MONDAY, 4:59 A.M.

What am I doing? What the hell am I doing?

It’s a question I’ve repeated about a hundred times to myself on the cab ride home.

Not a solo cab ride. Nope. For reasons I can’t quite seem to wrap my head around, I’m in a cab with Brody Nash, and we’re headed back to my place.

It all started when I let him kiss me, sometime around three A.M. The rest of the crew was on the dance floor, and I’d switched over to my usual early morning round of sparkling water. He joined me in the San Pellegrino party, and it was a nice change. Usually I’m the only one sobering up while the rest of my friends are still pounding shots.

He was sitting close, his attention all on me. He laughed at my jokes and asked me about my day, and I just kept thinking about what my dad had talked about. About how I deserved someone who wanted me. Someone I didn’t have to convince of my worth.

And then Brody leaned over, pausing, giving me plenty of time to move away. Instead, I’d closed my eyes and let his mouth meet mine.

It had been, well . . .

Underwhelming. Wildly so.

But, but . . . I’ve learned something in the past few years: first kisses are never like they are in the movies. There’s never fireworks and foot lifting and butterflies. It takes a while for two people to get used to each other, to learn what the other one likes.

So I’m giving Brody a chance.

I mean, don’t freak out on me—I’m not going to sleep with him. But I don’t feel like sleeping at all, don’t feel like being alone with my thoughts, so when he suggested coming back to my place and having some coffee . . .

Why the hell not? Maybe a cup of coffee with a nice guy is precisely what I need to make me forget the time I’m not spending with a not-so-nice guy.

The cab pulls up in front of my building, and I feel a knot in my stomach as I watch Brody pay the cab driver before grabbing the pink donut box I made us stop for.

I resist the urge to snatch the box back. My donuts. For me to share. For me to provoke Andrew with.

Instead they’re in Brody Nash’s hands, and his hands are . . . well, his fingers are a little stubby, now that I think about it. How did I miss that?

Knock it off, Georgie.

I step out onto the sidewalk, careful not to jerk back when he puts a supporting hand under my elbow. Instead I smile in thanks, and it feels brittle.

He doesn’t let go as he leads me inside, and even without looking at my phone, even before we’re all the way through the revolving doors, I know what time it is.

I know I’m late.

And then I’m inside the building and it’s confirmed. Andrew Mulroney is already there, elbows resting on the counter, looking uncharacteristically relaxed as he talks with Ramon.

Damn it.

My high heels click against the marble floor, he turns around, and for one heart-stopping moment, I swear there’s gladness on his face.

Only it vanishes altogether when he sees Brody.

Andrew slowly straightens, his eyes going cold and flat.

“Hey, man!” an oblivious Brody says as he pulls Andrew in for a one-sided man-hug thing, made extra awkward because of the donut box. “Adam, right?”

“Andrew.”

“Right! I’m Brody. We met at Georgie’s dinner party last week.”

Andrew’s eyes are ice cold when they flick to me. “Sure. Good to see you again.”

Desperate for something to do, I yank the donut box out of Brody’s grip and shove it awkwardly across the counter at Ramon. “Ramon! How are you?”

Yikes. Is that my voice? It sounds manically chipper, even for me.

Ramon gives me a startled, slightly concerned look, but he never loses his professional smile. “Ms. Watkins. Welcome home.”

“This is Brody,” I say. “He’s my friend.”

All three men give me a look at that, although I suspect none of them believes that Brody’s coming back to my apartment at five A.M. as a friend.

Andrew certainly doesn’t believe it; that’s clear from the stony expression.

I force myself to meet his eyes. “Red shoes, Dorothy!” I say, desperate to get back to our usual place of caustic banter.

He merely inclines his head backward, in the bare minimum of acknowledgment. He doesn’t have his travel mug today, and for some reason it bothers me. I mean, maybe he just wasn’t hungry, but I don’t like when he’s out of his routine.

No—I don’t like when we’re out of our routine.

But I’m also almost glad. It proves my point that he is not the right guy for me, that I shouldn’t have to fall all over myself just in order to get a man to be polite.

“See you tomorrow, Mr. Ramirez,” Andrew says. “Brody.”

Brody’s already opening the donut box, his stubby fingers reaching for the maple bacon donut I bought specifically for Ramon, but he lifts a hand in farewell.

Not that Andrew even sees. He’s already striding away without so much as a backward glance.

Let him go.

It’s excellent advice I give myself, except my body doesn’t listen. Without a word to Ramon or Brody, I dash after Andrew, pushing through the revolving doors into the chilly October morning.

“Andrew!”

He’s already several steps away from the building, but he halts when he hears me say his name. His body is tense, as though he’s willing himself to keep walking, but like me, maybe he’s not entirely in control of his body, because he turns around.

“What the hell?” I snap, striding toward him with as much purpose as I can in strappy Saint Laurent platforms. I’m grateful for the extra height when we come nearly toe-to-toe. It allows me to endure his scowl at least a little closer to eye level than usual, given our height difference.

“What?” he snaps back.

“What was that?” I ask, gesturing with my head toward the building. “You can’t even be civil?”

“We’re never civil,” he counters. His eyes are angry, and that pisses me off. He doesn’t get to be angry. I’ve been nothing but nice to him, and I’m sick to death of being treated like trash.

“I don’t need a hug, but I at least deserve to have my presence acknowledged,” I say, lifting my chin.

His gaze rakes over me, taking in the shorter-than-usual blue dress. “What, Brady’s slobbering attention isn’t enough for you? You need the entire male population to kiss the ground you flounce on, is that it? Because you can count me out.”

“Quit being an ass,” I hiss, placing a hand on his chest and shoving. He doesn’t so much as rock backward. “What is with you? I thought we were making progress on Friday. I thought we were on the verge of . . .”

His eyes narrow. “On the verge of what?”

“Of being friends!”

“I don’t need friends, Georgiana. Not friends like you.”

It’s so mean, so cruelly dismissive, that I lift my hand to slap him, even though I’ve never struck a soul in my life.

His fingers close on my wrist, his eyes furious. “Don’t even think about it.”

I try to yank my hand free, but he holds fast, his grip like a vise even as he bends slightly to set his briefcase on the ground. “What do you want from me, Georgiana? Why are you chasing me outside in the cold instead of taking him to your warm bed?”

“Excellent question. Let me go so I can do exactly that,” I say angrily, wiggling my wrist in a helpless attempt to get free and go back to Brody.

Instead he tightens his fingers, tugging me close. I stumble a little on my sky-high heels and his other arm comes around me, steadying me.

“I know,” he says, his voice quiet and menacing.

“You know what?” I challenge.

His eyes bore into mine, angry and . . . something else. “I know why you’re out here with me instead of inside with him,” he says quietly.

“You don’t know crap,” I say, lifting my hands and pushing against his shoulders. “Let me go so I can go be with a guy who actually likes me.”

“Not a fucking chance,” he growls.

His fingers spread wide on my back, pulling me all the way to him as he lowers his head. And Andrew Mulroney kisses me.

My eyes go wide with shock, but only for half a second, because then they’re fluttering closed as his lips nudge mine open, his tongue taking mine in hot, sweet possession.

I was wrong, I realize. First kisses aren’t always a disappointment.

Sometimes they’re perfect from the very start.

A second ago my hands were shoving him away, and now they’re greedily pulling him to me, my fingers on his lapel, needing his mouth against mine, harder, hotter. More.

He makes a low growling noise, and I realize that kissing Andrew Mulroney is nothing like it’s supposed to be.

Apparently the man is fastidious and uptight in all things except this, because his kiss is unapologetic and carnal, disregarding the fact that we’re in the middle of a sidewalk at the crack of dawn and that we don’t even like each other.

Maybe it’s that last part that makes the kiss so good, each of us just trying to best the other, tongues tangling, teeth nipping, even as we struggle the entire time to get closer.

My hands tangle in his hair, his hands find my waist, and the kiss gentles slightly as we try to catch our breath without breaking contact.

It’s the snap of a camera that finally disrupts our obsession with each other’s mouths.

I pull back, my eyes blinking in confusion before turning toward the sound of the camera, just as I hear another fast series of clicks, followed by a “Holy shit!” from the photographer when he sees Andrew’s face.

“What the fuck?” Andrew snarls, taking a step toward the photog. “Who the hell are you?”

The short, portly man, who smells like coffee and sports greasy hair, gives a self-satisfied laugh. “Doesn’t matter who I am, man. What matters is that you’re not Brody Nash.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask, smoothing a hand over my mussed hair. It’s not the first time I’ve had my picture taken by desperate paparazzi on a slow celeb news day, but it’s definitely the first time I’ve warranted someone outside my apartment building.

“Someone saw you and Brody Nash leave together,” he told me.

“So?” I ask.

“So I thought maybe his fiancée would find it interesting,” the smarmy man says with an indifferent shrug. “Guess I got it wrong. At least I got his, though.” He holds up the camera and looks Andrew over. “You have any idea how hard it is to get the Divorce King on camera?”

Andrew’s face is murderous, and his eyes look too bright. Not at all like himself. I step between the men before Andrew can do something that will result in the pig pap pressing charges.

“Let him go,” I murmur, placing a placating hand on Andrew’s chest.

He glances down at my hand and takes a deep breath. “Is it always like this around you?”

I wince, knowing that the paparazzo following me home from the club has done nothing to elevate Andrew’s opinion of my lifestyle.

“Not really.”

“Print those pictures and you’re dead,” Andrew says over my shoulder to the retreating photographer.

The man shrugs. “I won’t print shit. But you can bet I’m gonna sell ’em to someone else who will print them.”

The man darts across Park Avenue, well out of Andrew’s angry reach.

Andrew swears vehemently under his breath, running his hands through his hair, and I reach out a hand to calm him, but he steps back. “Just . . . give me a minute, Georgiana.”

Georgiana. Even now, after he’s just had his tongue down my throat, I’m Georgiana. It makes me want to smile, even in spite of everything.

Then Brody’s striding out onto the sidewalk. He comes up short when he sees the murderous look Andrew and I both shoot him.

He laughs and holds up both hands. “What’d I do?”

“You’re engaged?” I ask.

His eyes go wide, and for the first time since I’ve known him, he looks a little unsure of himself. “Look, Georgie babe, it’s just—”

“I let you kiss me,” I say angrily.

It’s not until Andrew’s head whips around to look at me that I realize my mistake. “I mean—I—Andrew, wait—”

He takes another step back, his eyes shuttering as his face resumes its usual impenetrable icy mask. He lifts his hand to a temple as though warding off pain, then drops it. “I’m late,” he says curtly, turning away.

And because I know there’s nothing more disastrous in Andrew Mulroney’s life than being late, I let him go, watching helplessly as the distance between us increases with his determined steps.

Brody whistles. “Damn. What was that about?”

“Shut up, Brody. Who are you engaged to, anyw—Actually, you know what?” I hold up both hands. “I don’t even care. Just leave.”

“Georgie—”

“Leave,” I say, my tone sharper than I’ve ever heard it. Maybe Andrew Mulroney is rubbing off on me.

Brody gives a tired sigh like I’m the troublesome one, and bends down to kiss my cheek. “Call you later?”

I give him a look.

He laughs. “Or I’ll let you cool down first. See ya, babe.”

Unbelievable.

I don’t even register whether Brody walks away, hails a cab, or what. I’m too busy watching Andrew’s retreating figure get smaller and smaller until he disappears.

Well . . .

Damn it.

Now what?