“With Oliver?” I hated that he was the first person who came to mind when I thought of someone screwing an assistant on the executive floor—and I hated that my chest tightened at that thought.

She swirled her drink. “Oliver Manning steers clear of his mama’s employees.” She was silent for several seconds, and then, dropping her voice into a conspiratorial whisper, she informed me, “The VP was on the other end of the conference room romp.”

“What?”

“Uh huh. The man can’t keep it in his pants to save his life.”

Although he hadn’t been with the company when my father was CEO, I’d seen pictures of the company’s vice-president on Emerson & Taylor’s website. From what Margaret had told me, he would be on company business in London for the rest of the week, but I was in no hurry to meet him, especially now that I knew he was a horn dog.

“Well, since I don’t have a blog or a desire to hump a man whose official bio lists him as being happily married with four children, I should be safe.”

“Yes.” Stella murmured a “thanks” when the bartender set her second drink in front of her. Scratching her head, she leaned away from me, her dark eyes inquisitive. “You’re not going to ask about Oliver?”

“What’s there to ask?” But of course my thoughts automatically pinged to the ridiculously expensive gift card waiting in my desk drawer and the email from last week I’d yet to erase, even though he hadn’t messaged me since. “He doesn’t work there.”

“You’re not going to ask about him and Dora?”

“If I did, what would you tell me?”

I could clearly hear Oliver’s voice pounding in my skull, telling me that he absolutely wasn’t sleeping with the HR director.

“That there is no Dora and Oliver.” She studied my expression carefully as I grabbed my beer and downed a mouthful.” “They’re just close friends.”

“Close friends?” I felt my face heat up when I blurted the question.

“Yes ma’am.” Polishing off the remainder of her first drink, she lifted her shoulders playfully. “Not that there was anything to ask.”

Chapter 5

When I stepped into the comfort of my apartment an hour and a half later, I kicked off my black heels and left them by the front door. Plucking the hairpins out of my updo, I dropped them on the foyer table and padded across the laminate floor, following the sound of Pen’s voice to the dining room. I found her at the table, squinting at her laptop screen. She was holding her phone between her ear and her shoulder and making quick notes.

“Hey, I’m home,” I whispered.

Her head popped up, and she covered the mouthpiece with her hand. “August business,” she explained.

August. The name conjured up images of strong shoulders and a ready laugh. I’d met Pen’s longtime associate—another “white hat” hacker who did the occasional side job—only a handful of times, but he’d always been friendly.

When my tire had blown out on I-15 almost two years ago while Pen and I were on our way back to my place after a Best Buy excursion, she’d called August instead of her brother to help us. He’d come to our aid quickly, looking more like a model than a tech whiz. While I watched him change the tire—so that I’d be able to help myself if it ever happened again—he’d made small talk with me. We talked about everything from my job to the improvements my landlord was making to my apartment, until I’d finally stopped him and warily asked if he planned on using all my information.

“I wouldn’t be asking if I wanted something from you,” he had brazenly informed me, winking up at me as he tightened a lug nut with the tire iron. “I could crack your computer from my phone. If I wanted to.”

To date, I was one hundred percent certain he’d never tried, so I nodded at my best friend. “Ahhh, I see. I’ll be in the bath if you need me.”

She shook her head and jabbed her finger toward the living room. “Coffee table,” she said, before snorting at something August said and replying, “Are you kidding me? I can get it done in a week!”

Expecting mail, I turned on my heel and crept back toward the living room. The sight of the stunning, floral arrangement waiting on the coffee table stopped me in my tracks. Snow-white lilies and vivid blue-dyed roses.

How had I missed these when I came in?

The strange, sexy combination brought a splash of color to the neutral room. When I blinked, an image of cornflower blue eyes and a sinful grin slunk into my mind. I didn’t even try to fight the intense shiver that ran through me when I let his name wrap around my thoughts.

Oliver.

He was the only person I could think of who knew my address, and who might send me flowers, but I’d chalked up his radio silence since last Thursday to disinterest.

Swallowing hard, I stood over the coffee table and plucked the note from the arrangement, a shock hissing through me when the back of my fingers brushed a rose and I immediately pictured Oliver again. I tried to remember the last time someone sent me a gift—not because they were a client of mine, but just because. About a year ago, the man I’d been dating gave me red roses over dinner, a week before he found out what I did for a living and subsequently ended things. But this arrangement—they were sadly a first for me this year. My hands trembled as I opened the envelope.

Lizzie,

I still want to know more.

-Oliver

Wow. Two names, six words, and my mood suddenly shifted from pensive to ... Oliver—which was a confusing combination of exasperation and desire.

He wanted to know more.

Even though I knew that likely had everything to do with what was beneath my dress, and nothing to do with the what, when, or why of Lizzie Connelly, his words set my skin on fire.

“I just ordered a pizza, and.... Damn, Gem, you look like you’re about to combust,” Pen spoke up, dragging my focus from the card to where she was now standing behind the armchair.

“Combust?” I managed unsteadily, grateful for her intrusion. If she hadn’t said anything, I’d have probably kept rereading the note, continued looking at the flowers.

“Would you have preferred I asked you about the current state of your underwear?” When I glowered at her, she smiled suggestively. “So, you already have a suitor other than the mystery caller who dragged your ass out here? Impressive. Very impressive.”

I folded the note and shoved it back into the tiny envelope. “For starters, the mystery guy who called me is definitely not a suitor. If anything he’s the bane of my existence.” Running my fingers through my long platinum hair, I sunk down in the leather cushions of the couch behind me. I looked up at Pen, confusion clouding my expression. “Oliver Manning asked me to dinner,” I confessed.

“And I think my panties just melted.”

I’d successfully tiptoed around the subject of Oliver and had even brushed off going into details about the gift card situation last week, and the grin on my best friend’s face reminded me why.

“Pen,” I groaned, and she held up her hands defensively.

“Whatever. Okay, so he asked you to dinner. Why not just go with him?”

Realizing that I was still clutching his note, I dropped it beside the flowers. “I don’t need the distraction. I don’t want the complication. I should just concentrate on what I came here to do.” Seeking a temporary reprieve from the Oliver onslaught that I’d brought upon myself, I turned to face her. “What kind of job can you do for August in a week?”

“The usual.” She shrugged, and I twisted my lips. The usual. When it came to Pen’s job—and her solo side work—she had no problem telling me things she definitely shouldn’t share. Of course, I was the same way. Pen and I had that mutual trust in one another that few people were lucky to find.  The moment she started a job with another person, however, she was tight-lipped. As long as she wasn’t in danger, I never protested. “How’d your drinks with the marketing chick go?”