I stare down at the massive stack of file folders Lottie has left on my desk. All things I need to review or sign or review and sign. Things people are waiting for me to make a decision on. I thumb through them idly but I’ve got zero motivation to start actually going through them.

I turn back to the laptop instead, but my email inbox is another mess of to-dos and action-requireds. I’ve already had to turn off the audio notification setting because the constant pinging was driving me insane.

I don’t know how Trent does this every day. What’s even crazier is that he actually seems to enjoy it.

Me, on the other hand? I’d give just about anything to be in my workshop right now. To be covered in sawdust, the scent of cedar in my nose, the whir of my table saw in my ears.

When Trent and I first founded Loft & Barn, over ten years ago, we divided the labor. He handled the business side of things, and I was the designer. Even as we’ve expanded into a billion-dollar company, we’ve kept those same roles. I still design every major piece in our collections, and I build all the prototypes myself, which are then used as the models at an American plant that creates the full line.

I’m never happier than when I’m working on a new piece, and Trent is never happier than when he’s solving some issue or negotiating a new deal. That’s why we work so well together.

But I couldn’t say no when he asked me to step into his role for six months while he stayed home with his wife and new baby. I thought it was cool that he wanted to take that much paternity leave, and I was happy to support his decision. And frankly I thought being CEO for a few months would be a breeze — after all, we’re a pretty well-oiled machine by now. How many fires could really need fighting?

Turns out, the answer is a lot.

Of course, we didn’t know at the time that his parental leave with coincide with the work we were doing to take the company public. We had thought the process would be wrapped up long before Trent left, but things hadn’t worked out that way. Now on top of the regular demands of the business, I’m also fielding a million requests from the underwriter, and soothing the uncertainty of our own executive team. It’s funny how having an independent third-party poking around through our finances and corporate history has set people on edge, even though it’s all a formality. We have nothing but pristine records and an impeccable track history in the industry.

Anyway, thanks to the constant demands on my schedule, I haven’t really had any time to get out to my workshop. We have a collection I’m supposed to be working on and I have no idea when I’m going to actually get around to accomplishing it.

I’m hoping that if I can get through some of these folders today, maybe I can pop out a bit early. My home and workshop are about an hour outside of the city, so it’s hard to get out there in the evenings, but I might just have to justify it tonight.

Because the other truth is that my workshop is the only place I can really unwind, and ever since this weekend, when Bree walked out my door, I’ve had a serious need to unwind. I feel pent-up in all the wrong ways, like I’m constantly wearing a sweater that’s too tight. I’m not used to this feeling. I’m usually the one walking out the door in the morning — or long before the morning, in most cases.

But Bree isn’t most cases. Bree is … different. And as much as I’ve been trying to shake the memories — of the way it felt to kiss her, to slip my cock into her sweet pussy, to lay beside her in my bed — they remain firmly entrenched in my traitorous brain.

For about the twentieth time in two days, I briefly entertain the notion of trying to find her. I don’t know much about her — that her name is Bree and she’s got a VIP enough job to have a driver and that she may or may not work in fashion — but there must be something I could do.

The phone on the desk rings and I glance down to see Lottie’s name on the display. Good. Maybe she can tell me which of these files I should be working on first.

“Hi,” I say, picking up the handset.

“I have Kenny Bradworth on the phone for you, Luke.”

Great. Something else that needs my attention.

“Did he say what he wants?”

“No, sir.”

“Fine. Put him through. Oh, wait, Lottie?” I interject, before she can hang up.

“Yes?”

“Which one is Kenny Bradworth again?”

I can almost hear her chuckling on the other end of the line. “He’s head of shipping.”

“Right. I knew that.”

“I know.”

Lottie has been Trent’s secretary pretty much since we started the business. She’s a no-nonsense grey-haired woman with a calm demeanor and a memory like a steel trap. To be honest, I’m starting to think Trent should have left her in charge instead of me.

I take the call with Kenny and talk through some distribution issues. I’ve discovered that the best way to solve most problems here is to get people to come up with their own solutions. A few probing questions is usually enough to get them to realize they already know what to do. Then all I have to do is give them my blessing as CEO, and everything is golden.

Things with Kenny go pretty much the same way, and in just a few minutes, I have him off the phone. I wish I could get through my whole to-do list this easily.

I’ve just disconnected the call when there’s a knock at the office door. It can only be Lottie so I call for her to come in.

I groan when I see her.

She’s holding another giant stack of file folders. I can see little colored tabs sticking out from some of them. There goes my plan to sneak out of here this afternoon.

“Where do you want these?” she asks.

I nudge the little garbage can beside my desk out towards her. “Here would be great.”

“Funny,” she says, dumping the files on my desk with all the others.

I scrub my face with my hands. “Okay. Walk me through this — which ones do I absolutely have to get through today?”

“The pink ones.”

“And the green ones?”

“As long as they’re taken care of this week.”

“Okay.” I look at the stack — about half pink. I wonder again how Trent can possibly enjoy doing this all day every day.

Lottie smiles gently, as if placating a toddler who’s just been told he can’t, in fact, wear his ice cream as a hat.

“The pink ones are the records the team’s pulled together for the underwriter. They need to be couriered out today, so they need your approval. The green ones are just our usual monthly reporting — they need to be signed off this week so that accounting can issue the necessary payments in time.”

I nod. “Thanks Lottie. Where would I be without you?”

Her smile broadens. “I’ve no doubt you’d manage just fine.”

“Well, it’s much more pleasant having your help.”

Lottie leaves my office with a smile, and I turn to my folders with another sigh. I’m just opening up the first of many when my phone starts to ring again. I glance down, thinking it’ll be Lottie wanting to remind me of something else I need to do, but instead I see Trent’s name blinking up at me.

“Checking up on me again, are you?” I tease when I pick up.

“Have you seen it?” Trent says, in lieu of an answer.

“Seen what?”

“Lyle Bailey died.”

“Oh, shit, you’re kidding.” Lyle Bailey, founder of Bailey Living, might have been one of our biggest competitors, but he was a titan of the industry and someone both Trent and I had looked to for inspiration when we were first starting Loft & Barn. “That’s crazy.”

Trent breathes out. “No — what’s crazy is that he apparently died a month ago.”

“What?”

“Yeah, apparently his daughter has been running the show ever since.”

I let out a low whistle. “That’s fucked up. I guess that’s why we’ve been seeing them pop up all over the place lately. We thought Lyle just had a new marketing strategist … but it turns out there’s a whole new Lyle.”

I can hear Trent humming thoughtfully on the other end of the line. “I think you’re right. By the looks of it, she’s got some business and marketing experience of her own. Ran some fashion company or something?”

Something pings in my chest at the word fashion. It makes me think of Bree — Bree with her handmade green dress. Bree with her red hair cascading down over her creamy white tits.

Bree with the personal driver. Bree with the urgent Saturday business meetings. Bree asking why I didn’t own anything from Bailey Living, and getting pissed when I made a joke about it.

I flip open my laptop so fast that I almost rip the screen off the hinge. Trent is saying something but I’m too focused on loading the browser, typing in Bailey Living. The Post article comes up right away and I click on it.

Lyle’s photo is at the top, and for half a second I pause to feel bad for the old guy. But then I’m scrolling, scrolling, scrolling, until …

Fuck.

No.

Fuck.

It’s her. Bree with the red hair, the copper lips. She’s wearing a yellow blouse and a red skirt, and she’s leaning against an old cherrywood desk — a Bailey original, no doubt — with her arms crossed. It’s a typical new-CEO-breaks-mold kinda photo, shot from a low angle and meant to show off the towering power that now rests under her pretty little thumb.

But all I can think about what this means for me.

Bree Bailey, the girl who’s been haunting my dreams all week, has just become our number one competitor.