If I thought I could get away with it, I’d totally call Drake and rearrange, but I don’t even think a Friday night interrogation by my grandmother will pass as an excuse. Besides—I can’t put it off any longer.

Two weeks is kinda, sorta, really freakin’ ridiculous.

And it’s one date. That’s all I agreed to.

That’s the settlement I came to with myself last night after two margaritas too many and definitely one cupcake too many. One date isn’t that bad, really, right? Especially if the kissing happens.

Wait.

I didn’t agree to that with myself…

My eldest brother shakes his head at me across the table. “I think you need help.”

“What I need is to skip town,” I mutter, dipping my nacho into the sour cream and shoving it into my mouth.

“What made you agree to date my superior?”

So there’s a chance Trent still doesn’t know about my and Drake’s little romp in my kitchen. There’s an even higher chance that he never will. Because yuck.

“Temporary insanity?” By way of orgasm.

This is a thing.

He raises his eyebrow.

“Oh, come on. It could be worse, right? I could be going out with Giorgio Messina again.”

Instantly, Trent’s expression sours. “I find myself oddly thrilled about Drake over Giorgio.”

“Wow. What a blessing.” I snort, dipping another chip into some guac. “Look. I agreed. I’m going. Then I’m taking a vacation to Easter Island or somethin’.”

Trent shoves two sour-cream-and-salsa-covered chips into his mouth and considers this. “Huh,” he manages through a mouthful of food. “I don’t trust him.”

“You trust him to find a murderer but not take me on a date?”

“Big-brother logic.”

“Is ridiculous,” I add, grabbing the empty box and shoving it in the trash can next to me. I sigh and rest my elbows on the desk. Then I run my fingers through my hair. “This whole situation is ridiculous.”

“Agreed. You two can’t even say hello without fightin’. Hell, y’all fight and skip straight over hello. Your goodbye is, ‘Fuck off.’”

My lips twitch to the side. I’m almost ashamed to admit that he’s right.

“Which is why, as much as I don’t like it, going on a date makes sense.” Trent grins when my smile drops. “Nonna and Nonno, remember? Fought like cat and dog but loved the shit outta each other.”

“You tryna tell me I’m in love with Drake?”

“Dunno. Are ya?”

“Like I love stepping on your son’s Lego whenever I babysit.”

Trent laughs, redoing his tie before grabbing his coffee from the desk. “Thank God—I don’t have to worry that my boss will be my brother-in-law. That would be awkward.”

I roll my eyes as he leaves without saying goodbye. How the heck did he make the jump from first date to brother-in-law? I bet Nonna called him, too. I’m quite honestly torn between wanting her to know so she gets off my back about dating and wanting it to be a secret from her so she doesn’t set us a wedding date and book me an appointment at the nearest wedding boutique.

Alas, this is Holly Woods, and she probably knew when the date is right around the time I did. Hell, she probably knows exactly where the date is, and I don’t even know that.

Crap. I have no idea where he’s taking me. How the hell can I prepare for it if I don’t know where it is?

I reach for the phone and stop before I lift it up. If I call him, it’ll look like I’m thinking about it, but if I don’t, how do I know what to wear?

I pick the phone up. Put it back down. Pick it up. Put it down.

“What in the shit are you doin’?”

My eyes cut to the door where Bekah is tying her auburn hair into a ponytail and eying me with thinly veiled amusement. “Obviously, I’m trying to decide whether or not to make a call.”

“You don’t know what to wear tomorrow, do you?”

“Fuck off,” I reply, fighting my grin. Goddamn it. I hate that she knows me this well. “Yes. Okay.”

“You did this with Gio, too, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah,” I mumble, tapping the corner of the phone against my mouth. “But at least I knew where we were going…”

“So call him and ask.” She shrugs. “I would.”

“No, you wouldn’t. You’d make me do it.”

Her grin is wide. “True. Want me to do it for you?”

“You will?”

“No. Do it yourself, you pussy,” she laughs.

I flip her the bird before she walks down the hall.

The phone rings and I scream, dropping it. I hear Bek’s laughter from her office two doors down and flip another bird through the walls as I reach down to grab the phone. “Hello?”

“Your two-o’clock is here,” Grecia says. Then she lowers her voice. “She looks antsy. Like she shouldn’t be here.”

Jolts of intrigued worry make their way down to my spine, making me sit bolt upright, and I stand up. “I’m coming down.” I hang up before she can respond, and after straightening my dress and wriggling my feet into my heels, I go downstairs.

The fact that this building is a converted, spacious, four-bedroom house and not a traditional office is something I’ve always loved. I can be downstairs in seconds, and the banister that follows it down is the very same one that was installed when it was built in the eighteen hundreds, restored to keep its beauty.

I brush some dust off the bottom and peek into the empty meeting room. Color charts from my meeting with Jason, the decorator I’ve hired to freshen up the building, are strewn across the table where I can’t be bothered to tidy them away. Instead, we’re simply conducting our now twice-weekly meetings on the top of them.

Changing the meetings from daily to twice weekly is my way of “cutting down” on cupcakes.

Spoiler: it isn’t working.

A stunning woman with short, blond hair cut into a stylish bob is sitting on the new, red sofa outside Grecia’s office. She’s flicking through a glossy magazine, completely immersed in the content between the pages, and I feel a little rude interrupting her, but hey.

“Natalie Owens?” I ask hesitantly, because although we went to school together, we run in totally different circles and always have.

She looks up, her dark-brown eyes framed by long, curled eyelashes that look like they brush the skin above her eyes. “Noelle!” She immediately deposits the magazine back on the stack on the glass coffee table in front of her and stands. The smile stretching across her face is bright, but the dull fear sparking in her eyes belies her apparently happiness.

I accept her embrace with a little—all right, all right, a lot—of awkwardness. “How are you?”

“I’ll be better if you can help me.” She glances away and clears her throat before offering me a nervous, high-pitched laugh.

I touch her upper arm and guide her toward the stairs. “Let’s talk.” I precede her up the staircase and open the door to let her pass into my office.

She sweeps past me gracefully, but I can almost smell her nerves.

Nerves aren’t a new thing in this job. Every client I see has an element of nervousness to them when they walk into my office. After all, they’re asking me to find out information they probably aren’t going to like hearing. It’s usually something simple like a rub to the back of the neck or picking at their fingernails.

Natalie far surpasses this. As soon as she sits down, her knee bounces and she attempts to still it by rubbing her hands down her thighs. As I close the door and lock it, she scrapes her hand through her hair. Then, as if it’s a knee-jerk reaction, she reaches up and smooths the locks back down into their pristine style.

I resist the urge to narrow my eyes, because then I’ll lose myself in cop mode and watch her for her lies instead of actually helping her.

Damn Marshall, murdering Lena and fully reawakening my cop instinct.

I slowly lower myself into my seat and look at Natalie. She’s nibbling on her bottom lip now, and honestly, I want to whisper for fear she’ll bolt if I speak too loud. Abusive, cheating boyfriend?