The next morning, I get up super early to work out, swing by Target and get a doormat for Tathan, and then replace it.

It’s finally Friday, and while I’m excited for the weekend, caffeine needs to happen before I can even think about getting through the day. I know I said I spend most of my day getting coffee orders, but I need it myself, only I’m not about to drink the crap I serve the assholes at work.

My usual stop on the way to work is a small café in Scottsdale that serves the most amazing, creamy mochas you’ll ever taste in your life. There’s always a line out the door, and their chocolate croissants are easily a pastry I will stab you for. Which is why I work out every morning because there’s like a thousand calories in it. Not really, but I’m sure it’s pretty close to that.

Giggles and sighs catch my attention at the counter in front of me once I make it through the outside line and finally in the building.

When I peek around the crowd, I see the cashier is paying way too much attention to her current customer, and she just slipped him her number written on the outside of his coffee cup.

How tacky can you be? What’s wrong with women these days? They throw themselves at men and expect them to have respect for them. How? They see the way you act and figure they can get away with that too.

“Seriously, some people need to get to work. This isn’t eHarmony, speed it up, assholes,” I say, loud enough for her and her current eye candy to hear me.

As Zane would say, she’s clearly missing the olive in her martini judging by the way she keeps tossing her platinum blonde hair around.

If she keeps that shit up, her brain will fall out with all the whipping she’s doing. And then she won’t be able to make my coffee, and that will really piss me off.

The man at the counter turns to face me—he definitely heard what I said. That’s when I see his profile, and I smile to myself. Of all the fucking luck. Can you guess who it is?

You’re probably right. But if not, it’s Tathan standing there in all his morning glory with his next harem girl drooling over his appearance. Goddamn, but he looks good first thing in the morning. All bright-eyed and cheery, but still pulling off the manly ruggedness. His smile widens when he notices me, and suddenly, he’s the only one in the building I can make eye contact with, his presence captivating.

I’m smiling, not only because he is, but also because I interrupted his love connection with the barista, and it makes me extremely happy to know I broke it up. Sadistic I know.

Tathan gives me a once-over, a thorough glance up and down my body, and I suddenly feel very self-conscious, even though I am far from that. I know I have a great body because I work damn hard for it—despite the mocha and chocolate croissants—and I’m not the type of girl who gets self-conscious. If you don’t like my booty and size C tits, fuck off. I didn’t ask for your opinion, did I?

His jaw tightens, and he turns back to the barista and whispers in her ear. Apparently not hearing what she wants, she shoots me a dirty look and turns around to write something down. What the fuck did I do to her? See, this is the problem with chicks. They’re so fucking moody and catty. Just because he looked at me, she suddenly hates me and will more than likely not warm my damn croissant to the perfect temperature like I like it.

With his own cup of coffee in hand, Tathan walks past me, but stops as his shoulder bumps into mine softly. With a gentle breath that blows warmth over my cheek, he leans in, his lips dangerously close to my ear. I draw in a deep breath that sounds like a wind tunnel.

Do I flinch back like I should? No, hell no, my damn knees are weak. I stand there, jelly legs and all, like a fucking idiot waiting in front of the lion who’s stalking his prey.

“See you at work, Amalie,” he says, eyes twinkling as he walks away.

Momentarily I’m stricken by his good looks again. Stricken stupid apparently because I have absolutely nothing smartass to say to him.

What’s happening to me?

Should I call in sick? I need time to think.

After being pushed from the lady behind me, I finally awake from my daydream—the one of us being zipped in a sleeping bag together in the farthest reaches of the Antarctic with nothing but the warmth of our bodies keeping us alive. It’s a great dream.

At the counter, I whisper, “Tall mocha and a chocolate croissant warmed.”

The girl, remember. . . the one Tathan was flirting with? She barely even acknowledges me. She does, however, get my mocha and croissant and slides it across the counter. “Here you go.”

I hand her a ten-dollar bill.

She shakes her head. “Tathan took care of it.”

Tathan took care of it? I shift my weight from one foot to the other, still holding out my money. “He did what?”

She looks at me like I’m that dumb. “He bought your coffee, ma’am.” She motions for me to move out of the way. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to help this customer behind you.”

He bought my coffee. Damn it. I’m trying to hate him, and here he is being nice and friendly to me.

“Well, thank you.” I give the ten dollars to the man behind me. “Your coffee’s on me, dude.”

Pay it forward, right?

He smiles, thanks me, but hands it to the woman with three kids behind him. Apparently, there’s some humanity left in this world.

I check my phone once I walk into my office building, which just happens to be around the corner from the café. I can’t walk and look at my phone at the same time, so I stop. I even go so far as to stand against the wall, so I don’t trip. One embarrassing display of road rash and I’ll never text and walk at the same time ever again.

There are sixty messages. Sixty! They’re all from Casey and Zane wondering who I was dancing with last night and where the hell I disappeared to. I avoided them like the monkeys in Outbreak, disease infested little shits they are, and I’m amazed my phone can even hold that many messages. The thing about my friends, they gossip and insist on being in everyone’s business.

I don’t answer any of their messages because it’s better to explain in person.

At my desk, I notice Tathan is there, smirking as he drinks his coffee, smugly. “Mornin’,” he says, winking.

There’s something undeniably sexy about the way he says mornin’, like him cutting the word short makes it sexual somehow.

“Good morning,” I reply with a smile and for a moment, just a small fraction of a moment, I glance over his appearance. I never got past his eyes in the coffee shop. I usually never do.

It’s Friday. Fridays he wears jeans and usually a button-down shirt he rolls the sleeves up on. The top few buttons are undone, and a little chest hair is peeking out. Fucking sexy as sin. I want to walk up to him, straddle him in his chair and rip the buttons of his shirt open one by one and then lick his chest. Every inch of it.

And then he speaks, and I remember why I need to hate him.

“Like what you see, honey?”

Yes.

No.

This is why I can’t stand him and need to stay away from guys like him. He can’t actually have a conversation with anyone that’s not filled with innuendo or lewdness that revolves around him and his amazingly fuckable body.

“No, I don’t.” Reaching forward, I turn on my computer. “Every time you talk, I want to throw up.”

“You seemed very willing while we were dancing,” he notes with a laugh under his breath, undeterred by my harshness. “Come to lunch with me today.”

Here we go. He’s relentless. The thing that gets me is why he’s so hell-bent on me going out with him. That right there warrants all kinds of red flags for me. No one is that determined, and if they are, there’s an ulterior reason as to why.

“No, I think I’m coming down with the flu,” I tell him, slurping my coffee, trying to annoy him. It doesn’t work. He smirks despite my slurping. “But thanks for the coffee.”

I couldn’t not thank him. It’d be rude, right?

“Like I said. . .” He pauses and grins. “. . .you’ll give—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. A box of rubber bands sitting on my desk prohibits this.

Shuts the cocky hottie right up.

Rubbing his temple, he smiles, “I like it rough.”

I bet you do, asshole. I don’t say that because I know it will only encourage him.

I open my e-mail and leave him rubbing his face. There’s one from Casey reminding me of the Arizona Bridal Show this weekend, yet again.

She’s hoping to catch a glimpse of Elliott Warren, the famous photographer who just so happens to be from Phoenix and is also attending this wedding expo. From what I’ve heard about this Elliott guy, he photographs everything, but specializes in weddings, capturing the most amazing moments of every event he photographs.

Before you go thinking I’m stalking a photographer, I’m only repeating what I’ve heard endlessly for the last few months since Casey got engaged. It’s only everything she talks about. Almost everyone around town has photographs by him. Hell, even some photos inside Madsen Construction are from this dude and sport the familiar signature logo he has.

Normally I would want nothing to do with attending a wedding expo because, let’s face it, me getting married or even planning a wedding is pretty far off.

Unfortunately, I have a weak spot for Casey. She’s been my girl for years, held my hand when I cried over Colton, helped me set fire to his car and was right there with me with a shoulder to cry on when my dad died.

For those reasons, I’ll be there for her too.

Zane shows up twenty minutes late for work, and he’s dressed better than I am and watching Tathan drink his coffee. It’s like watching art.

“If you don’t fuck him soon. . . I’m going to,” Zane tells me and winks at Tathan, who shakes his head with a smirk of his own and types away on his keyboard.

Zane and Tathan together, that’s an image I don’t want. An image I do want is one of Tathan’s fingers as they glide over his keyboard effortlessly. I can imagine it being my body, more importantly, my clit. Despite Zane talking to me, I watch Tathan’s fingers, wondering what those fingers can do for me, long slender and. . . shit. . . focus.

With her usual yogurt in hand, Casey approaches, examining Zane, then me, and holds out her hand for the publication on company insurance she needed to have printed for our next staff meeting.

I turn toward her, handing her the copies. “Here’s the penetration you asked for—” I realize quickly that came out wrong when I see Tathan’s shoulders shaking with laughter, and Zane’s eyes widen in amusement. “Publication. . . here’s the publication you asked for!” I say to Casey, who is just as amused by my pornographic word vomit as Tathan is based on the sudden burst of laughter.

If I had enough office supplies on my desk, I would have thrown shit at all of them.

Casey rubs my back. “You really need to get laid.”

No shit.

“I can help with that.” Tathan nods like he’s eager.

Zane giggles, his cheeks flushing. “I bet you can, big guy.”

Oh boy.

Tathan laughs, again, the ringing of his phone preventing him from answering him. He picks it up, winking at Zane.

Every day. It’s like this every damn day lately.