AUSTIN

“Good morning, Mr. Sexton,” Martin, a security guard, greets me as I walk through the two-story lobby of marble and granite.

The word SEXTON is in bold black letters on the wall behind the security desk, letting anyone who enters know who owns this place.

I pass through the turnstile without having to swipe a badge, and when I get to the elevator bank, an attendant waits to push the call button.

Once the elevator doors open to the twenty-second floor, and Stefanie, my assistant, is waiting with a portfolio in one hand and a large coffee in the other. It’s our Friday tradition.

She’s a smart one, so she hands me the coffee first. “Good morning, Mr. Sexton.” 

“Have I ever told you, you’re the best assistant in the world?” I ask as I start to take a sip.

“Daily. And I know it.” She pushes her glasses up her nose and follows me down the hallway toward the main workspace where desk after desk is filled with people scurrying to write tomorrow’s news when today has barely started. 

We continue down the hall to my corner office. The room is decorated with mahogany wood paneling and a cream-colored rug. The floor-to-ceiling windows at the far end have a fantastic view of the Golden Gate Bridge and, my favorite, Alcatraz. When I look at it, I hear Sean Connery’s deep brogue in my head.

“Alcatraz,” I mutter to myself in my best imitation.

There’s a button on my desk that moves a large bookcase and swings it around to make a bar appear. It’s my Mad Men office. Makes me feel like Don Draper. 

Stefanie stops at the door while I proceed to the bar. It’s lined with mirrors, glass shelves, and these gaudy crystal canisters to house my whiskey collection. It’s cheesy but cool as fuck. It was a gift to myself when I was summoned to work as President of Digital Media within Sexton Media.

I take out a glass and hold it up to Stefanie in offering.

She shakes her short brown hair and raises a palm, as if to say, No, thanks. 

I pour a shot into my coffee and then take a sip before I walk around my desk and sit in my leather Aeron chair. I prop my feet on the desk and listen while Stefanie gives me the rundown of my day.

“You have a nine o’clock call with the sales team at Under Armour to talk about the digital sponsorship for the web series on Stephen Curry.” 

I roll my eyes at the project my editorial team conjured up. Everyone has done interviews with the Golden State Warrior already. That’s not the type of thing that sets you apart from the competition. But everyone keeps saying I don’t know what I’m talking about.

Stefanie continues, “Missy called a ten o’clock board meeting.”

I take another drink and try to taper my disgust at the mention of my stepmonster. 

“And Steven Miller called you back.” 

I pop up in my seat, my feet hitting the ground with a thud. “He called back? What did he say?” 

Her face lights up bigger than her five-foot-five stature. “He said he’d been waiting for your call and agreed to talk today at four.”

I slap my hand down on my desk in excitement. This is a meeting I’ve been preparing a long time for, and knowing it’s finally going to happen brings a nervous feeling rushing through me.

While I might hate what my father and his new wife are trying to do to this place with their sensationalized news and pop culture–only headlines, stories like the one Sergeant Miller has to tell make it more than worth it. 

Every media outlet has been after an interview with him since he was awarded the Medal of Honor. He barely survived his heroism and has asked for his privacy while he heals. I had a feeling the time was right, and I’m glad I listened to my gut to reach out to him. 

“Confirm that call and then get me a list of the top ten producers my father hasn’t royally pissed off.” I tap my finger on the desk as the wheels in my head set in motion doing an actual human-interest story, like the ones we used to do. Back when the smartest woman I ever knew was in charge.

“Oh, and Bryce wants to see you in his office,” Stefanie says tentatively, making my high immediately disappear. 

I wave off the notion. He already ruined the event last night with his speech about how I needed to pull my weight around here. It’s why my phone’s been off all morning, avoiding his calls.

“Tell him I’ll stop by for another heart-to-heart before I leave for the day.” 

Stefanie clutches the portfolio to her chest and looks up over the rim of her glasses. “Actually, he wants to see you … now.” 

I shouldn’t be surprised. The guy harasses me seventy-five times a day. I do a great job of ignoring his emails, calls, and texts. Unfortunately, it’s more difficult to avoid him when we work on the same floor.

Running my fingers through my hair, I weigh the odds. If I don’t go, he’ll just march his moody self over here and lecture me for as long as he wants from the comfort of my leather sofa. If I go to him, I can listen and then leave when I feel the conversation is finished. 

Going for the latter, I grab my coffee and make my way toward the opposite corner of the building where my dear brother’s office is located. It’s not a coincidence that I chose the office farthest away from him. 

I swear, the guy never sleeps. The word workaholic in the dictionary should have his picture next to it. He’s constantly giving me shit that I don’t do my part, which I do. I wish he would open his eyes and see that for a change. 

I turn the corner to his office, and—surprise, surprise—the secretary desk is empty. No knickknacks or pictures. Not even a notepad. The glass and metal desk is sitting here with a lone Mac computer and a sad-looking black-and-red Sexton Media pen.

Looks like big brother pissed off yet another assistant.

That’s his third assistant in the eighteen months I’ve worked here. The last one was a hard-core hockey fan named Christine who had a desire for my brother’s—ahem—stick.

Every secretary has fallen head over heels for Bryce Sexton.

They come in here and fall for his good looks and take-charge attitude. One girl used our company holiday party to run up to the microphone of the eight-piece band and publically profess her love for him, only to quit the next day.

The guy isn’t exactly the sweet-talking type. He’s the give you strict orders, and if you don’t follow them, he’ll reprimand you for an hour kinda guy. He isn’t an asshole, but he does act like he carries the world on his shoulders and makes sure everyone around him knows it, too.

Even though his life is one hundred percent work, one hundred percent of the time, women fall for his steel demeanor and want to be the one to crack him open. That’s why he has—on more than one occasion—arrived at the office to a naked secretary on his desk. One of these days, he’s going to get a lawsuit thrown at him.

Bryce’s office is the mirror image of mine in layout, except his is all white walls and glass furniture. He doesn’t have a bar, but I know for a fact that he has a couple bottles of Johnnie Walker Black hidden in his bottom drawer on the right side of his desk. 

“I was half-expecting you to avoid me today,” he says without taking his focus off his computer screen. 

“If I’m one thing, it’s accountable.”

Bryce looks up at me with those cold dark eyes he inherited from our father and shrugs in agreement. That’s about as much of a compliment as I’ll ever get from him. 

I walk over to the conference table and take a seat at one of the swivel chairs; the wheels roll back as I fall into it.

I see him give me his signature look of disagreement—chin down as he glares at me over the rim of his glasses. You can always tell when he’s had a shitty night by the way he can’t get his contacts into his dry eyes the next morning.

Adjusting my tie, I say with a snicker, “I see you’re assistant-less today.” 

“New one starts this morning. She’s down in Human Resources, getting an ID card. We need to talk about something important.”

“Please tell me it has something to do with you needing a new assistant because I love to hear when you make a mistake.”

“Funny how you like to make jokes about my sex life when you’ve been with women I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole.”

I squint my eyes at him, hating that he knows so much about me, including who I lost my virginity to.

His office phone rings, and he answers without caring that I’m sitting here, waiting for the one-on-one meeting he summoned me here for.

Frustrated he’s putting me off when he demanded I be here, I lean as far back in the chair as it will allow, testing it to see just how low it will go before I fall back.

“Yes, Missy.” He grimaces, taking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “Austin is here. We’ll both be at the meeting,” he sighs into the phone. 

When I push further with my feet, the front wheels of the chair lift slightly off the ground.

“We’ll discuss your new plan then.” He’s rubbing his forehead with his thumb and pointer finger, the aggravation palpable.

I don’t know why he entertains her as much as he does. Between me, him, and our younger brother, Tanner, we have an equal share in half of this company—sixteen-point-six-seven percent each, to be exact—while she and Dad share the other half.

With my arms up, I try to free-fall back, but the damn chair doesn’t budge. Instead, it catapults me straight up, interfering with my desire to cause havoc in any way I can. 

He hangs up the phone, and I know he’s gonna discuss Missy, but I don’t have the patience for that this morning.

Instead, I point toward the door where the assistant will sit. “Is she hot?” 

Bryce growls at me. “It’s her first day.” 

“So?” 

He rises from his desk and gives me a pointed glare. “I just met her an hour ago. The temp agency hired her.” He walks away from his desk and into his private bathroom, leaving the door open as he adjusts his tie. 

He looks so much like our father did at his age—dark hair over a serious brow and square jawline. He never misses a shave or a morning at the gym. And at six foot three, he looks like he can conquer the fucking world.

Except for me, of course.

“I call dibs on banging your new assistant,” I shout out. I’m fucking with him. He knows I don’t date women who work for us, but I’m trying to point out that he shouldn’t either.

His deep voice booms from the bathroom. “You can’t call dibs on my secretary.” 

“Why? You want a crack at her first? I hear that didn’t go so well for you in the past.”

Bryce walks out of the bathroom, his jaw clenched and his fists balled tight. “Can we please discuss the issues at hand and not what your actual hand will be doing when you don’t get in her pants?” 

I grin. “It’s on. You know I love a challenge.” 

Bryce shakes his head as he reaches for a folder off his desk and slams it on the table in front of me. “Bolton Energy is shopping for ad space. They’re the biggest residential solar energy company in the world, and everyone from NBC to Amazon is pitching them for placement.” 

I lift the colorful file off the glass table and thumb through it. I’ve seen their ads before. They usually feature a family of four having dinner in their home that’s completely run on green energy.

I notice an article about water recycling and how they’ve developed a cost-effective machine that can be installed on any home boiler.

“It’s an amazing company, but I don’t see how the content we’re providing is something they’d want to invest in.” I don’t even try to hide my dismay for where the company our mother built is heading. 

Since Dad gave Missy a position in the company, our content has been a far cry from the down-home roots we used to have. Now that she’s part-owner, I can’t even imagine what she’ll do.

Bryce runs a hand through his dark hair, my comment aggravating him, to say the least. “No shit. That’s why we need to restructure and get the content back on track. If you didn’t dick around so much and actually helped run this company, I wouldn’t be going head-to-head with Missy on a daily basis and losing every fucking time.” 

Here we go again. The conversation we keep on coming back to. I jolt up from the seat and get eye-to-eye with him. “Tell me how you really feel,” I spit out. 

“It’s time you grew the fuck up and started pulling weight around here.” 

I can feel my jaw protruding through my skin with how hard I’m clenching my teeth.

“We are one wrong move away from losing this company. Dad and Missy are going to sell it piece by piece to the highest bidder unless you get your shit together and fucking help me.” 

The notion of our family business being sold shocks me. Not that I don’t think my father and stepmother would try. Neither of them cares about Sexton Media. All they see are dollar signs, and this company is worth a pretty penny.

My brows furrow as I try to figure out what in the world Bryce is talking about. “They can’t do that without a majority share in the company. You, Tanner, and I have fifty percent between the three of us.” 

Bryce does an abrupt about-face and walks to his desk. “You have no idea, do you?”

“No idea about what?”

He picks up an email that’s already printed out. “You’re way too … you this morning to know just how close you are to losing your shares.”

With a confused frown, I take the paper from him and look down at the subject line.

RACING TO THE GRAVE 

I peer up at Bryce for a second before reading the next line.

ONE DEAD AFTER UNDERGROUND STREET RACING STUNT

My mouth is dry as I read through the email from one of our editors. It seems that, after the police showed up last night and the mob dissipated, a driver plowed his car headfirst into a freeway underpass as he tried to get away.

I look at the name of the victim—Tyler Renshaw.

My stomach drops, and I feel like I’m going to be sick. Last time I saw the guy, I was screaming at him for shining the light and giving us a false start race. Now, he’s fucking dead because he was just trying to get home.

I try to control my emotions as I look back at Bryce. He doesn’t seem to be affected by my reaction to the article.

“Turn your phone on. I bet Gregg’s been trying to get ahold of you all morning.” He stands behind his desk, resting his palms on the table, towering over me. “Our own newspaper is running with that as their lead story tomorrow. They just sent that to me from their morning rundown meeting. You gonna try telling me you had nothing to do with what happened last night?”

It takes me a minute to gather my thoughts, but I finally choke out, “I’ll make an anonymous donation to his family and make sure they’re taken care of. They shouldn’t have to be financially burdened in their time of grief.” 

“I told you, the racing has to stop!” He paces his office. “This is the kind of thing that’s going to cause us to lose our company.”

Mom was a smart woman when she willed her shares to us and not father. Her only mistake was stipulating that, if we were convicted of a crime before we turned thirty-five, those shares would be given to our father for him to decide our future in the company.

We were teenagers when she had her will rewritten. She knew the troubles young men with money could find themselves in and wanted a way to keep us on the straight and narrow should we ever find ourselves in positions of power at a young age.

What she didn’t know was that her good-for-nothing husband would remarry and to a vindictive woman who held no pride or heritage in this company.

“It will never happen.”

He leans forward, his hands splayed on the desk, dramatically holding his weight up, as he seethes, “Stop teetering on the edge of losing everything she worked for. Everything I’m working to keep!”

I slam my fist onto the desk, seriously wishing it were Bryce’s face. There are a million fucking things I want to say—about racing, about my own love for this company that I don’t even want to work at, about how much I miss her—but he doesn’t want to hear any of it.

I point to the paper. “That crash happened on the way to the freeway. It had nothing to do with the race.” 

“That’s not how the mayor of Oakland sees it. He’s calling for a citywide manhunt for the men who orchestrate these races. That’s you, Austin. You and Gregg are in deep shit. I can’t help Gregg, but I sure as shit have to make sure you stay out of this. The mayor wants the street racing to stop, and so do I. Who knows you were there last night?” 

“No one,” I say quickly and then halt.

The vision of a beautiful brunette with hazel eyes and a quick mouth comes into memory.

She knows I was there.

He must see my hesitation because he growls, “Who?” 

“I said, no one.” I grind my teeth.

The last thing I need is him tracking down this girl just to prove his point that I’m careless. Plus, I don’t want her involved. It’s bad enough that dick Beckett brought her to the race and gave her up like a chump. If she’s brought into this, she’ll only be ensnared in Sexton family drama, full of hush-money payouts.

Not that I should care about her. She was a royal pain in my ass. I had to beg multiple times to get back in the damn car when she’d rather walk up and down the crime-ridden streets of Oakland by herself at night. 

She might have seen my face, but judging from her reaction, she had no idea who I was. She’s probably forgotten what I look like already anyway. 

I’m about to open my mouth and tell Bryce he needs to mind his own goddamn business when his office door opens, and the room suddenly fills with the overpowering aroma of peaches. Normally the smell stems bad memories through my body, but for the first time other things are coming to mind.

A woman’s voice says from behind me, “Oh, excuse me. I didn’t realize you had company.” 

Bryce waves the woman in. “Come in. Now’s as good a time as any. Just please knock next time. I was finishing up a conversation with my brother. Austin, meet my new assistant … I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten your name.” 

I laugh out loud at the level of pompousness my brother has reached.

“Well, my brother might not have the decency to remember your name, but I …” I turn around to shake hands with his new assistant and come face-to-face with her. 

I hit the proverbial brakes. 

Hard. 

My words fail as my heart slams right into my chest.

Not only do I know this woman, but I also just convinced myself that she had already forgotten my face.

Unfortunately, from the way she’s staring at me right now, she knows exactly who I am.