Don’t drop the doughnuts. Don’t drop the doughnuts.

With every precarious step I take down the New York City sidewalk, the thought repeats over and over again in my mind like the dumbest mantra I’ve ever heard. Even if I do make it to the office without dropping these doughnuts, I can tell that the phrase will have lodged itself in my mind and stick there for days, maybe even weeks.

This all started out as a relatively simple idea: bring in treats on my first day at the office to endear me to everybody in my new department—the Executive Support department—at Wilder Enterprises, my employment home for the foreseeable future.

It got complicated when the June weather turned upside down, whipping itself up from a calm and pleasant—though slightly overcast—day into a voracious thunderstorm when some rogue cold front smashed into the steamy heat rising above the city early this morning. I woke up to the sound of raindrops lashing against my window ledge, and I promptly snuggled deeper into my pillow.

Rain like this means there are no cabs. No cabs means I have to take the subway. The subway means having to walk three blocks carrying an enormous box of freshly baked doughnuts.

The box wasn’t meant to be this big, by the way. I was going to bring in a respectable two dozen, and if my department turns out to be bigger than that, tough luck. But the guy selling the doughnuts at the cute little family-owned bakery three doors down from my apartment had to be so nice. He gave me a big grin, flashing his white teeth and prominently displaying his dimples, and insisted on throwing in another dozen, artfully arranged in a box so big I ended up taking two seats on the subway.

I shrug one shoulder upward, trying to hoist my purse strap up farther on my arm to keep it from slipping down. It’s a constant struggle, what with the bulky raincoat I’m wearing in what turns out to be a futile effort to keep my clothes dry. The collar of the neat and professional suit jacket I’m wearing underneath it is soaked—I can feel it—and one of the buttons near the throat is coming undone. Correction, it is undone, which means the front of my silk shirt is—

I can’t think about that now. The effort it’s taking to bring in freshly baked treats on my first day of work, not to mention doing so through a rainstorm, will no doubt endear me to my future colleagues, if nothing else. It’s hard not to like someone who shows up on the first day bearing doughnuts and wearing a wet shirt, looking slightly sheepish and green behind the ears.

It’s going to be seen as a nice gesture, even if it’s only an illusion. I’ve pulled it off so many times before, and every time successfully.

Today might be the first time my entry into a company like Wilder Enterprises goes totally off the rails.

I take a deep breath, tightening my grip on the unwieldy box of doughnuts. It will definitely be the first time I’ve worked an investigation at a company even remotely close to the size of Wilder Enterprises. So regardless, this is a whole new ballgame. Although the stakes would be a lot lower if this was only some annual sporting tournament that goes on to affect almost no one. Instead, this is my big chance to prove myself at the FBI.

You can do this, I remind myself without the slightest hint of irony. It takes some serious cojones for a woman with no experience beyond a journalism degree with a focus on investigative reporting to do anything in the FBI, but I’ve managed to pull it off more than once. For five years, I’ve done…not to brag, but I’ve done rather well for myself.

But it’s time to move up in the world, and Wilder Enterprises is how I’m going to do it. All I need to do is conduct this investigation exactly by the books. No funny business, no getting attached to anyone at the company—none of that. It’s cut and dried: I need to get in, get to the bottom of what’s happening, and get out, hopefully with a big fancy medal waiting for me back at the home offices.

Not literally. But if it’s in the form of a pay raise, I’d certainly take it…

I shake my head to gather my thoughts, a scattering of raindrops falling from my hair. The torrents of rain continue driving down around me, mixing with the downpour battering the streets and any sidewalk not concealed under the protective covering of an awning.

I still have a block to go with the dampened cardboard box of doughnuts getting heavier by the minute when the wind starts to pick up.

No, no, no. I tense myself, bracing myself against the sheets of wind. The last thing I need right now is for a howler to come racing between all the skyscrapers and upend the giant pink box I’ve been clutching in my hands for most of forty-five minutes.

Picking up the pace isn’t an easy prospect, what with the slick sidewalks and the stilettos I’ve chosen to wear today, quite the combination considering the weather—I should have gone with the kitten heels—but I do my best, taking smaller steps and hustling.

“Vivienne Davis,” I say under my breath, keeping my tone bright and even, which is how I will speak when I enter through the doors of my newest place of employment for the first time and introduce myself. I’ve spent the last few weeks securing my undercover identity. Vivienne Davis is close enough to my real name that I won’t forget it, but if you look up Vivienne Davis, you won’t find even the tiniest clue linking it to a woman who works for the FBI. All you’ll discover is a few random and well-placed tidbits about little old me, a graduate of NYU and former executive assistant at Farwell Limited, a company based in New Mexico that has all the makings of a real business without actually being one.

That was my idea—the fake business, in case anyone in the HR department at Wilder Enterprises went to the trouble of researching my background. I doubt they did—most organizations of this size don’t actually bother aside from the basics—but you never know. It’s always better to be safe than sorry.

Only half a block to go.

The towering skyscraper that houses Wilder Enterprises headquarters has an awning, though it doesn’t span the building’s entire front face, only the area directly over the entrance.

Get to the awning. And don’t drop the doughnuts.

I’m almost there. I’m going to make it. I’m so going to make it that I’m almost home free.

Ten steps. Five. Three.

With a little whoop of triumph that I mostly manage to keep contained under my breath, I take the final step, putting me firmly—and safely—underneath the awning. The final step—the one that actually hides a crack in the sidewalk.

The heel of my shoe slips perfectly into the crack… and snaps off like a twig.

The sidewalk is damp enough that even though I try to balance myself, even though I try hard, I can’t quite get purchase with my other foot. My right knee twists painfully as the heel gives up on its last inch of life.

I lose my grip on the box—then catch it again—but I’m still falling, and—shit—the street has suddenly become a giant wind tunnel, right now, right at this moment. The gust of wind coupled with the driving sheets of rain are so strong that it whistles as it seizes the clear lid of the box. I scramble to slam it down back into place, but too late I catch sight of the horrible angle of the box—too late to stop the jelly doughnut that was perched right on top from flying out and right into the opening of my raincoat, smashing its innards onto what had been until seconds ago my neatly ironed white shirt.

My knee slams down onto the concrete, putting an end to this embarrassment, and doughnuts go scattering in all directions. There are only about a dozen survivors, and then there is me, kneeling on the sidewalk, my knee throbbing in burning pain, the heel of my right black stiletto broken, the raincoat hood blown off my head, while a car—black and sleek and by the looks of it way too expensive for me to ever dream of owning—glides up to the curb in time for whoever is inside it to witness the whole thing.

The driver hurries out, bustles swiftly around the side of the car closest to the awning, and pulls open the back door on the passenger side, standing aside for a tall, elegant man who is so gorgeous that he must be a descendent from some kind of Greek god to step out onto the sidewalk. He fixes his flashing blue eyes on me, and then his lips appear to dip into a frown.

I choke back a gasp. He’s that sexy.

Worst of all, I recognize him.

My embarrassment is only beginning.