“The Heritage is owned by Manning.” She returned her focus to her laptop, her manicured fingers beating a rhythm across the keys. “When you come back to the office this afternoon, I need you to start organizing lunch for fourteen to be delivered tomorrow. Do you think you can handle that?”

“Definitely. Do you have a particular restaurant in mind?”

Releasing a hiss of irritation, Margaret looked up from her screen. “Weren’t you an assistant before this?” she demanded, and when I replied that I was, she snapped, “Then you should realize I’m too busy to go through menus. If the menu is in the approved stack in your office, it’s acceptable. Surprise me!”

“Will do,” I commented through a jaw so tense, it made the muscles in my face ache. With every name in the book attached to my stepmother’s name and hurtling through my thoughts, I was desperate to leave the building before I screwed up and let one of them become audible.

I didn’t stop moving until I was in the lobby, and an accented female voice called out my name as I waited for an elevator to go down to the parking garage. I looked behind me to see Stella striding my way, her black hair bouncing around the off-the-shoulder neckline of her striped shirt as she closed the distance between us.

“You look chipper,” I commented when she stepped beside me and all I could smell was her jasmine perfume.

“And you”—she stared me up and down slowly, curiously, and then tapped her finger against her lips—“well, you look like a woman possessed.”

“Headed to a meeting with Natalie Roche.”

When the elevator opened, we both stepped in the warm car, Stella moving her head from side to side. “That poor woman won’t know what hit her. Did she send you armed with a list of demands and questions?”

Recounting all five minutes of my talk with Margaret, my nostrils flared. “I’m supposed to record the entire meeting so she can take a look at it later.”

The marketing manager fought to keep the smile from cracking through her professional mask as the doors open and we stepped out of the elevator and beneath the dim lights of the parking garage. “Interested in having company?”

“Are you loaning yourself out to me?”

She reached into her purse, her eyebrows knitting together as she searched for what I guessed were her keys. “I was on my way out to burn some time before my one-thirty doctor’s appointment.” She shrugged. “I’m a bad, bad employee.”

“Hence, the chipper smile,” I stated. “But yes, I’d love to have some company.”

As soon as I told her where we were going, she insisted on taking her car, a silver BMW 4-series convertible that she let the top down on since it was sunny and mid-seventies. Though she seemed at ease with the wind whipping her hair around her artfully made-up face, I grabbed a hairband from my bag and scooped my own into a high, messy bun. While she drove, she made small talk, which gradually improved the sour mood Margaret had managed to conjure in just a few minutes this morning.

“So the foster charity event—what are you dressing as?” At the shift of my eyebrow, Stella added, “In case you were thinking of skipping out on Margaret’s function, cancel your plans now. She’ll skin you alive if you’re not there.” She touched her chest. “I ordered a Catwoman costume, but I’m trying to figure out if it’s too risqué.”

“Depends,” I said as she slammed on the brakes at a stoplight. Giving my seatbelt a tug, I made sure it was secure. “Anne Hathaway Catwoman or Halle Berry?”

Her mouth twitched. “Anne Hathaway.”

“You should be fine then. And to answer your question, to be honest, I haven’t really given my own costume any thought.”

“Could have sworn you said Halloween was your favorite.”

“It is. Don’t worry, I’ll find something good before then.” Though, when I stopped to think about it, I was probably running out of time to put something unique together. Last year, Pen and I had gone out as Sofie Fatale and The Bride from Kill Bill. It had been my favorite costume in years, since the days when my mother had helped me make the perfect outfit, but I could already picture Margaret’s disapproving glare at my blood splattered wedding gown and fake baby bump.

Sexy schoolgirl and Captain Hooker were probably out of the question, too.

Pulling her BMW into the Heritage Los Angeles at Beverly Hills, Stella parked by the ballroom entrance—which was utterly unique since the venue’s walls were made entirely of privacy glass. There were cars on either side of us, a gold Land Rover and a sleek black sports car, and my mouth went dry when I realized I’d seen that car before.

On the other side of those tinted windows sat six-feet, two-inches of the most distracting man I’d ever met in my life. I shoved all thoughts of costumes from my head and focused on the problem at hand—the fact that Oliver was here for some reason.

Forcing me to think about him.

“Hmm,” Stella murmured, and I heard the click of her seatbelt as she unhooked it. “Wonder if she sent him to make sure you could operate the camera.”

I reached for the door handle, squeezing it tightly. Even though I knew she’d only been teasing, I muttered under my breath, “She’d hire a damn camera crew before that happened.”

When I stumbled out the BMW, I heard Oliver’s engine stop, and a moment later, he eased out of his car. He was the epitome of calm and collected as he started toward me, the slight breeze ruffling his already disarranged golden-brown hair. My attention dipped to his day old stubble—would it be soft or scratchy—and then to the knot in the scarlet tie that he was adjusting.

“Morning,” he greeted me.

Do not think of him naked saying that. Do. Not. Think. Of. It.

“What are you doing here?” I crossed my arms tightly over my breasts. “Did you hack my messages too?”

He feigned a look of surprise. “I’m checking in on one of my company’s properties before I head to my eleven o’clock meeting.” His eyes darted over my shoulder to focus innocently on Stella, and I turned to follow his gaze. “You can see what I’m doing, can’t you, Ms. Marchand?”

“Yes, sir, I sure can.” She nodded, resembling a pretty bobblehead. She held her wrist close to her face, studying her watch before asking me dramatically, “Are you ready to go in, honey?”

“Yes—”

Oliver immediately cut me off, stepping between Stella and me, the spicy scent of his cologne wafting into my face thanks to the breeze. What did he think he was doing? After casting a wicked look behind him and turning my pulse into a ticking time bomb, he turned back to her. His voice was smooth and persistent when he said, “Ms. Marchand, do you mind filling in for Ms. Connelly while I speak to her for a moment?”

“Pressing work matters?” she questioned, and Oliver inclined his head in confirmation. I fought the urge to cover my face with my hands, but I succeeded in facing her scrutiny without flinching as she moved slightly to the left to look around him at me. “I don’t mind going in to talk to Natalie, but is that something you want me to do?”

Oliver was expecting me to stay out here with him, that much was obvious from his arrogant smirk. If I went in the hotel, I’d have the satisfaction—albeit the incredibly brief satisfaction—of proving him wrong. But if I went into the hotel, I’d spend the rest of the day stressing over what he might have wanted from me. Hell, probably the rest of the week. I glanced between them for a moment before my shoulders sagged and I relented.

“I’ll be in there in five minutes,” I promised.

“Take your time,” she said, admiring Oliver one last time before disappearing through the entrance. Fisting my hands by my side, I counted slowly until he finally turned back to me.

“I hadn’t expected you to bring someone,” he stated almost apologetically.