WEDNESDAY, 4:49 A.M.

I drag myself out of the elevator and into the lobby, determined to beat Andrew downstairs.

Last night I felt great about my plan.

This morning, though?

Oh. Holy. Hell.

People do this? Willingly set their alarm and haul their ass out of bed while it’s still dark out?

I’m a little grateful that it’s a new guy behind the front desk. Charles is a sweet balding dude who works the early morning shift on Ramon’s days off. He’s only been here a few weeks and, lucky for him, I don’t think he’s grasped the full scope of the tornado that is me and Andrew Mulroney in the same space.

Last night’s temporary reprieve excepted, of course. I’m not sure what that quiet moment over wine was. An anomaly, definitely, because the rest of the cleanup session was half antagonism (me) and half icy silence (him).

It’s why I had to make sure to look extra good this morning.

Now, you might be thinking, how good can one look in workout clothes?

One word: formfitting.

The point is, I’m pretty sure my early morning grogginess will all be worth it when I see Andrew’s face when he catches a glimpse of me in yoga pants.

“Good morning, Charles!” I sing as I stroll into the lobby.

“Ms. Watkins,” he says, looking up in surprise. “Don’t I usually see you coming from the other direction this time of the morning?”

“You do,” I say, all but skipping over to the counter, delighted to have beaten Andrew down here. “Sorry I don’t have donuts for you this morning. A little change in routine.”

Charles pats his belly. “Just as well. Where you headed so early?”

“The gym, apparently,” I say, dropping my bag on the floor by my feet and rifling through the little bowl of chocolates they sometimes put out on the desk, searching for dark chocolate.

I’ve just popped it into my mouth when I hear his voice.

“Candy is not breakfast, Georgiana.”

My head whips around and my stomach gives a little flip that has nothing to do with the chocolate.

He’s wearing the exact same thing as always—gray shirt, black pants, black gym bag, et cetera—but something feels . . . different.

Not the glare. That’s still the same. But there’s an extra little snap of awareness between us.

My eyes deliberately drift down his body to the black sneakers. “No Oz detour today?”

“No time. I’ll have a tagalong slowing me down.”

“Don’t let me stop you. I love poofy dresses. I can totally be the Glinda to your Dorothy.”

Andrew leans his elbow on the counter and takes a sip of the health goo in his travel mug as he stares me down. “Really? Because I sort of had you pegged as the Scarecrow.”

I blink. It takes me a minute to get it, but when I do . . .

Wow. Wow.

The comment is so unkind that I instinctively replay it once more, looking for a second meaning, because surely even he isn’t so much a jerk as to imply . . .

I swallow. “Did you just imply I have no brain?”

My voice is a little hoarse, and I’m horrified to feel the sting of tears.

Out of the corner of one now-blurry eye, I see Charles pick up the phone. Not because it rang, but because I’m assuming he’d rather fake a phone call than be present in the awkwardness that is this moment.

Andrew’s face seems to go slightly white at my reaction. “Wait. No.”

“Then what?” I ask, anger mingling in with the hurt now. “That’s how the story goes, right? The Tin Man needs a heart, the Cowardly Lion needs courage, and the dumb Scarecrow needs the brain. Just like ditzy, flighty Georgie Watkins.”

“Georgiana—”

I shake my head and bend to pick up my bag. “Have fun at the gym, Mulroney. I hope you choke on your wheatgrass.”

I’m still blinking back tears, but at least I manage to walk away with my head held high.

He catches up with me before I can make it to the elevator, his fingers wrapping firmly around my biceps and pulling me back around. “Georgiana.”

“What?” I snap, turning around. “What can you possibly say that you haven’t said a million times already with every scowl, with every eye roll, with every you’re ridiculous? You think I’m stupid and worthless. I get it.”

The guy’s expression is one tangled knot of emotional constipation. “That’s not what I think.”

“Yeah? Okay. I’m sure there was another interpretation of me being the brainless Scarecrow.”

I try to turn away, but he holds me still, his fingers in a vise grip around my arm. “Just—just give me a minute,” he snaps.

I wrench my arm free. “A minute for what? So you can think of new ways to insult me again? Pass.”

“I thought we had a deal,” he says in what seems to be a slightly desperate voice. “You tag along with me today, so we can prove—”

“That I don’t fit into your world?” I say, whirling around and taking a step closer to him.

He looks wary but doesn’t step back, not even when I stab my pointer finger into his solar plexus. “You know what? I think we can skip the whole exercise,” I say. “I don’t care about whether or not I fit into your world, because I’ve seen enough of it to know I don’t want to belong.”

“Georgiana.”

I put my weight against my finger, pushing away from him disdainfully. “Save it. Go find some woman with a big old brain who enjoys your condescension. Because this girl? She’s not it.”

“Wait—”

I don’t wait. I keep right on walking. “Hey, Charles,” I call over my shoulder, carefully avoiding looking at Andrew. “If anyone comes looking for me, take a message, would you? Let them know I’m unavailable because I’m off being ridiculous.”

Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, doesn’t say a word, not as I stab the elevator’s up button, not after I step into the safety of the elevator itself.

I catch a glimpse of him as the doors shut, his expression utterly blank, and even as I hate him, I want to know what he’s thinking.

I want . . . him.