Hey—I can always go into my trash folder and read them tonight when I’m curled in front of my TV with a burrito or two.

I finish the cupcake as an e-mail from Natalie Owens pings into my inbox. I narrow my eyes. We went to high school together, but despite us both being on the cheer team, she barely ever said two words to me. Now, I have a blank-subject-line e-mail from her.

I want to ignore it, just to be a bitch, but my nosy side ultimately wins out and I open it.

Dear Ms. Bond,

I’d appreciate if you could inform me of your earliest availability for a consultation appointment.

Yours sincerely,

Natalie Owens.

Well, how polite of her.

I could probably learn a thing or two.

I reach for my planner and flick through it to this week, noting an empty space tomorrow afternoon. Although… There’s every possibility I have something there that I forgot to write down. I grab my phone and dial the extension to Grecia, my Mexican assistant-slash-receptionist-slash-personal burrito-recipe-giver.

“Hello,” she answers simply. Good thing I know that her phone flashes with my name.

“Do I have anything at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon?”

Papers shuffle at her end. “Yes. You have an interview with Carlton Hooper for the tech job.”

Bastard. I forgot about that. Of course I’d have to replace Marshall. My deceptively sweet ex-tech guy is currently in the county jail awaiting trial for the murder of his old stepmom, her bit on the side, and her best friend and the attempted murder of his own cougar ex-girlfriend.

Not to mention the whole illegal weapon thing. The same one he pulled on me before I shot him first.

“How about after? Someone e-mailed me about a consultation. Does anyone else have any space?”

More paper shuffling. “If you can be done with the consultation in thirty minutes, I can reschedule with Mr. Hooper for half an hour later and tell him you have a family commitment.”

“Grecia, you’re wonderful.”

“I know. You tell me every day.”

“That’s because I mean it.” I grin although she can’t see it. “Um, could I get a copy of my schedule for the rest of the month to cross-check with my planner?”

I can hear her smile as she says, “I’ll bring you coffee and collect your planner.”

“You really are wonderful.”

She laughs and clicks off. I e-mail Natalie, somewhat prematurely, about the appointment tomorrow afternoon with a line about squeezing her in quickly, and I’ve just clicked send when Grecia opens my door and strolls across the room. Her black hair is pulled into a ponytail on top of her head, her dark, olive-toned skin making her brown eyes glitter brightly. She’s short even with four-inch heels on her feet, so she has to bend right over when she puts my coffee mug on my desk.

She grins knowingly as she grabs my favorite Erin Conden planner from next to me and strolls out.

I still can’t believe she’s dating my ex–FBI investigator, Mike. I shudder at the memory of walking in on them dry-humping in his office. That said, there hasn’t been so much as a hand-brush since I threatened them with their jobs.

I don’t pay people to get themselves off on my time.

“No!” Grecia shouts.

I stand up, my chair rolling back. Grecia’s yelling “No!” that angrily only means one thing.

Detective Drake Nash is here.

“All due respect, ma’am, I’m here on business.”

Aw, shit! I frantically look around my newly decorated duck-egg-blue office. From the potted plant by the door to the tub chairs in front of my antique-style desk to the flycatcher on my windowsill waiting for its lunch.

I have no time to run across the hall to the bathroom and lock myself in there.

Crappy crappy crap.

Who said that this avoiding thing was a good idea?

“She is busy!”

“I have a warrant.”

I clap my hand over my mouth and quickly turn the key in my door. I lean against it, breathing heavily.

Sweet fuck. I’m a grown woman. Has my vagina shriveled up into my bowel and died?

“Ms. Bond.” Drake raps loudly on my door. “If you’re in a meeting, I’m afraid you’ll have to cut it short. I’m here on official business.”

My phone screen lights up on my desk. I dart across the room—as quickly as one can in four-inch heels—and grab it. I open the message from Bekah, my best friend and first employee.

Official business, huh? I call bullshit.

Uh-huh, I reply.

“Ms. Bond! I have a warrant and will break your door down.”

You’re in trouble. BIG TROUBLE.

Captain freakin’ Obvious.

I fist my hand and hold it against my mouth, quietly putting my phone back down.

“Open the goddamn door, Noelle!” He bangs on it again, and I sigh, reserved.

Prepare your ovaries and gird your womb, Noelle. You’re gonna have to let him in.

I straighten my nice, new, red pencil skirt, make sure the girls aren’t popping out of my black blouse, and make my way to the door. I twist the key in the opposite direction and the lock clicks. Calmly, I open the door, and meet his raging, blue eyes.

“Good afternoon, Detective. Can I help you?”

His face is hard, and his eyes aren’t just raging. No—they’re stormy, a tsunami waiting to be unleashed. He barges past me, his elbow knocking mine, and I purse my lips.

“Why, come on in, sir. Can I have my assistant get you a coffee with your apology for your rudeness?”

“Don’t fuck with me,” he warns, turning and pinning me with his gaze. “Shut your door.”

“I think you mumbled your ‘please.’”

He retraces his path until he’s standing over me. He reaches above me and pushes the door shut, the handle easily falling from my grasp as it swings shut with a bang that ricochets through my office.

“Please,” he adds as the echo dies.

I glare at him, and yes. Now, I remember exactly why we don’t get along.

“Take a seat, Detective, and tell me all about your official business with your warrant.”

“I prefer to have my discussions standing.” He grasps my arm—not tightly, but strongly enough that I’d have to insert my Louboutin into his ballsac to get him to release me.

“From experience, you prefer most things upright.”

Slowly, his lips curve to one side, his smirk both sexy and infuriating. His eyes flash with the memory. “Especially where you’re concerned, Ms. Bond.”

I drop my eyes to his belt, allowing them to linger on the buckle before falling another inch or two to his crotch. “Don’t tell me you dropped in for a midday booty call.”

“Are you offerin’? Since you’re holdin’ out on me, I think you owe me.”

“Excuse me?” My eyes snap up to his, and the smugness reflecting in his gaze tells me that I fell for his trick.

Son of a bitch.

“Our date? It’s been two weeks since you agreed to go out with me, and call me obsessive, but I’m counting nine missed calls, ten missed texts, and five missed visits to your office.”

“You counted? Hell yeah, that’s obsessive.”

“Maybe I just really want to date you.”

“Or you want to return the favor of a bullet through the foot.”

His arm rests on the weapon at his hip. “That can be arranged right now, if you’d like to call it even.”

My fingers curl around the handle of the one at his other hip. “And I’ll up the score just as quickly.”

Drake laughs, his anger seemingly gone, and leans in. “Go ahead. It’ll give me the reason to get you in cuffs I’ve been waiting for.”

I’m ninety-nine percent sure my blood pressure has gone batshit crazy at his words. Hell, my pulse is much stronger than it was thirty seconds ago.

“Five minutes ago, you were yelling about a warrant,” I breathe, swallowing the burst of desire bolting through me. “Your official business seems far more personal, though, if you don’t mind me saying.”