That does the trick. The bedroom door is yanked open.

Kate stands there, with one hand on her hip and a sugary sweet smile on her face. “And we both know I’ll get over it.”

Then she slams the door in my face.

chapter

2

Although I don’t believe I have any actual firsthand knowledge, it’s colder than a witch’s tit outside. Wind cuts through the city streets and the sky is a gloomy gray, hinting at a coming snowstorm.

On the corner, a block from my building, a scraggily faced man in layered, shabby clothes shouts about the apocalypse—the end of days—and how we all need to turn our lives around before time runs out. It’s not an uncommon occurrence; guys like him litter the city. But today it seems weirdly . . . foreboding.

I open the door to the building and am greeted by Sam, a security guard in his early twenties who typically helms the night shift.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Evans.”

“Same to you, Sam.” He swipes my ID badge and I ask, “They put you on Christmas Eve?”

He shrugs. “I volunteered. Hard to argue with time and a half. Plus it gives the fellas with families time to spend at home.”

Guilt pokes at me like the spring of worn-out couch. But I ignore it. “You don’t have any family?”

“Not yet. My girlfriend and I are going to my mother’s for dinner tomorrow. She’s out in Yonkers.”

I slide my badge into my pocket and pull a fifty out of it. “I’ll be here pretty late tonight. In case I don’t catch you on the way out, have a happy holiday.” We shake hands and I slip him the fifty. Because I subscribe to my father’s line of thought: an employee who feels appreciated—and well compensated—is a productive employee. And if I want anyone to be productive, it’s the guy responsible for keeping the building safe.

He smiles gratefully. “Thanks a lot, Mr. Evans.”

I nod and head up the elevator to the fortieth floor.

The offices are dark, the only light coming from the full-size Christmas tree in the corner and the illuminated electric menorah on the table beside it. The whole floor is quiet and still.

Not a creature is stirring, not even a mouse.

I flick the lights on in my office and sit down at my desk to get to work. While my laptop boots up, I look at the phone.

And consider calling Kate.

I don’t like it when she’s pissed at me. It feels . . . wrong. Off-kilter. And it’s distracting. Tonight I need to be focused—on top of my game.

I don’t pick up the phone.

Because calling her to say I’m sorry, but I’m staying at the frigging office anyway, won’t go over well. Besides, she’s never been able to stay mad at me for long. By the time I get home, I bet she’ll be over it, just like I said.

An hour later, I’m staring at my computer screen, reviewing the proposal I’m gonna pitch to Media Solutions. I yawn deeply and my vision blurs. The scorching rechristening of our living room and kitchen must’ve worn me out more than I thought. I stretch my arms and crack my neck, trying to wake myself up.

But after five minutes, as I read paragraph seventeen, my eyelids become heavy. Until they droop and drag to a close.

I bolt awake at my desk—disoriented and slightly panicked. The way my grandfather used to snore away in his recliner, before jerking up and claiming he was just “resting my eyes.”

Glancing at my watch, I’m relieved to see it’s only been a few minutes since I dozed off. “Wake the fuck up, Evans. No time for a nap.”

I head over to the conference room and make myself a quick cup of coffee. I sip the hot beverage of the gods and step back into my office.

And there, sitting on my suede couch—the same suede couch that played such a prominent role in my early Kate Brooks fantasies—is a woman.

Do you see her, too?

She’s strikingly beautiful. A pert nose, full lips, bright green eyes, and aristocratic cheekbones. Her hair is honey blond and long with a slight curl. She’s wearing a conservative white dress, blazer, and heels—something Kate would wear to the office. A string of pearls adorns her long neck and matching earrings decorate her lobes.

“Hello,” she greets me in a warm voice.

My eyes dart from her to the door. Security always calls before letting a client up.

“Hi,” I return. “Can I . . . help you?”

“Actually, I’m here to help you, Drew.”

Huh. She knows my name.

Has she crawled from the sea of my former one-night stands? It wouldn’t be the first time one tracked me down at my place of business. But with me riding the monogamy bandwagon these last eight years, it hasn’t happened for a long time.

“Have we met somewhere before?” I ask—but I really mean Have we fucked somewhere before?

She laughs, though I don’t know why. It’s a pleasant, alluring sound. “Always so clever. I’ve been watching you for a long time, Drew. You never fail to entertain.”

I set my coffee on the desk and face her head-on. “You’ve been watching me for a long time? Yeah, ’cause there’s nothing weird about that.”

“Well, it’s my job to watch you. I’m your guardian angel, after all.”

There’s a lot of crazy walking around New York City. And I don’t just mean the obvious vagrants mumbling around Penn Station or the naked cowgirl in Times Square. Professional dog walkers, bicyclists, and most employees of the sanitation department have several fucking screws loose, too.

You have to be careful with insane people. Getting them worked up isn’t a good idea. So I just nod and try to keep her calm.

“Interesting. You don’t look like an angel.”

“How do you imagine I should look?”

“Wings, halo, blinding heavenly light.”

She winks. “I only bring the halo out for formal events. As for my wings . . . I’m still working on earning them.”

I snap my fingers. “That sounds familiar. To earn your wings, you have to, like, stop me from offing myself, right?”

Her jade eyes round with surprise. “Oh, nothing as drastic as that. If things became that desperate I wouldn’t be doing a very good job. I’m here because you’re starting down the wrong path, Drew. We need to nip your behavior in the bud; get you back to where you should be.”

With a chuckle, I sit down in my chair and roll closer to the phone.

Her head tilts to the side, regarding me. “You don’t believe anything I’m telling you, do you?”

“I’m sorry, but no, I don’t.”

She’s unperturbed. “That’s all right. No one believes at first.”

You’re probably wondering why I’m not getting the hell out of here. I’m a fantastic judge of character, and in this case, I’m just not feeling the psycho vibe. In fact, despite the words that are coming out of her mouth, she seems completely harmless. So I play along.

“For argument’s sake, let’s suspend reality for a second and say that you are my guardian angel. I think I should fire you. You’ve done a shitty job. Where were you when I thought Kate was cheating on me, and I pulled that stupid stunt with the stripper? That would’ve been a good time to show up, kick me in the shin, and say, ‘Hey asshole, it’s not what you think.’ ”

She nods sympathetically. “It was difficult to watch you go through that. But I couldn’t intervene. It was a lesson you could only learn by living through it. Kate, as well.”

“But you’re here now?”

“That’s right.”

“Because I’m about to commit some grievous sin?”

“Because you already have.”

I brace my elbows on the chair, clasp my hands, and rest my fingers against my lips. “You’ve got your wings crossed, honey. I haven’t done anything. I work hard every single day to be a good father and a devoted, thoughtful husband.”

She raises a doubtful eyebrow, reminding me of Kate.

“Thoughtful? Really? Were you being thoughtful when you came to work on Christmas Eve, even though Kate asked you not to?”