Honestly, if I weren’t busy hating Carter Aaron, I would be texting him immediately to share this so we could laugh together.

Unable to resist, I lean over again and peek into his office. Today just keeps giving. “And?”

“And . . . from what I gather, it was a ringing endorsement for the Aaron family. A fact you’d have personal knowledge of if you two would get your heads out of your asses.”

I groan. “Do not remind me. Speaking of his brother, we have a shoot with him next week. Now I’m going to be thinking of him banging Anna.”

Steph laughs into the line. “Tell him she says hi!”

“Yeah, I don’t think so.”

“Okay, well then tell Carter his suit is hanging in my bathroom. He needs it for Friday.”

“His suit?”

“He took Morgan trick-or-treating so we could go out, and she threw up all over him. I’d yell at him for letting her eat an entire bag of candy, but I got a grown-up party and hotel sex, so . . .”

“No, Mistress Overshare, not today. Don’t tell me about your sex life, and definitely don’t tell me cute things about Carter. He’s a monster.”

“Keep telling yourself that. Okay, I see my person walking in. Love you and stop being a terrible human.”

Why does the universe do this to me? I’m riding high on inefficient, undercaffeinated Carter when the world has to remind me that he might not be entirely awful. I think it’s safe to say that I’ve messed up, and maybe Steph’s right: I am a terrible human.

The anxiety gnaws at me a little during a lunch meeting with Adam Elliott, and when I’m with America’s favorite aging hottie I can’t be distracted, not even a little.

Carter isn’t in his office when I return, so I can’t confess, can’t even give him the fully caffeinated cup of joe I got him on the way back from lunch. I open my email and absently reach for the bottle of moisturizer on my desk. But instead of reading, and instead of cultivating the lingering guilt, my mind goes back to Carter forgetting Brad’s name this morning when they passed in the hall. That one was pretty great.

I rub my hands together and smooth a little on my elbows and my face, and a little more on my legs as I recall Jess telling me how Carter got off on the wrong floor earlier, and sat down at Evan Curtis’s desk up in Legal.

I’ve repeated the process two more times before the guilt returns and I realize what I need to do: I need to replace the coffee and ’fess up. Karma is a bitch I do not need coming after me.

I’m just reaching for the phone to ring Jess and confess, to ask if she’ll help me switch it all back, when a call comes in that I’ve been waiting for.

Forty-five minutes of actress flattering later, a knock sounds at my door.

“Come in,” I say, eyes still on my computer screen as the bottom of the door whispers across the carpet.

“Hey, did you see that email about the aud—holy hell!” Jess gasps, and I look up to meet her wide eyes.

“What? What?”

She shakes her head, a hand coming over her mouth. “Evie, oh my God. I’ll be right back.”

She rushes out of the room, returning a moment later with Daryl at her heels and closing the door behind them.

“What’s going on?” I ask. “Why are you two looking at me like that?”

Daryl can barely keep it together. “What did you do, Garfield?”

“I—what?” I reach for the compact I keep in the bottom drawer, and I immediately see it. My hands, mostly my palms and up to my wrists, are orange. “Oh my God.”

“You look like a construction cone,” Daryl says, and she finally loses it, barely managing to add, “You’re making me crave buffalo wings.”

“Oh my God, would you shut it?” In fumbling with the mirror, I manage to nearly hurl it across the room.

My face is orange, too. Not just orange but shimmery. I look like a sparkly Circus Peanut.

Daryl moves to stand next to me. “What did you use?”

“I didn’t—!”

I stop, reaching for the lotion bottle I used earlier.

No.

Unscrewing the cap, I bring it up to my nose and sniff.

No.

Instead of the subtle vanilla scent I’m used to, I now notice a faint chemical smell.

“Nooooo,” I growl, my voice low and savage. “I’m going to kill him.”

“He put sunless tanner in your lotion bottle?” Daryl whispers, sounding horrified . . . but also a little impressed.

Jess runs out and runs right back in again. Coming around the desk, she kneels on the floor next to me, pulling a makeup wipe from a little plastic package. “I’m now afraid for him.” She reaches for my arm and starts to scrub. “Okay, a lot of it is coming off. It’s just bronzer.”

Daryl laughs. “Give it eight hours.”

“Oh, Evie, what happened ?” a deep, mocking voice says, and we all look up to see a smiling Carter leaning against the doorframe. Jess practically falls backward in her attempt to flee.

“You did this!”

“You want to start pointing fingers, Chef Decaf?”

I giggle in spite of myself. “Pardon?”

Pushing off the doorway, he steps closer. Daryl and Jess, wisely, clear the room. “I ran home at lunch to make some of my own coffee, because the cups here just weren’t cutting it. But sure enough, the ones at home are decaf, too. In the grocery store parking lot I couldn’t remember where I parked my car and nearly got arrested trying to get into a different silver Audi.”

I feel a surge of pride rush through my blood. “You did?”

He grins, shaking his head at me. “I did. Not cool.”

Holding out an arm for him to inspect, I say, “You don’t get to come in here and play the victim card, sir.”

“I wouldn’t dare.” He steps closer, so close that I can feel the warmth of his skin against mine. The playfully contentious mood slips away and I can practically feel the sweep of his attention as he moves his gaze briefly to my lips.

As if he might kiss me again.

No way. I think we both know that that won’t ever happen.

“I liked you,” he whispers.

An ache worms itself between my ribs when he says this, and my response comes out more raw than I’d planned: “I liked you, too.”