Just as the interview was coming to an end, an older gentleman popped his head into her office. “Sweetheart, are you coming for dinner tomorrow night? Your mother has been bugging me to get you to commit.”

“Dad, umm…Daniel, I’m in the middle of an interview. Can we talk about it later?”

“Sure, sure. Sorry. Stop by my office later.” He smiled politely at me and knocked on the door jamb as his goodbye before walking away.

My mouth hung open as I turned back to my interviewer. I already knew the answer, but asked anyway. “Daniel…Donnelly, the president of Flora Cosmetics, is your father?”

“Yes. And I’d like to think I earned the SVP of marketing job because of my qualifications, not because I’m his daughter.”

Yeah, right. Since I’d inserted my foot into my mouth twice today, I saw no point in prolonging the pain.

I stood. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Donnelly.”

My afternoon only got better after that. I’d just stepped out of my air-conditioned cab in front of the building where my two o’clock interview was scheduled when my phone started buzzing. The company I’d been excited about interviewing with—the company I’d essentially ruined my first interview over—was calling to cancel my interview and let me know the position had been filled already.

Great. Just great.

Shortly after that, I received a kiss-off email from Flora, thanking me for taking the time to interview but letting me know they were going a different direction in their hiring. And it isn’t even two o’clock yet.

After a quick shower, my plan was to attempt to wait until closer to five o’clock and then get shitfaced. Big plans. I’d wasted a day off during my last weeks of work for this crap. Might as well enjoy myself.

I was lying on my bedroom floor in the middle of my counting routine when my cell rang. Reaching up to the bed, I patted the mattress until my hand landed on my phone. Seeing Bryant’s name flash on the screen, I almost didn’t answer because of my mood, but then decided to pick it up on the last ring.

“Hey. How did your interviews go?” he asked.

“I stopped on the way home and picked up two extra bottles of wine. Take a guess.”

“Not good, huh?”

“You could say that.”

“Well, you know what we should do about that?”

“Definitely. Get drunk.”

He laughed as if I was joking. “I was thinking more along the lines of working out.”

“Exercising?”

“Yeah. It helps to get stress out.”

“So does wine.”

“Yes, but with exercise, you feel great the day after.”

“But with wine, I don’t remember the day before.”

He laughed. (Again, I wasn’t joking.) “If you change your mind, I’m on my way to Iron Horse Gym.”

“Iron Horse?”

“It’s on 72nd. I’m a member there. I have guest passes you can use.”

It had been more than a month since my bizarre encounter with Chase Parker, yet suddenly I found myself rethinking alcohol vs. exercise because the man wore an Iron Horse Gym T-shirt in his Facebook photo.

“You know what? You’re right. I should exercise to help me relax. After all, I can get shitfaced later if it doesn’t work.”

“Now you’re talking.”

“I’ll meet you there. How does an hour sound?”

“See you then.”

I seriously should’ve had my head examined. I blowdried my hair and put on my sexiest exercise gear to go work out with a great guy I’d recently started dating, yet none of my efforts were really for him. Instead, I had far-fetched hopes of seeing a guy who owned a T-shirt with the gym name on it—a guy who thought I was a bitch and dated statuesque blondes with excessive cleavage, not five-foot-one, B-cup women with hips, even if I did have a tiny waist.

Forty minutes on the elliptical, and I was totally regretting my drinking-vs.-exercise choice. Bryant was lifting weights on the other side of the gym, and I should have been happy that a nice guy had invited me to come work out. Instead, I was out of breath, disappointed, and thirsty. Glad I chilled two bottles of wine.

When he was done, Bryant came over and asked if I wanted to go for a swim. I hadn’t brought a suit, but I told him I’d keep him company in the pool area. While he went to change and rinse off, I walked on the treadmill to cool down. The slow speed allowed me to catch up on a backlog of emails on my phone. One of them was from a recruiting firm indicating that they’d found me the perfect job overseas—in the Middle East—and asking if I was interested in doing a video conference with the company. I thought the email was funny because there were so many misspelled words and grammar errors.

After Bryant changed, we walked to the pool area together. I read him the email as he opened the door. “It actually says in the qualification requirements, ‘Must be sober, sane, and not overly dramatic’. Think they have a PMS problem in Yemen?” Looking down at my phone as I walked, I crashed straight into someone.

“Sorry, I wasn’t looking where—”

I froze.

The sight of Chase standing there was almost enough to knock me over. I’d secretly hoped to see him, yet never thought I actually would. What are the chances? I did a double take, sure I was seeing things. But it was him all right, in the flesh. And what flesh it is. Standing there shirtless and wet—wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung swim trunks—he had me stuttering. Literally.

“Ch…Ch…Ch—” I couldn’t get the word out.

Of course, Chase didn’t miss a beat. He smirked and leaned in. “You do a cute train impression, Buttercup.”

He remembers me.

I shook my head, attempting to snap myself out of it. But it was no use. He was so tall, and I was so short, I had no choice but to stare at his body. Water trickled down his abs. I was mesmerized watching it speed up and slow down as it crossed the rippled lines of his six-pack. Damn.

I cleared my throat and finally spoke. “Chase.”

I was pretty freaking proud of myself for getting that much out. He had a towel slung around his neck and lifted it to dry off his dripping hair, revealing even more flesh. His pectoral muscles were carved and perfect. And—oh, my God…is that… Holy shit. It is. His nipples were cold and erect, and one of them was….was…pierced.