I nod. “Just doing my job.”

“Right.” He collects the folder and turns to leave.

“You have a suit fitting tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow morning? I have lots of suits; I’ll make one of those work.”

“Are they like the ones you wore to the funeral?” I ask.

“Yeah, why?”

“Well, they may have fit you five years ago, but they certainly don’t fit you now. I’ll text you the details and add them to your personal calendar.”

“You can’t do that without my cell number.” His smugness would be grating if I wasn’t two steps ahead of him.

I flash a fake smile. “I already have all of your personal details, Lincoln. Right down to your shoe size. And you can’t be late like you were this morning, so it might be a good idea to avoid the scotch tonight so you’re less bear and more human. You’ll need to use these things called manners. I can email you a refresher on what those are, should you need it.”

“Sarcasm is a weapon of the weak.”

My ears are on fire as he heads for the door. Jerk. I was being witty, not sarcastic. “Thanks so much for offering to help clean up the mess you made.” I turn to address the crinkled papers scattered on the floor.

It’s common courtesy to offer assistance if you’re the one who made the damn mess. Even Armstrong, who is the most epic of douches, has some manners. Usually he’ll try to look up a skirt or down a shirt while he’s being polite, but it’s better than this.

I turn to retrieve the papers when two things happen, a power surge ramps up the box fans—it happens at least twice a day, and at the same time Lincoln pulls the door open again. The simultaneous actions create a vortex of air inside my office, and my skirt flutters into the air. Like I’m Marilyn Monroe and I’ve stepped onto one of those subway grates. The fabric rises quickly, and a breeze hits me right between the legs, which is the exact moment I remember that I’m not wearing panties.

I drop the papers and battle the fabric back down. It’s fruitless, though, the wind tunnel whirls through the room like Dorothy’s freaking tornado, and the back of my dress goes up. I meet Lincoln’s gaze from across the small room. All it takes is a second of eye contact before those ridiculously blue eyes pull me in, and weird, inappropriate things start happening to my body. It’s irritating as hell. I don’t even like this guy, but my body seems as if it hasn’t gotten the same memo as the rest of me. Even more aggravating is the realization that based on his expression, he totally caught an eyeful of cooch.

Lincoln stands frozen at the door, eyes wide and fixed on my crotch, mouth hanging open.

“Close the damn door!” My voice is siren high. And loud.

“Right. Yes. I’m going. Now.” He steps out of my office, pulling the door closed behind him.

My dress settles around my knees. “Dammit.” I drop into my chair, which is probably what I should’ve done as soon as the wind tunnel started, but clearly I’d been too panicked to think straight.

On the upside, I went to see my waxer last week, so he’s seen my girl bits when they’re looking their finest.

On the downside, my project for the next six months has seen my naked girl bits.CHAPTER 5MAKEOVER MORNINGLINCOLNI head for the balcony with my coffee in hand. While I’m not a fan of the city, I can still appreciate the view from the penthouse floor.

It’s early, before seven, but I’m used to rising with the sun. In Guatemala, we’d get up at the crack of dawn and put in as many hours of labor as we could before the sun made it impossible to do anything but hide.

Here I wake up to air-conditioning and stainless steel appliances. My coffee is freshly ground and there’s a breakfast menu on the kitchen counter—in case I need to order something from the condo’s twenty-four-hour restaurant instead of putting bread in a toaster. It’s excessive luxury.

The air is cool, but even this high up, I can still smell the exhaust and pollution. I miss the freshness of trees and sunshine on grass.

“How’d the meeting go yesterday?” Griffin’s voice breaks up as I switch to speakerphone so I can have my hands free.

“It wasn’t the best.”

“Armstrong being a pain in your ass?” The question comes out with bite, which isn’t a surprise considering he knocked up Griffin’s ex-fiancée, before she became his ex.

“When isn’t he?” I gather my hair up so it’s not blowing in my coffee and secure it with an elastic. “He’s not my biggest problem, surprisingly enough.”

“What else is going on?”

“They’ve made me the CEO of Moorehead.”

The pause is so long, I wonder if the call dropped until Griffin speaks. “Are you serious?”