I take the report, a single sheet of paper. I turn to grab a file folder and slip it inside, letting Miranda know that I recognize the importance this paper holds for her. “Sure thing, Miranda. Hope Isabella’s practice goes well. Have a nice night.”

She nods her head, a grateful smile on her face. A moment later, she’s got her purse on her shoulder and is booking it for the doors.

Most people leave around five, though it’s not a strict eight-to-five workplace. Tiffany and I usually work until six to make sure any last mailings hit the post office and to be backup if any executives need clerical help after their own assistants leave.

The last hour of our day is usually easy-peasy with less phones, less people, and less work. Which means we can get into more trouble, but not today.

“I’m going to run this up to Mr. Wolfe’s office. Be back in a second,” I say. I’m going for a no-big-deal tone, but inside, my belly’s flip-flopping in excitement.

When I delivered the report before, the one that got Miranda in trouble, it’d been to Mr. Wolfe’s assistant. Now, with it being just a smidgen after five, there’s a chance she’ll be gone for the day and I’ll get a peek inside his actual office.

I wonder what it looks like? Sleek and modern like the building? Traditional and dark like an English pub? Or somewhere in between?

The thought of finding out thrills me.

Or maybe the assistant’s gone and he’s in his office, and he calls out to me to bring him the report. And he lays eyes on me and falls hopelessly in love—or lust, I’m not picky—as soon as he sees me.

“Not so fast,” Tiffany says sharply. “This is your chance, a once-in-a-lifetime shot. You need to take advantage of this.”

I quirk a perfectly sculpted brow her way. “Advantage of what?” I question like I wasn’t just thinking that I might learn something about Colton by seeing his office. And definitely not like I was fantasizing about him swiping all the contents of his desk onto the floor in a mad rush to make room for me to stretch out so he can take me.

“Okay, here’s the deal. If Colton is there, I dare you to actually talk to him, flirt for real, make it obvious and apparent that you are thirsty as fuck for his dick. Sit on his lap or something,” she says, thankfully laughing because I’m definitely not doing that. “If he’s not . . .”

She hums, tapping a burgundy-tipped finger to her lip, and I wonder when she got her nails done because we usually go together. But then I remember her saying she had to get away from Ace over the weekend and figure she must’ve gone then.

“If he’s not there, I dare you . . . to leave a mark,” she says finally.

My brows knit together. “Huh? Leave a mark? What does that mean?”

She nods like a bobblehead, her bun threatening to topple off her head. “Dealer’s choice, but the reward is congruent with the risk.” She steeples her fingers like a maniacal villain, the architect to my fun. “Leave your panties on his desk or in his chair? I’ll buy drinks all weekend and brunch on Sunday, plus get your next mani-pedi. Ass print on the desk? Drinks on Friday. Selfie in his chair? One drink. Or go evil. Move everything one inch to the left, and I’ll give you a mani-pedi for that if you can pull it off. Put a mustache on the fancy self-portrait he’s got on his wall. That’s worth a drink. Or come up with your own idea. I can’t wait to see what you do!”

Her excitement is contagious, alarmingly so.

“How do you know he has a self-portrait on the wall?” I ask, a good dose of jealousy already licking through my veins.

Tiffany smirks. “I don’t, but I’m thinking it’s a damn good guess. You in?”

She holds out her hand.

I know she’s serious, but still this isn’t a silly dare. This could cost me my job.

I can feel my heart speeding up. Anticipation and excitement, danger and risk are playing against sanity and brains.

I already know which one is going to win, so I shake her hand.

Chapter 3

Colton

The canyon stretches out before me, the morning sun casting the oak trees and grasses in a soft golden glow that ironically reminds me of home. It makes no sense. The family estate is in a part of England that is much, much greener than the vista outside my office . . . but the connection’s still there.

Maybe it’s the smell?

On mornings like this, the dew just starts to evaporate off the oak leaves right when I take my morning tea break on the balcony outside my office. It carries with it a scent that reminds me of home, with its thickets of oak so dense that you couldn’t walk through them without wearing trousers and a long-sleeved shirt.

I only have a moment to gulp my tea down with the busy day ahead, and I should be focusing on this afternoon’s important meeting. But somehow, my presentation isn’t what’s running through my head as I stare unseeingly across the expanse of green.

“Bloody hell, Colton,” Father growls, looking me up and down. “Out on the town, and you get yourself completely arseholed in front of the paps. Just how long do you plan on this gallivanting, anyhow?” He holds up the sleazy tabloid with my face plastered across it. It’s page twenty-two, not like it’s the cover, but that makes no difference to Edwin Wolfe.

“It wasn’t like that,” I protest, keeping my back ramrod straight. Slouching in front of Edwin Wolfe is something I learned not to do at a very young age. “I didn’t even finish the pint!”

“You were photographed in a pub!” Father shouts, a vein in his forehead bulging grotesquely.

And that’s the crux of it. It’s not that I was there, it’s not that I was drinking. It’s that I was photographed doing so. Image is everything, after all. At least to Father.

“Edwin!” Mother protests, and for a shining moment I think she’ll be on my side. A voice of reason in the fray. I should know better by now. “Don’t let Colton stress you out, dear. Your heart, you know.”

There’s nothing wrong with my dad’s heart. He’s healthy and robust, definitely enough to give me what for. But our shouting stresses Mother, though she’d never admit it.

She turns to glare at me, disappointment written in the tremble of her lips. “Why can’t you just do as expected? Like Eddie?”

Ah, yes, my brother. Edwin Wolfe the Third, or Eddie, as he chooses to be called. As if that’s a proper English name. But he can do no wrong in our parents’ eyes. The good son, the obedient son . . .

The two-faced bastard who got me into my most recent cock-up because I was at the pub to get his knackered ass out at the bartender’s behest. Just my luck that he’d been taking a piss when the pap came through.

“Very well, Mary,” Father says, tossing back the remainder of his scotch and setting the empty tumbler on the blotter of his desk. “Colton, I don’t know what I’m going to do with you just yet . . . but I cannot let you besmirch the Wolfe name any longer, boy.”

The dismissive nickname rattles me out of my dark memories as it sends a bitter heat through my heart. I know I wasn’t perfect, but I was hardly the hellion that my parents made me out to be, no more than Eddie was the saint they painted him as.