The next day dawns bright and sunny, the antithesis of my mood. Sophie must’ve stayed away from my tossing and turning self, so at least I wake up without a hairball today. It’s the only bright spot in my grumpiness.

Work brings coffee in quantities so massive that I’m running to pee every hour on the hour, which pisses Miranda off royally.

After lunch, she blows through and reminds Tiffany and me, “Back to work, girls.” Like we weren’t already busy, me with a copy job and Tiffany with the phone to her ear.

The afternoon drags out. Once the mailman comes by at two o’clock like he normally does and we prep the day’s FedEx shipment for Arnold, there’s precious little to do until five.

The boredom makes my nervousness even worse, because every time I hear the elevator ding or my phone beep with an internal call, I swear it’s HR with a pink slip and a reminder to leave my parking lot access card on my desk when I go.

At about four o’clock, I see Betty Roberts, one of the HR supervisors, emerge from the elevator and my heart stops in my throat. Oh, God, they picked now.

“Hey, Tiffany?” Betty says, pulling out a piece of paper. Tiffany, who’s playing this a lot cooler than I am, looks up. “Hey, we just got a call from the healthcare provider. Said they need to confirm your data, so could you fill this out for me, please?”

That little scare is nothing, though, when Ricky comes down forty-five minutes later. I’ve got my back turned to him, so when his hand claps down on my shoulder, I nearly jump over the reception desk in fear. “What the . . . Ricky!”

“Hey, glad you remembered my name,” Ricky jokes, taking a step back. “Daniel wants you to head upstairs, wants to see you in his office.”

“But I—”

“Tiff can handle the desk. Can’t you?” he says, leaning over to look at Tiffany, who nods, but her brows are knotted together as she looks from me to Ricky. “Daniel said he sent a request to Miranda to borrow you for some work, so come on,” Ricky says amiably, gesturing with his head for me to follow him.

Oh, fuck. I hadn’t thought of this option. I’ve imagined Colton firing me, blackmailing me, seducing me . . . okay, well, that last one might not be so bad.

But never did I think of him narcing on me.

If he’s told Dad, then Dad’s going to go through the roof. He might fire me himself. More importantly, though, my secret of being a daredevil junkie’s going to be exposed to my father . . . and that’s one conversation I definitely don’t want to have.

It’s stupid, but he thinks I outgrew that craziness long ago, grew up to be a responsible, productive member of society and all that jazz.

And I am. Mostly.

I just like a little walk on the wild side every once in a while, and there’s no harm in that . . . most of the time.

Dad’s the straight and narrow type, though, and won’t get that at all. I can already feel his disappointment in me, painful and heavy.

Miranda comes up, looking none too pleased to be pulled out of her office to help Tiffany. “Go on up, Elle. Tell your father hello.” It’s a slight jab, snarkiness that I’m only going upstairs by request because of my relationship with Executive Daniel Stryker, regardless of what official task Dad mentioned in his email request.

Even though I’ve already ruled her out, I mentally draw through Miranda’s name on my list of potential dates for Dad with a thick, black permanent marker. No bitchiness allowed.

“Hey, Miranda,” Ricky says, making big goo-goo eyes at her. “Anyone ever told you that you look just like a prime-time Shania Twain?”

What in the hell is Ricky talking about? I swear his tone sounds flirty, but that is the weirdest compliment I’ve ever heard, and I once actually had a guy tell me that my eyes were lickable.

Even eyeball licker had better game than Ricky.

Miranda blushes, flipping her hair and batting her heavily made up eyelashes. “Well, why, yes. Yes, they have. But not in years, you flatterer! Seems some people don’t even know who she is or what good music should be.”

She doesn’t look at Tiffany or me, but it feels like she’s talking about our recent discussions of Lizzo. For the record, I love her and her positivity. Tiffany is Team Cut a Bitch and prefers Cardi B and Nicki Minaj. I don’t turn the station for any of them. But Shania? Nope, you can keep that man of yours and his boots.

“Nineties country is the best,” Ricky says in all seriousness.

“Holy shit, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Tiffany mutters under her breath. “Prime Shania Twain, my ass!”

“I heard that!” Miranda says, her smile fading slightly. “Don’t be mad our handsome Richard here’s got a good eye.” Miranda reaches out, patting Ricky’s bicep in a way that says she’s quite blatantly taking his measure, and I swear he flexes for her.

If I weren’t embroiled in an HR-worthy situation of my own, I might be a little concerned about this scenario playing out in front of my very eyes.

“Oh, please.”

“I just know a fine woman when I see one,” Ricky says. He looks Miranda up and down, licking his lips slightly. “The good Lord knew he was making something special when he created you.”

Miranda seems as if she’s about to faint from Ricky’s outrageousness, but Tiffany isn’t amused.

“Someone kill me now,” Tiffany mutters, fishing around on the desk to find a letter opener. “Here, just put it through my ear so that I don’t have to listen to this any longer than necessary!”

Despite my being anxious, it takes everything in me not to laugh. “I don’t think we need to go that far. Right, Ricky?”

“Sure, sure,” Ricky says, laughing along while giving Miranda a wink. “Okay, let me walk Princess Stryker up, and I’ll be back to see if I can still sweep you off your feet in a few, how’s that sound?”

In the elevator, I look over at Ricky. “You know she’s forty something, right?”

“And?” Ricky asks, not ashamed at all. “You might not see it since she’s your boss, but Miranda’s a total MILF. She’s the sort of woman who can teach a man things about things.”

I can’t. Ricky and Miranda and sex all in one sentence. Just no. So I make a hardline play I already know the outcome of.

“You trying to learn things, Ricky? Here’s the best two tips you need . . . one, when you think there’s been enough foreplay and you’re ready to move on, you’re halfway there. And two, make best friends with her clit. Pet it, pat it, lick it, suck it, and then do it all again. You need to worship that little button and things will be A-Okay.”

Ricky makes a strange sound, like he’s choking on the words trying to get out of his throat. Finally, he manages to say, “Don’t say shit like that, Elle.”

I smile pleasantly, wearing my innocence like the sweetheart I’m not. “What? You were talking about having S-E-X with my boss. I think that warrants a bit of birds and bees talk. Wanna discuss the G-spot or prostates next?”

He rolls his eyes and the rest of the elevator ride is silent.

Except in my head, where once the distraction of giving Ricky shit is gone, my brain goes into hyperdrive imagining all sorts of worst-case scenarios about this meeting with Dad.