See? I have boundaries. They’re just really far and wide.

My cheeks are burning and my gut’s churning. I expect him to turn and look at me. To say something, anything.

But he just grunts and keeps on his way as if I don’t even exist.

“Seriously?” Tiffany asks as Colton disappears into the executive elevator. “Nice suit? I am so disappointed in you.”

Okay, so maybe that dare doesn’t count as done. But even in the failure, my heart’s soaring and I get that fizzy feeling, so it’s not a total loss.

“There he goes again.”

I don’t even say anything, knowing Tiffany’s going to get me in trouble if I even acknowledge her.

She’s already dared me to eat a double chocolate orgasm donut from the shop next to Starbucks this morning. Well, that wasn’t the dare, exactly. It was more to fake the orgasm the donut incited, right there, When Harry Met Sally style in the donut store.

Dare done.

Embarrassingly so, and with giggles, but done. And the donut was really good, so I’d tipped the smiling lady at the counter an extra couple of bucks for putting up with our craziness as I bought a dozen to share with the people at work. Billy and Ricky had eaten three each, and Dad had declined with a pat of his flat belly. Even Miranda had eaten one with a groan of thanks.

But even as I know I should ignore Tiff, I look up and see Colton crossing the lobby with a couple of the other high up executives in the company.

I know their names, have probably had dinner with them at some point when I was younger. But much as they now overlook me as ‘the help’, I can’t tell you more than their names and positions on the organizational chart. I curse my younger, clueless self for not taking better mental notes of who liked opera, who preferred chardonnay over whiskey, and what role everyone who sat at Dad’s table played at Fox. I can almost hear Dad whispering about the ‘wasted opportunity’, but I shush him with a blink.

Because mostly, my eyes are focused on Colton.

Today’s suit is even sexier than yesterday’s, in my opinion, the navy-blue matching well with the deep blue of his eyes, and I swallow despite myself.

And it’s been that way for years, ever since I started at Fox. Just when I think my poor ego and libido can’t take another upgrade to my fantasies, he takes it up another few notches.

Still, he’s never even looked my way. “Yeah.”

“Think he’ll say something to you today?” Tiffany asks me, hope springing eternal. “I mean, after being such a big, throbbing dick and ignoring you?”

And now I’m thinking about throbbing dicks and reminding myself that I decided I needed a lay with an actual heartbeat.

Colton’s got a heartbeat. I bet he’s got a big, pounding . . . heartbeat.

“Ms. Carter?” a decidedly British voice says. Honey over ice is what he sounds like, I decide dreamily before realizing he actually spoke. Though it’s not to me, unfortunately.

Tiffany and I look up in shock, realizing Colton’s stopped right in front of our desk. Miranda, who’s been looking through the visitor sign-in log, looks up in surprise. “Yes, Mr. Wolfe?”

“A moment, please,” he says, leading Miranda over to a cutout near the elevators. He pushes the button, letting her know this will be a quick conversation, and then begins questioning her fiercely. Even though he’s trying to follow the classic leadership rule of praise in public, chew ass in private, a trick of the lobby’s acoustics brings his voice to us.

“What was the purpose of sending that outbound shipping report to my office?” Colton asks, all honey gone and pure ice in his tone. “What would I care how many packages are sent out?”

I remember that report. I took it upstairs myself . . . on Miranda’s orders.

“You said that you wanted an overview of the shipping practices, sir, during our last meeting, and—”

“And what you sent was a load of spreadsheets and figures,” Colton growls. “I don’t need data to analyze myself. I expected you to do the analysis and send a single-page summary as we discussed. I need bottom-line figures of shipping expenses by department, and if you can conceive of a way to cut costs, please feel free to include that in your breakdown.”

“I . . . I apologize, sir,” Miranda says. “I thought—”

“By the end of the day, Ms. Carter.”

The elevator dings and opens, and Colton disappears inside, leaving Miranda standing there with her head bowed.

As the doors close, I see that Colton already has his nose buried in his phone once again. Miranda turns around, her face tight with anger and maybe a little embarrassment from her fresh ass reaming.

“Are you two still wasting time?”

Her question catches me by surprise. After all, I was just the delivery girl, not the report writer. But she’s lashing out at the closest targets . . . us.

I stand, stumbling as my left high heel slips on the carpet and my ass bumps against the long desk Tiffany and I share, but I hold on to the stack of papers in my hands. “Miranda, I was just taking these—”

Miranda has zero interest in listening. “Girls, the FedEx man will be here soon. You keep him waiting, and I’ll show you what Fed Up means.”

She walks off, and behind her back, Tiffany scowls at her before rearranging her face into her usual professional soft smile. “At least he stopped by and spoke. He had to have seen you this time. He was right in front of you!”

“Well, if he did, he was unimpressed. No professing his undying love and questioning where I’ve been his whole life.” I throw my forearm up to my brow like I’m a Victorian-era debutante about to faint. “Poor me, whatever shall I do?”

Tiffany’s eyes get wide, and I know she’s already coming up with ideas.

“Rhetorical question, little missy.” I point a finger at her and then the stack of boxes visible through the open door of the mailroom. “Get to work or I’ll give you a dare with Arnold.” The threat holds weight because our FedEx driver is downright mean and always in a hurry. We learned to never delay him the hard way when he left our packages over a long holiday weekend without a second thought, even though our pickup time was still thirty minutes away. After that fiasco, we started calling him Arnold the Asshole.

But it works, because now we’re always ready at least an hour before he’s scheduled to appear.

We work the day away, Arnold comes and goes with all the boxes, and I give a tour to two cute little old ladies who want to talk about the architect who designed the building. The phone rings non-stop and I make about a thousand copies of some annual report for the upcoming shareholders’ meeting.

Late in the day, Miranda finally makes an appearance. I’m pretty sure she skipped lunch because she’s been holed up in her office all day, licking her wounds.

“Elle, can you take this upstairs, please? It’s very important.” She doesn’t say it’s the summary Colton demanded, but we all know it is. “I’ve got to go because my daughter gets out of volleyball practice at five thirty sharp.” She glances at the huge wall of clocks in the lobby foyer that highlight six different major time zones over the globe.

Miranda’s not all bad. I can see that in the way she prioritizes her kids, just like Dad did for me. I still don’t think she’d be a good fit for him, though. He’s done his time raising kids, and I was not an easy child. He deserves someone past that stage, I think, someone he can travel with at the drop of a hat, sip wine with, and enjoy the finer things mid-life can offer.