The elevator ride is the longest of my life. I slump against the mirrored wall and try to get my breathing under control.

Had that really just happened? Had I really just let him kiss me that way?

And had I really just kissed him back?

This is wrong. God, this is so wrong. Yet being in his arms — it had felt amazing. Better than amazing. It had felt like everything I’d ever imagined being with Mister Bigshot would feel like. His lips were incredible… his hands … the way I could feel his dick pressing against me.

But it was more than just his body. It was the way he made me feel. Like I was the sexiest damn woman on the planet. Like he only had eyes for me.

Which is crazy. Trent Whittaker probably has women throwing themselves at him twenty-four seven. I’m nothing in the grand scheme of things. Just a temporary distraction for a man who was used to getting whatever he wanted.

The elevator door pings open and I step back into the safety of the eighteenth floor. I breathe a sigh of relief but it’s short-lived.

Charlene is waiting for me.

“Come into my office, please.”

I slowly follow her across the floor to her office. Sloane catches my eye and raises her eyebrows, but I just shrug and shake my head. I feel her eyes on me the entire time though, until I’m in Charlene’s office and she’s closed the door behind us.

“I assume since you’re back here that you weren’t fired.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

She leans forward, as if she’s expecting more of an answer.

“Well?” she says finally, huffing the word out impatiently. “What did he want?”

I scramble for an answer. I can’t exactly tell her that what he wanted was to tell me how much he wanted to bend me over his desk and fuck me. I’m not sure that would go over well with any manager, and given Charlene’s not-so-secret crush on the brothers, I’m half afraid she’d try to scratch my eyes out or something.

“Nothing,” I finally say. Great answer, Hannah. “He just wanted to talk about … chairs. Some things he wanted included in the copy.”

Charlene purses her lips. “He should be speaking to me about that.”

“I can’t help it that he asked for me,” I say defensively. “What was I supposed to do, decline the meeting?”

“No. But next time you tell him that you are merely a junior copywriter and that your manager is happy to discuss copy or anything else with him.”

Anything else. I almost laugh. I can think of a few things Charlene would probably love to discuss with Trent. If only she knew exactly what we’d really talked about up there…

“Okay.” I manage to keep a straight face for the rest of our meeting, and, when she’s satisfied that there’s nothing untoward going on, she finally dismisses me.

Sloane is at my desk at five o’clock sharp.

“Come on,” she says. She picks up the purse I’d thrown on my desk and hands it to me. “Let’s get going.”

“Where are we going?”

“Martinis, remember?”

Right. I’d totally forgotten about that.

Sloane’s forehead creases. “You’re not bailing, are you? Don’t tell me you’re bailing, Hannah.” She puts her hands on her hips.

“I’m not bailing,” I say. “It just slipped my mind. Let’s go.”

After all, maybe martinis with Sloane is exactly what I need to get my mind off Mister Bigshot.

* * *

As soon as we’re settled into a booth at Bitter, Sloane orders us two double dirty martinis. I’ve never been a fan of regular martinis — I only ever get the kind that taste more like candy than alcohol — but today seems like as good a day as any to start stepping out of my comfort zone.

After all, what happened up on thirty is entirely outside my comfort zone.

Once we have our drinks, Sloane tips her glass against mine and then takes a long swallow.

“Okay, missy. Spill.”

“Spill what?” I ask innocently as I take a sip of my martini. I’m surprised to find it’s not half bad. I take another sip.

Sloane is squinting at me again. “What did Trent Whittaker want to talk to you about? People don’t exactly get called to his office for no reason, you know.”

I blush, hoping she can’t tell in the dim light of the bar. “He just wanted to talk about some copy for the chairs section of the catalog.”

“And he invited you? Just a random copywriter? To talk about the catalog?” I can tell by the incredulity in her voice that she isn’t buying one word of this. What else can I tell her though? Certainly not the truth.

I shrug. “I don’t know what to tell you, Sloane. That’s what happened.”

I take another sip of my martini and realize I’ve already downed half of it. Better slow down.

“How did he even know you were the one working on chairs right now?”

Because I sent him an email where I described myself fucking him on it. I almost giggle as the answer pops into my head, but I force myself to keep a straight face. “I don’t know. Honestly. The whole thing was bizarre.”

I’ve never been a terribly good liar, and Sloane is clearly too savvy for my amateur attempts. I can tell she doesn’t believe me but she can prod all she wants — I’m not going to change my story. I can’t let anyone at the office know what happened today. Even if Trent doesn’t fire me, people in my department — especially Charlene — would be pissed if they found out the truth.

“Anyway, come on — we’re out for drinks. I don’t want to talk about work,” I tell her. “Let’s talk about something fun. Are you seeing anyone right now?”

Sloane grudgingly lets the Trent Whittaker thing go, and soon she’s regaling me with a blush-worthy tale of banging her upstairs neighbor. I can only shake my head and laugh as she tells me the story — if I was as ballsy and confident as Sloane, I probably never would have even ended up on Lovemail in the first place.

We order another round of double dirty martinis when our first drinks are gone, and then we order another round after that. By the time we’re ready to leave, I’m pretty much hammered.

Sloane and I split a cab, since we live in the same general direction. I give her a hug before I climb out of the taxi.

“What’s that for?” she asks, surprised.

“I don’t know,” I shrug, a little embarrassed. “I don’t have a lot of girl friends. This was fun.”

She smiles, her red lips curving upwards. “Hey — anytime you need girl talk, I’m here. It’s basically my favorite subject.”

We say our goodbyes and I head into my building.

When I reach the apartment I find Ally in her chair in the kitchen. There’s the smell of roasted garlic and toasted sesame seeds.

“I made stir fry,” Ally announces.

“Amazing,” I say. My stomach growls. “I’m starving. Also a little drunk.”

Ally laughs. “I figured you’d gone out. I guess it’ll be just water for you.” She nudges one of the empty wine glasses at me and I take it and fill it up under the tap. I chug a glass gratefully.

Note to self: three double martinis on a work night is about two double martinis too many.

I serve up two plates of stir-fry and Ally and I both pull up to the little table in our kitchen. It’s just barely big enough for two but that’s fine for us since we virtually never have guests.

I take a bite and let my eyes roll back in my head. “This is so good.”

“I found the recipe for the sauce on Pinterest.”

“Definitely a keeper.”

We eat in silence for awhile. I have no intention of telling her about Trent. Like, none at all. But I don’t know if it’s the martinis or the fact that she’s in such a good mood and we’re eating together like normal sisters, but suddenly I’m overcome with the desire to tell her everything.

“You remember last night?”

Ally stares at me. “Of course I remember last night. It was less than twenty-four hours ago.”

I laugh. “I mean, do you remember last night, how I said my date never showed?”

“Yeah?”

“I kinda lied.”

“What do you mean?”

“He showed but … well, it turned out he was someone I recognized. I freaked and ran off.”

Now Ally’s interest is definitely piqued. She leans forward in her chair. “Who was it?” she asks breathlessly.

“My boss. Actually, our CEO.” Then I’m telling her everything, how he managed to track me down, how he’d called me up to the thirtieth floor, how he’d kissed me in his office.

I don’t know what kind of reaction I’m expecting, but Ally looks downright horrified.

“You can’t see him again,” she admonishes.

I hesitate, but then I take a resigned bite of rice. “I know.”

“I’m serious, Hannah. What would happen if you got fired?”

“I know,” I say again.

“We can’t afford this place without your salary. What would we do if we had to move? It’s not like I can just live anywhere, my chair doesn’t fit well in those tiny apartments, you know that…”

Ally is freaking out now and I put my hand over hers to try to calm her down.

“That’s not going to happen, sweetie,” I assure her, but part of me knows she’s a hundred percent right. Rent isn’t cheap in Chicago and ours is even worse because we needed to get a place that was wheelchair accessible — both the building and the unit itself. That wasn’t easy to find, and we’d still had to make some accommodations to this place, like having supports installed in the bathroom so that she could get herself in and out of the tub or off the toilet. Moving just wasn’t a viable option for us — and it would be impossible if I lost my income.

I need to keep my job at Loft & Barn. That’s the main priority here. How could I have let myself forget that?

I finish my dinner quickly after that, and tell Ally to leave the dishes so that I can do them. She goes into the living room and I pour myself another glass of water. I load the dishwasher and then go to my room, closing the door behind me.

I take a moment to catch my breath. I have got to get my shit together. No more Mister Bigshot and no more Trent Whittaker. Back to being a good girl.

But even as I think that, I’m already opening up the Lovemail app. Just to check. Just one last time.

When I see the message icon flashing red, I suck in my breath.

I have a message. From Mister Bigshot.