Jenna Carlton marched through the crowded lobby, sidestepping the clueless who couldn’t figure out which elevator to use and the worker-bots who toiled in the gleaming skyscraper’s offices. She automatically counted out her footsteps—an odd habit that kept her focused.

Standard office issue black heels clicked out a rhythm as she weaved her way to the bank of doors fronting the busy city sidewalk. A cursory glance at the watch on her wrist showed that it was exactly 7:57. As usual, she was right on time.

“Good morning, Ms. Carlton. Beautiful day today.”

An unthinking, socially acceptable smile moved onto her face. “Every Wednesday needs a bright start,” she proclaimed in a friendly tone. “And good morning to you too, Kevin.”

The head of security offered her a two-finger salute off his balding head and nodded at a crowd of business suits flooding through the doors. “You’ll be swimming upstream, I’m afraid.”

She almost laughed. Working against the natural flow of things was what she did. With an offhanded wave, she fixed her eye on the doors and headed into the morning throng. Most of the people pouring into the building knew who she was and gave her a wide berth. Nobody who valued their job wanted to get on the wrong side of John Lloyd’s executive assistant by making her late.

Beginning to hurry, she forced her feet to pick up speed. Crossing the wide concrete outside the building, she skipped down three steps to the sidewalk and took her customary spot. A bus jammed with people lumbered past. Overhead, the bright blue sky peeking between the city skyscrapers got little more than a glance. She didn’t have time to rhapsodize about blue skies and sunny days.

Right on time, a black limousine pulled to the curb and stopped. The driver exited and acknowledged her with a token nod. They’d been doing this routine every weekday for fifty weeks out of the year since she took over as the handpicked gatekeeper for the President and CEO of Lloyd Global. Forty-two months, to be exact. Three and a half years.

Straightening her shoulders, she tapped on the iPad that sometimes felt more like an extension of her arm and started talking as the driver buttoned his jacket and opened the passenger door. Her internal starting gun fired when a polished black shoe hit the pavement.

“The ten a.m. with legal has been moved to one forty-five. Tom Mayhew hired Burton and Associates to represent him.”

John Lloyd moved from the limo to the sidewalk, unfolding his six-foot-four frame and buttoning the jacket of his tailored Savile Row suit. He wore the same thing every day—varied only with subtle shifts in the shade and tone of the dark business suits lining his walk-in closet.

For a man of forty-two years, he looked okay. If he noticed the gray starting at his temples, he didn’t care. An old Italian barber who told awful jokes and poked fun at her employer’s rigid appearance visited each week. Heaven forbid a single hair was too long.

After running a hand down his tie and checking that it was neatly in place, he met her eyes but didn't offer a hello. Good morning chitchat was something that flew right over his head. She didn't care. Not really. Everyone was entitled to their foibles and quirks.

They walked, striking a direct line to the building’s entrance, as Jen continued her morning update. She had no problem disguising the laugh that threatened to break out every damn morning when they made this walk together.

The first time she’d done the meet and greet had been ten days before John Lloyd had offered her the job of a lifetime. As a new hire, she’d been languishing in the fifth layer of hell known as the assistant pool for a month when she got thrown to the wolves after his PA suddenly quit. Gossip around the soda machine implied that the woman decided putting up with the devil’s second cousin wasn’t worth the grief.

Instead of fighting the scrum for a chance to be the CEO’s right hand, Jen was bemused to discover the lengths her co-workers went to stay off the man’s radar. Round robins of rock, paper, scissors broke out to avoid the job opening. In the end, the head of HR didn’t blink when it came time to throw a newb under the bus.

So on that fateful early morning three and a half years ago, she donned one of her sensible business suits and waited at the curb for the primary occupant of the shiny Lloyd Global tower. On that occasion, he'd done the same thing. Exit the car, spare her barely a glance, and start walking.

Someone else might have been intimidated by what seemed like an arrogant power play, but it took her less than five heartbeats to figure out something about her employer that nobody else appeared to pick up.

He wasn't an arrogant jerk. John Lloyd lacked the people skills most came by naturally. He wasn’t trying to be a dick. Not at all. He simply missed the obvious. And he was the shyest man she’d ever encountered.

With her mother's amused chuckle ringing in her memory, Jen made a choice. She'd been raised not to take anyone's crap. It didn't matter who it was or their station in life. Dawn Carlton always said that at the end of the day, everyone sits on the toilet the same way. Fairy farts and unicorn poop did not exist in real life.

On that fateful morning, just like today, she started the recitation of facts and reminders as he strode off. He got a good twenty steps ahead of her, but she refused to pick up her pace.

At the elevators, people melted into the scenery with eyes averted and looks of sheer panic. Amused, she continued in a sotto voce tone without skipping a beat.

He finally spoke to her inside the elevator after the doors slid shut.

“I can’t hear you,” he grumbled. “You’ll have to speak up.”

Aw, the poor tycoon had a grumpy morning attitude. Sheesh!

Fixing him with one arched brow and a semi-dismissive look, she explained the world according to Jenna Carlton.

“You’d hear me just fine if you didn’t run off.”

He reacted with a jolt. Did he expect deference, or was he shocked that someone dared to speak to him like a normal human being?

“I don’t do shitty manners, Mr. Lloyd,” she tersely informed him. After glancing at his polished shoes, she returned to his dumbfounded expression. “Your double digit feet have an unfair advantage over my size sevens. Did you want me to jog after you? Maybe fall on my face?”

His mouth dropped open.

At the executive floor, the doors whooshed open, and she stepped out ahead of him, resuming the morning briefing as she walked. When he hesitated, she huffed a sigh and looked back at him. “Hello? This is your floor, Mr. Lloyd.”

The rest of the day unfolded in pretty much the same way. By sticking to her guns, she managed to change the way he interacted with her. He hired her as his executive assistant ten days later.

Now when they walked along, and she laid out his morning brief, he slowed his gait to accommodate however fast or slow she was walking and even held the door open. The only other person, male or female, he opened the door for was his mother. Jen knew, though, that when he did it for his assistant, the act was one of the few he made as a man.

She took it as a sign of growth. For him.

“I, uh, broke my phone,” he told her in the quiet of the elevator. “Do we have another?”

“Please be real.” She smirked at him. “Apple has you on an auto-delivery plan.”

He ducked his head to hide a sheepish expression. “I’ll assume you arranged for the gold plan,” he murmured dryly.

She met his eyes, saw the sardonic twinkle, and grinned. “Of course.”

The elevator climbed to the top floor and leveled off. This next interlude was sometimes the best part of the day—ushering her socially awkward boss through a sea of people who hung on his every word and facial expression.

Before she came along and walked him through it, John Lloyd had barely interacted with the rest of the world. He still required deft reinforcement, but after three years together, he knew the drill by heart and made an attempt without being prodded.

“Bob Reed is getting married this weekend. You sent a lovely silver coffee service.”

“The bride’s name?” he quietly asked.

“Gwen.”

The confidence in his walk showed just how much he relied on her to help navigate this particular minefield. After a brief congratulatory handshake for Bob, they continued. She kept up a murmured, running dialogue with cues and hints as several of the senior executives queued up for a second of face time.

Up ahead, she caught her first glimpse of the impressive reception area that stood as a bulwark to his private office. Mentally crossing her fingers, she reminded John in a calm, soft voice that his executive receptionist’s birthday was tomorrow. Why did she cross her fingers? Because she was hoping he got in the freakin’ game instead of directing her to make the appropriate gesture.

And why would John Lloyd need to get in the game with the woman behind the desk? Because unless Jen’s cupid radar was screwy, her boss had a thing for the pretty, single mom.

As they approached, Samantha Matthews stood and happily greeted them. “Good morning, sir,” she said.

If Jen had a love wand, this was the moment she’d start waving it. Please respond, please, she silently prayed.

“Good morning, Samantha,” he replied somewhat stiffly. His shyness was a cruel bitch.

Use one of the prompts, Jen tried to telegraph. Come on, John. You can do it.

She’d instructed him on a few polite ways to engage without putting his foot in it. Something as innocuous as ‘You look nice today’ can lead to a call from HR, so she had to help him find some simple, all-purpose words.

“Are those birthday flowers?” he asked with a nod at the small arrangement on her desk.

Samantha beamed when he mentioned her birthday.

“No, sir. These are from a friend’s garden. Hydrangeas and peonies.”

Suspecting that might be all they could expect from him, Jen was ready to move them along when he surprised the holy hell out of her.

“Have you a green thumb?” he asked with a chuckle. “I can murder plastic plants. Just ask Jenna.”

A conversation? This was … fantastic!

“Truth,” Jen drawled. “The fake jade plant on the bookcase in his office? One day it simply shriveled up and died.”

* * *

John felt like his heart would hammer out of his chest. He struggled to make small talk, but something about the efficient, no-nonsense woman manning the reception desk had been screwing with his head for some time.

Average height with curves that scared the shit out of him, Samantha Matthews packed quite a wallop. And since he was more experienced at being on the other end of a wallop, he wasn't altogether certain what the hell he was doing.

Thank god for Jenna. More than an assistant, she was a guardian angel stuffed inside an impervious outer shell of control. He'd never seen her rattled and frequently wondered what it would take to throw her off.

Where Samantha was concerned, he needed her adroit social skills. She always knew what to say.

“I can grow anything,” Samantha told them with a laugh. “Benefit of life on a farm.”

Hmm. A thought burst in his mind and rolled off his tongue before he adequately thought it through.

"Um, would you mind looking at the plants on my terrace? I think they're overwatered."

John didn't know what the hell he was talking about, but the words sounded reasonable, so he added a hopeful spin to the request.

“If you have time. No pressure.”

He felt Jen’s eyes on him. Samantha gawked uncomfortably and then turned an attractive shade of pink. She hesitated for so long that he felt sweat-inducing heat shoot into his neck and start to dampen his collar.

“I could do that.” Her voice held a tinge of shyness that made his stomach do somersaults. The acrobatics didn’t stop the bozo grin from spreading across his face.

Beside him, Jen raised her phone and frowned. "Sorry to cut this short," she said. "Samantha, why don't you stop by after lunch, and you can look at the sad terrace plants."

He wanted to ask why the damn hurry and then remembered who he was. Chitchat had to be carved from his overly scheduled time.

Samantha waved as they walked toward his office. John sighed before shrugging off his disappointment.

In his huge office with the high ceilings, he headed for the massive executive desk sitting in the center of a wall of windows that looked out over the busy city. Like much of everything in his world, the desk and office were extravagant and designed to leave an impression. It was more or less lost on him.

He unbuttoned his suit jacket and shoved a hand in one pocket. “What was the rush? Were flowers on the No-No list?”

He felt a wave of uncertainty when his usually loquacious assistant ignored him with her back. She was neatly stacking a haphazard pile of magazines on the coffee table in a seating area and doing so with an impressive amount of fervor.

He wondered, What the hell crawled up her skirt?

“Jen?”

She turned around and looked at him. Her expression was blank, but her eyes did that dangerous squinty thing that appeared before someone got handed their ass.

“Ryan’s on his way up.”

Five words—six if you count the contraction. Each of them dripping with scorn.

“I thought he was in Alaska till next month.”

“Yes, well,” she bit out with uncharacteristic bitchiness. “Your mother suggested he come home now. Didn’t you know?”

“Whatever for?”

“I believe,” she answered with a sharp sniff, “that a wife has been found. Quinn Montgomery,” she spat in a snotty drawl.

Finding suitable wives for him and his younger brother, Ryan, was his mother’s newest hobby. The threats started when John turned forty and had only gotten worse in the two years since. He wasn’t interested in a socially acceptable arranged marriage, plus he didn’t have the time or, frankly, any interest whatsoever.

When his father unexpectedly died in a car accident the year after John got his master’s from Wharton, and he’d inherited the CEO position, he lost his personal life in the exchange. There wasn’t time for friends and personal interests or pursuits. Lloyd Global was far too big for that nonsense.

If he’d ever thought about marriage and having a family, those possibilities turned to dust under the relentless drive required to keep the company moving forward. His mother was barking up the wrong tree if she imagined for one second that he had the time or emotional capacity to deal with the family he already had, much less a new one.

But Ryan was another thing altogether. In John’s opinion, his little brother had the perfect amount of time to play their mother’s game.

Sure, he was executive director of a huge, successful division of Lloyd Global. The outdoor recreation and sporting division that Ryan developed and oversaw was a solid moneymaker.

As the man with the vision, Ryan Lloyd carved out a niche as a globetrotting outdoorsman. The press loved him and hung on his every word and sensational deed.

The idea of clipping the guy's wings with a wife was a bit fucked up, but if his mother wanted to ensure continuity of the Lloyd family, Ryan was the better candidate.

He whistled. “Quinn Montgomery. Is she even real? I thought she was one of those hospitality robots.”

Jen snorted out a laugh. Her voice sounded like sandpaper when she replied. “Following a comprehensive review of his financials, your brother’s stock went up.”

He wasn’t good at reading people, but he and Jen did okay with each other. She’d always been extraordinarily open with him, which made it easy to trust her. That must be why he noted the grim tautness around her mouth.

His brother and his very efficient assistant interacted a couple of times a year when Ryan did his part in the Lloyd Global dog and pony show.

Until thirty seconds ago, John assumed the two would never be able to get past their mutual dislike. Ryan was too much of a free spirit for the buttoned up and straitlaced Jenna Carlton.

But something about her tone and the severity of her pinched mouth made him pause. What pissed her off? That Quinn was motivated by money or was it something else?

John dropped the paper he held on the desk and moved away from the blinding sunlight streaming through the windows. Unless it involved a negotiation or business deal, he sucked at reading people, but with Jen's help, he'd developed a few mechanisms that helped him focus at those times when some personal awareness was required. In this instance, he shifted into the shadows and edged closer. He wanted to see her feet. Body language was a focal point, and focal points offered clues. Clues he needed to help navigate.

“My brother is a wealthy man. The outdoor division is teetering on being an embarrassment of riches.” He rolled a shoulder and tried for a smirk. “Even without what he inherited and his portion of the company, he has a serious bank account. Not that he cares,” John added at the end.

That was when he saw it. The slight kick of her dangerous looking shoes against the leg of the sofa. Ryan and his bank account got to her. Or maybe it was his lack of fucks to give over his personal wealth. Something.

“What’s your point, John?” she snapped. “That having a lot of money gets you a wife? Seriously?”

“No,” he objected with a headshake. "I'm just saying that, all things considered, it might be a contributing factor."

She ripped out an exasperated grunt. "A contributing factor?"

The way she said it made the expression sound like a withering indictment that was in no way flattering.

“Well”—she snorted dismissively—“if money is a contributing factor in choosing a mate, count me out. Your brother is an idiot for going along with whatever this is.”

Her pissed-off hand wave intrigued him. So did the tapping of her foot.

Hmph.

"In my brother's defense, he might not know what Connie and Grace are up to."

Not knowing what the hell Constance Lloyd and her twin sister, Grace, were meddling in at any given moment was standard for their family. The two had far too much time on their hands. Time they devoted more and more often to interfering in their kids’ lives than to their usual philanthropic endeavors.

Inferring that perhaps Ryan was clueless where the Quinn Montgomery matter was involved seemed to soften Jen’s displeasure. Well, he hoped that was what happened. He wasn’t sure because her mood shifted a nanosecond later when a commotion in the vestibule outside his office grabbed their attention.

“A venti coconut macchiato says the prodigal brother has returned.”

John snorted a laugh. “Get real. You have an unlimited expense account at Starbucks. Get your own damn macchiato.”

The commotion outside his office was quite loud now. It sounded like his brother was doing his usual act—charming and cajoling all who entered his orbit.