Wrong. Dead-as-a-doornail wrong.

Turned out she was making a beeline for another reason. When we’d chatted the night before, I’d mentioned some of the issues my firm was facing—the main issue being my complete disorganization—and she’d devised a plan for how to improve operations and put my firm in a position to expand and win even bigger jobs. She’d presented it to me over a game of pool at the wedding hotel. Her proposal had been airtight and exactly what I soon realized I needed.

I’d hired her two weeks later.

Now, after half a year together, I can’t imagine WH Carpentry & Construction without her running the business side of things. Her savvy frees me up to focus on what I’m good at—building, making, working.

She nudges my arm with her elbow. “Remember the day I started? And you went to an appointment that was actually on your schedule from a year before?”

I groan. “Don’t remind me.”

She shakes her head in amusement. “But I saved you! I called you literally as you arrived at the client’s apartment building, about to go in and give an estimate on a kitchen you’d already redone.”

I nod as the memory flashes before me. “Yup. Good with tools, bad with appointments.”

“And now you’re good with both,” she says, her lips curved up in that winning smile of hers. I look away briefly. I can’t stare at her smile. It would probably hypnotize me. Make me do its bidding.

“And business couldn’t be better,” I say. “We should be able to expand now, the way we first talked about. Hire more guys—regular employees, so we’re not just relying on day laborers for each job.”

“Exactly. With the new work we have lined up for the summer, we can bring some full-timers on, cover their health benefits, and all that good stuff.” She rattles off some of the projects she’d booked—a number of high-end kitchen remodels. Since it’s Manhattan, those gigs can net us six figures or more.

“By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask. How did you ever get to be so organized? Do you have file folders in your head? Admit it. It’s like the Container Store up there,” I say, tapping her noggin.

She pretends to pant, her tongue lolling out of her mouth like a dog in summer. “Don’t get me excited. The Container Store is my favorite place in the universe, and I’m convinced I could happily live there.”

“So that’s the answer?” I ask as the waitress arrives with a fire chicken appetizer that’s practically curling from the smoke. This one is going to be stomach scalding. Excellent. “Your affection for the store is how you became so organized?”

Natalie squares her shoulders. “Have I mentioned my clothes are hung by color in the closet? That all my books are arranged alphabetically, and that I never once missed a day of school in my life?”

“And your panties are probably arranged by—” I slam the brakes on the subject of her lingerie. Shit. Where is the fucking filter in my brain? I swear Floyd tampered with my head today. Maybe his hinges were faulty.

“By color,” she answers with a chirpy little sound, like she knows I went there. She knows I slid into a zone where I shouldn’t go.

But yet, here I am, asking more, “And the most popular shade is?”

An eyebrow rises, and the corner of her lips quirks up. It’s like she just slid on the perfect flirty-girl face, and now I have one very ready-for-business appendage.

Fucking dicks. Sometimes it’s unfair that we have these fuckers to do battle with all day. And believe me, it is an epic battle. Man versus hard-on.

Man rarely wins.

Boners are too powerful.

An answer falls from her glossy pink lips. Natalie wears some kind of sparkly pink gloss. Not lipstick. Yes, I know what gloss is. I’ve kissed plenty of women, and I’m not some Neanderthal with a toolbox who doesn’t know the difference between gloss and lipstick. One is slick and tastes amazing coming off a girl’s lips when I kiss her; the other one is thicker and tastes amazing coming off a girl’s lips when I kiss her.

“White,” she says, and the situation south of the border intensifies.

I grab a fork and dive into the fire chicken. Maybe that’ll be the cure for wood. “And now I know where all your business skills come from. Underwear drawer organization.”

“Pink’s a popular one, too.”

And we’re talking steel right now. Pink panties on Miss All-American is pretty much a recipe for a Viagra Dick—constantly erect.

“Pink. White. As long as they’re color-coded, that’s what matters.” She gestures to the chicken. “Time to blow our brains out.”

We one-up each other in eating a chicken dish that tastes like a lit match going down your throat, then douse the flames with beer, and move on to the main course.

At the end of the meal, my phone buzzes twice.

Natalie points in the general direction of my pocket. “Work text,” she says quickly, reminding me she set my phone to a double buzz when messages to the work number route to my personal phone.

As Natalie busies herself checking her own phone, I grab mine and open a message from Lila Mayweather.

I’ve got the go-ahead! Can’t wait to discuss the new project with you. Would love to start soonest! When you come by tomorrow, can you bring along Natalie?

I smile. It kind of makes me proud that my clients love her so much. I’m about to show her the text, but she’s still busy on her phone, tapping away. I can’t help but wonder who she’s texting. I’m tempted to peek, but I restrain myself. When she stops and puts her phone away, though, I catch a flash of one word—torture.