I can’t stop smiling. It’s downright idiotic. It’s eight at night, I’m still at work, and this grin won’t stop.

It’s been three days, and I’m still riding a high. We’ve texted a few times, but I wouldn’t go over Saturday night because I didn’t want to keep him up late before a game. He banged on my wall and yelled that could be us breaking his headboard. I laughed but stuck to my guns.

Oh, and our interview last week? The segment ran Saturday and got such a huge reaction that ESPN replayed it on Sunday before his game.

He looked phenomenal on the field. So in control. So confident. Every time the camera zoomed in on him, I wanted to lick the screen.

My laptop blurs in front of me, and my fingers rest on my lips like they can still feel Daren's rough fingertips grazing my skin. This—whatever I’m doing with him—is by far the most reckless thing I’ve ever done. I am sleeping with the source of my sports segment. I could go down in flames in so many ways. And I'm exhilarated and terrified in equal measure.

Is this what it feels like to be a thrill-seeker? Why people jump off mountains with a tiny little parachute? All I know is I want another hit.

And then his text comes in, and that smile somehow grows wider.

Hey, Wildcat. Thinking of you.

Thank God he doesn’t write “u” instead of “you.” What? A girl has to have standards.

I force myself to finish up my web report before I reach for my phone. I might be thinking about you. Possibly.

His response: Naked, I hope.

Every time I watch baseball, I'm going to blush. Guess you hit a home run in the bottom of the ninth. I'm being a cheese ball, but I can't help it. I mean, we freaking hooked up in the parking lot of a restaurant.

Babe, I hit a goddamn grand slam. I fucking won the World Series.

I snort into my hand, nearly dropping my phone.

“You’re getting laid, aren’t you?”

And then I do drop my phone. Spinning in my chair, I see Nicole, who is standing in the doorway with her arms crossed. “My guess? Daren ‘I’m so hot every girl wants my cock’ Sloan.’”

“Jesus, Nicole. You startled me.” My heart is racing in my chest. God, does she know? “I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

Her eyes narrow. “I mean, good for you. At least it takes that permanent scowl off your face.” I scowl? What? She thrusts her hand on her hip. “Just know you’re not the only one. He’s probably banging every girl from here to Hollywood.”

My stomach twists as she stomps off. Another text message buzzes in on my phone, but I can’t bring myself to look at it.

She’s probably right.

No. Daren promised he’d tell me, break things off, if he ever wanted to sample other options.

It’s this moment that finds me cursing my ex because I trusted him so wholeheartedly that I ignored all the signs he was unfaithful. And now, whether or not Daren is hooking up with other girls, he bears my knee jerk mistrust.

An hour later, I’m about to drag myself home when Spencer pops his head in my cubicle. “We’re doing promos all week for Boston’s Number One Bachelor Contest, so I need you to lay off the news assignments.”

“I thought Nicole was covering that story.”

He gives me a bored shrug. “People seem to like you on the sports segment, so I’m going with a hunch.”

I love how he says “people” like me, as in, he doesn’t. I don’t like you either, buddy.

Well, that would explain why Nicole looked like she wanted to tear me a new one. This should be her story. She’s been campaigning for it all week. Lord knows I don’t want it.

Glancing down at my color-coded notes for the other assignments I’m working on, I can’t quite believe what he’s asking me to do.

“But I’m doing research for two news stories already, and I’m hoping to do a feature on this homeless shelter that—”

“Yeah, I don’t give a shit. Give the work to someone else, and bring that darling smile that everyone seems to love and be ready tomorrow morning at eight.” He starts to walk out and pauses. “And would it kill you to wear something sexy for once? If you wear a business suit tomorrow like you’re covering City Hall, I’m firing you, so go home and find something that boosts ratings.”

And then he’s gone with every ounce of pride I used to have in my job clutched in his money-grubbing hands.

I spend the next several minutes moping around as I try to get a grip. But by the time I head home, I have an idea that I hope gets me a small reprieve. God knows I need one.