“Sorry to interrupt,” I growl, poking my head through the doorway. “Evie? I need to talk to you.”

“Sorry, Carter, we’re just in the middle of something,” she says, but pointedly looks down at the floor.

“Unfortunately, it’s important. Excuse us for just a second, guys?” With a calm touch that surprises me, I reach for Evie’s arm and gently lead her down a narrow hallway and into a sound-mixing room, empty but for some cables, a dim fluorescent light on in the corner, and equipment locked up along the far wall, my pants swishing the entire way.

“What’s that sound?” she asks with a grin, but I ignore her.

My hand around her arm is shaking, I’m so furious.

Furious . . . and hot. I’m really hot. These pants are tight as hell.

“You are fucking unreal.”

“What the hell are you doing?” she says. “We’re minutes away from starting the light tests.”

The door closes behind us, sealing us in the dim light, and Evie wrenches her arm out of my grip. “We don’t have time for this.”

“We can take five minutes to fucking talk.”

“So talk.”

“Is this where we are now? We’ll just keep tearing little pieces out of each other?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says, hands to her hips, “I can’t hear your man-baby words over the seventy-five phone calls from people wanting to buy my nonexistent Tesla.”

“Did I do the lotion thing to get back at you for the coffee?” I begin. “Yeah. Do I regret it? Hell no. I can still hear the echo of your frustrated roar from the other end of the hall.”

She takes a swaggering step closer. “That must be rough, being the consummate people-pleaser that you are. How depressing to need every single person’s approval.”

“That would be a first for you, right?” I ask, leaning in. “Caring what other people think?”

“Only because I don’t need to be everyone’s best friend to get the job done.”

“Or anyone’s, for that matter.”

Her face is so close to mine, brown eyes flashing. “Are we really getting into this again?” she asks, shaking her head at me. “Carter, look at this from my side. No one ever told a guy he needs to be nicer at work to get ahead.”

I open my mouth to respond, but snap it shut. Evie moves in even closer, close enough that she has to tilt her head to look up at me. We could be embracing. It takes every ounce of restraint I have to not glance down to her dress.

“I tried nice, Carter,” she says, “and here I am, fighting to keep my job—a job I’m more qualified for, if we’re being honest. You might be the one everyone likes, but I’m the one who gets the job done. So stay out of my way.”

Her words bounce around the otherwise silent room, and I’m left a little stunned. The truth of what Steph said about being a woman in this business comes rushing back, and the weight of guilt settles deep in my stomach—which is laughable because the last thing Evie would want from me is pity.

“Fine,” I say.

She clearly didn’t expect this. “ ‘Fine’?”

I nod. “Yeah.” I take a couple of steps back so I’m leaning against a wall. I need air with her so close. “You are good at your job. We both are. From the start we agreed that wasn’t the problem. Brad set up this bullshit competition, and we played right into it. Little did I know what a sexist shit show it would become, and I hate it. I do.” I push off again, and move back to her. “But you’re pretending the fucked-up system of toxic masculinity is the reason you’re a dick to me, when really I think you just hate how things have changed between us.”

When she doesn’t respond, I lean in. “So here’s the thing, Evie: if we put our heads down, and do our jobs, and stay out of each other’s way, then we can just be colleagues.”

She gives me an aggressive shrug. “Okay? Sounds good to me.”

“Colleagues. That’s it,” I say, and her shoulders fall a little as she gets where I’m going with this. My heart is pounding so hard, I have to pull off my suit jacket so I don’t feel like I’m going to hyperventilate. Evie watches me take it off and drop it next to us, eyes rapt as she looks back to my face.

“Passing in the hallway, small talk, work emails. Whatever this is,” I say, waving between us, “would go away. You may not like the glitter explosion in your car, but at least you know I was thinking about you when I did it.” I pause, swallowing. “At least now you know I can’t stop thinking about you.”

I can’t believe I just said this. I can’t believe I didn’t really realize it before just now. Are we really this immature? Jesus Christ, I guess we are. With this admission, it feels like a tight cage around my chest has been unlocked, and I can let out a huge breath.

“Well,” I say quietly, “there’s my dramatic admission for the day.”

I expect her victorious Evil cackle, or even awkward, stunned silence. So I’m surprised when she moves up against me and slides her hand into my hair, pulling me down, down to her mouth.

I am immediately, completely on board. She pulls my lower lip into her mouth, sucking and nipping just hard enough to tap a mallet to the gunpowder of my blood. My hips press forward against hers, and the sound she makes in response dumps fuel everywhere.

I am on fire.

We don’t have time for this. She says it into my lips even as she stretches higher, pressing into me. Even when she reaches for my hand, urging me to touch her.

We don’t have time for this.

Her hand is like a clamp around my wrist, dragging it down over her breast, beneath her dress, up her leg. Against my mouth, her lips feel like a holy experience—eager in a way that tells me I’m not the only one who thinks about this all the fucking time.

My hand finds the lace of her underwear, sliding under, and her little gasp telegraphs her thoughts immediately: Touch me there, get me off, do it quickly.

I laugh in thrill, amazed at how easy she is to remember. The shape of her, the way she moves against my hand. Only the second time I’ve touched her, but here we are, snapping back into focus. Her hand slides down over the front of my pants—which have become their own kind of torture device—and she giggles into my mouth.