. Hurriedly, I made a mental list of subjects that were off limits—basically, anything gross, illegal, or morbid—and propelled myself forward.

Dan was scanning the crowd in the lobby as he talked to his subordinate and his stare passed over me once. He immediately did a double take and, unsurprisingly, I was ensnared.

My steps faltered. Through sheer force of will, I recovered. But not before the expected eruption of awareness in my stomach and tightness in my chest.

However, given my reason for being in the lobby—my mission to thwart Caleb’s attempts to have me committed for the rest of my life—disregarding the flustering sensations was relatively easy. Or maybe I was just getting really good at ignoring my emotions. Whatever. Either worked.

Time is of the essence. Steven. Marriage.

Dan stepped away from his employee and positioned himself at the edge of the high counter. Dark brown eyes—that always seemed alight with mischief—swept down and then up my person, as though conducting a quick assessment of my physical well-being. I ignored that too, determined to keep our interaction as perfunctory as possible.

But then he said, “What’s up, Kit-Kat?”

Oh.

Darn.

I gulped a large quantity of air at the unanticipated use of the old nickname, knowing I’d pay for it later. The price would be ruthless hiccups. But for now, the gulping swallows helped.

The way Dan twisted his mouth to the side lent him an air of amusement without actually smiling. He was adorable.

I hadn’t spoken to him in a long while. His chestnut hair was longer than its typical close cut and it was styled expertly, back and away from his forehead. Or maybe he’d been pulling his hands through it. Either way, it was an exceptionally good look for him.

We’d seen each other in passing, at Janie and Quinn’s apartment, in the lobby of this building, but this was the first time we’d traded words in six months. This was the first time he’d called me Kit-Kat in over two years, since before he started dating Tonya from accounting on the seventeenth floor.

“Sorry. Hi, Dan.” I gave him a tight smile. “Sorry. I just wanted to ask—”

Dan shifted closer and dipped his head, like he couldn’t hear me, and I caught a trace of cologne, just the faintest hint of something expensive and masculine. His new proximity set my heart racing. Inexplicably, I felt like crying.

But I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I never did.

Clearing my throat, I started again. “Sorry. I don’t mean to interrupt.”

His mouth did curve then, a slow spreading smile that usually would’ve made me forget what I was doing, because I loved this smile.

Dan didn’t have perfect teeth. They were a little crooked, like he’d never had braces, and maybe one or two had been cracked during a fight or while playing sports, and then capped. The dentist had done a great job with the repair work, but I suspected the reason Dan rarely showed his teeth when smiling was because he was self-conscious about it. That meant, when he did show teeth—like now—it was because he couldn’t help himself.

To me, his real smile was wholly genuine, devastatingly charming, and absolutely perfect.

Also perfect, his nose. It had been broken at least twice and was bent just slightly. His shoulders were also perfect, big and wide; how he moved paired with his stocky frame reminded me of a boxer, capable of both brute strength and remarkable grace.

His neck was also strong—but not in a disconcerting way—and provided the perfect pedestal for his exquisite jaw, which was perpetually shaded with a twelve o’clock shadow. Every so often, when he turned his head, I’d catch a tantalizing glimpse of swirling, black tattoos peeking out of his suit shirt.

But his lips . . .

No words could adequately describe the flawless beauty of his lips.

He was rugged everywhere that I could see, except for those lush lips.

I wanted to bite them.

“You’re not interrupting,” he said, gaze warm and a little lazy, eyelids at half-mast. Dan leaned closer, lowering his voice. “How can I help?”

Marry me.

Internally, I shrank from the unbidden thought. Holy wish fulfillment, Batman.

In the next moment, it occurred to me that Dan was recently single, having split from his longtime girlfriend—the aforementioned Tonya from accounting on the seventeenth floor—just two months ago.

When I’d first discovered they were dating, I’d been devastated and ate $47.31 worth of cheese in one sitting. While crying. I cried on my cheese. It was a sad day.

But when I’d discovered they’d split, I went home, did my laundry, did my homework, didn’t cry, and answered work emails while steadfastly refusing to obsess about it.

Presently, I was staring at him, unable to speak, as the idea solidified in my brain.

Marry me . . .

The dangerous notion dug its claws into my fragile yet safe plan and tore it to shreds. Shaking my head, I cursed myself for approaching Dan while I was like . . . this. Already feeling all the feelings, I was vulnerable and I hated feeling vulnerable.

Seeing Dan just compounded everything; it made me contemplate crazy, grasping-at-straws ideas. I should’ve waited until he was gone.

Not helping matters, with each beat of my heart the words chanted between my ears, Ask him. Ask him. Ask him. Ask him.

Dan’s grin waned after a time. And then, after more time, his grin reappeared. He was looking at me like he thought I was funny. Or cute. Or maybe both.

“Kat?”

“Yes?” The single word was strangled, but I was profoundly proud of myself for managing to say it.

Another flash of teeth framed by his alluring lips before asking gently, “How can I help?”

“Oh, sorry. I apologize. Thank you.” Stop apologizing. Stop. Apologizing.

Some people have curse jars.

I had a “sorry” jar.

I also had a “thank you” jar.

Believe it or not, I’d been much better over the past year, but—gah!—something about Dan made it worse. He was dangerous. His sexiness was a hazard. To my soul. I required distance.

Taking a full step backward, I unnecessarily tucked my hair behind my ears—one of my practiced maneuvers for stalling—and infused my tone with controlled aloofness. “Excuse me.”

At my withdrawal, Dan’s warm smile fell away and his eyes narrowed as they flickered over me, now assessing.

“I’m trying to get ahold of Steven,” I said, my voice now even.

“You called him?”

“He’s not answering his phone and now my cell is dead.” I took two deep breaths before continuing with renewed detachment, “I was hoping I could ask one of the guys to call his desk.”

“He’s at my place.” His tone was no longer gentle, but now impersonal and business-like, mimicking mine.

“Your place?”

Dan scratched his neck, glancing over my head. “He’s working from my place today. He’s watching Wally.”

“Oh.” An automatic smile tugged at my mouth. I couldn’t help it. Even in my present state of distress, the mere mention of Dan’s dog improved my mood. He had the world’s most adorable canine. A lab/terrier mix with expressive brown eyes, floppy ears, and short black fur—except for a white patch around his mouth that made him look like he was always smirking.

“Steven has been helping me out for the last month, working from my place a few days a week.” Dan pulled out his cell. “You wanna use my phone?”

“No, thank you. But I appreciate it.” I glanced over my shoulder, out the lobby doors to the street beyond, debating my options. I couldn’t ask Steven to marry me over the phone, and definitely not in front of Dan. It was a conversation that required an in-person meeting. “Thank you, but I’ll try to reach him later.”

Would later be too late?

“Or, you know, maybe bring him lunch.”

“Pardon me?” My eyes darted to his. “At your place?”

I’d never been in Dan’s apartment before. The urge to snoop would be strong, but I would overcome it. What I might not overcome was the desire to discover what brand of cologne he wore. Sniff it. Write it down. Buy it for . . . reasons.

“What’s wrong with my place?”

“Nothing at all. But, you don’t mind?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I mind?” His voice rose, just a smidge, and his eyes seemed to harden.

“I don’t want to—”

“What?”

“Take advantage.”

“You never do.” Dan shrugged, but there was something odd about the gesture as well as his tone, a strange tension in his shoulders. Abruptly, he lowered his eyes to the marble floor, took a deep breath through his nose, and then lifted his chin once more. A new, fastidiously polite smile now in place, his gaze was cool and remote. “He’ll be there all day. If you want to talk to him in person, you should go.”

I hesitated.

“It’s no big deal.” He said these words softly, his gaze dropping to my hands, and that’s when I realized I’d been twisting my fingers. “Seems like you got something weighing you down.”

I balled my hands into fists and hid them behind my back, and then immediately felt like a dolt for doing so, especially when the number ten envelopes almost slipped from their place under my arm.

But I also managed to say, “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

Dan continued to inspect me, his eyes growing sharper. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to help?”

Again, the unbidden marry me whispered through my mind and I rolled my lips between my teeth, cutting off what I knew would be a small but hysterical-sounding laugh.

Shaking my head, I backed away. “No, thank you. No. Nope. Have a nice day.”

Turning from Dan, I power-walked back to the elevators and punched the button for the floor of my office. I needed my wallet. I needed to give Ms. Opal her envelopes and inform her that I had a family emergency, and let my junior administrative staff know I would be gone for the rest of the day.

Just before the elevator doors closed, I hiccupped. Loudly. Violently. Lifting my eyes as I covered my mouth, I found Dan watching me. He hadn’t moved from his spot by the desk, and a painful squeeze constricted my heart just before I hiccupped again.

A tempting but completely impractical thought whispered through my mind. Another, Why not?

This time, Why not Dan?

I sighed, leaning heavily against the wall of the lift, and rubbed my hairline where a tension headache was now forming.

Dan O’Malley was a good guy. A great guy. Because I avoided him, we hadn’t talked much, especially after what happened between us in Vegas.

But we’d known each other for over two years and he’d always been kind. He’d always taken great care of our overlapping circle of friends. He was the kind of guy who’d give someone in need the shirt off his back, and then offer a beer and a place to stay. If I asked him to help, there was a real chance he might agree. He was just that good.

And yet, a marriage of convenience to the man of my dreams?

That sounded like a nightmare.