I can actually see the muscles in his back flex with each swing of his arm. He wrenches open the door to his office, his lovely, cushy corner office with the wall of windows overlooking the city.

I continue down the hall to the office I’ve been provided while I’m on contract here. The lone, small window boasts a view of the building across the street. It’s also beside the photocopy room, so it smells constantly of ink, and the ceaseless drone of paper cycling can be maddening. I immediately put on some music to drown out the sound and turn on both of the ancient box fans set up in opposing corners of the room.

Inhaling a deep breath of inky-smelling air, I cross over to the small closet and retrieve my spare dress. I’d like to say this is the first time Armstrong has spilled coffee on me, but it’s not. He’s a hand talker, particularly when he’s annoyed about something, which is pretty much every moment of every waking day, so it happens more than one would think. Normally I drink from a thermal mug to avoid this issue, but I was in a rush this morning and forgot it. It’s likely sitting on my kitchen counter.

Ensuring my office door is locked, I quickly slip out of my gray pencil dress and into the maroon dress with the high neckline and full skirt. I never wear dresses that show even a hint of cleavage because I hate having to remind Armstrong to speak to my face, not my chest.

I seal my coffee-stained dress in a plastic bag and toss it in my purse. The dress doesn’t match my shoes, so I change those too, and then set an alert on my phone as a reminder to bring a new spare dress tomorrow.

My panties are still damp and sticky, and I don’t think I can deal with wearing these all day. It’s too distracting. I step out of them and drape them over the vent under my desk, hoping to dry them. I suppose I can always run out at lunch and pick up a new pair, which I’ll bill to petty cash since it’s Armstrong’s fault they’re in the state they are.

It feels odd to be without panties, but I should be able to rectify it in the next hour or so.

I sit at my desk and take a deep breath. The pungent aroma of ink seeps through the vents and into my nostrils. I’m not allowed to burn candles in here because it’s a scent-free building, so I’m forced to keep the giant box fans going all the time. They’re loud, but they’re somewhat effective. I crack my office door to help pull the air through, but not enough that it’s an invitation for people to come in and socialize.

Lulu, who is … nice enough, has a tendency to stop and chat every time she uses the copier, which is at least half a dozen times a day.

My first order of business is to review the calendar of coming events and arrange Lincoln’s suit fitting.

I’ve just gotten off the phone with a Saks representative and arranged the suit fitting and scheduled a haircut and manicure at the spa close by when Lincoln bursts into my office, the door slamming against the wall. The cross breeze sends the papers on my desk fluttering to the floor. Goddamn it. I hadn’t paper clipped them yet.

“Do you know how to knock?” I snap.

He stalks across the room, his long legs eating up the distance in two strides—it’s not a big room, but still, he’s tall and his strides are aggressive.

He drops a folder in front of me, causing the remaining pieces of paper to fall to the floor.

I gesture to the mess he’s made. “Thanks so much for that.”

He slaps one hand on my desk and leans in, his eyes narrowed with anger and mistrust, neither of which I’ve earned.

He stabs a jagged-nailed finger at a piece of paper. When he speaks it sounds like his vocal cords have gone a round with a cheese grater. “An average PR consultant in Manhattan makes between sixty and seventy-five thousand dollars a year and that’s on the high end, and you make close to four times that. Explain to me exactly how you managed to wrangle that kind of salary out of my father.”

I glance at the contract I signed eight months ago. Just wait until he sees the new one. “First of all, I’m not an average PR consultant. I work with people in situations that are particularly unsavory and handle them.”

“Handle them how?”

“I find a way to smooth things over in the public eye.”

“So you’re trying to tell me your ability to handle my brother is worth a quarter of a million dollars? Were you sleeping with my father?” His nostrils flare and his cheeks tic. “Or was it Armstrong?”