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“Great.” I follow him out into the foyer, mostly because I know he doesn’t want me to. “And if there’s a commercial real estate investment emergency, and you need to get hold of Wes, you know where to reach me.” I flash him a totally fake smile.

“Have a good week, Lily,” he mutters as he steps out the front door.

“Hakuna matata, baby!” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

He looks at me with his usual expression when it comes to his daughter—confusion, discomfort, and mild exasperation.

“You too,” he says, shaking his head.

I’ve been stretched out on the sofa in the formal living room for an hour because the window faces the front and I am trying to stay away from the back. Because I’m trying to stay away from the sweaty, shirtless, magical creature who’s doing manly things out back. Because I’m reading about real estate valuation and property management and trying to replace thoughts of Wes Carver’s naked body with facts and figures about Southern Oregon’s towns and neighborhoods. Because I have to concentrate on learning the ins and outs of commercial real estate investing and not the way that Wes Carver’s fingers and tongue moved in and out of my lady garden.

But I seriously feel the need to do something to remind myself and my boss that I am not merely a twenty-three-year-old woman who cries and vomits and has emotional smeltdowns. I am also a twenty-three-year-old woman who is completely capable of also becoming a vice president at the Barnes Group one day, who also happens to look good in a tank top and cut-offs.

Just as I’m about to put down the book I’m reading and go to the kitchen to pour glasses of iced tea to take out to the Carver men, my phone dings with a text alert.

I have a message from Wes Carver’s personal phone.

Wes (Personal): Hey. This isn’t your boss. This is the other Wes.

Oh thank God.

This is my chance to bring sexy back without being face-to-face with him and accidentally putting my vulva on his mouth.

Me: The one who made me come harder than I’ve ever come in my life this morning? That Wes?

Wes: I fucking better be.

Me: You fucking are, I’m telling you.

Wes: Good. Remember that.

Me: My labia won’t let me forget it.

Wes: You alone in the house?

Oooh. A daytime booty text. Maybe Alecia was right. Maybe he does want to get back up in there.

Me: I am surrounded by books about Real Estate Investment Trusts and the structure of leases. So yeah. I’m alone.

Wes: You looking to stay that way? Or would you like some company?

Me: Two questions. First: are you asking as my boss who’s offering to mentor me, or are you asking as the other Wes, with the magical mouth and hands and penis?

My thumb hovers over the backspace key because maybe it’s not a good idea to text the word “penis” to him, even on his personal phone.

Fuck it—it’s the weekend.

I send the message.

Seconds later, I have his reply:To be clear, your boss also possesses a magical mouth and hands and penis. He just won’t be placing them on or in you during work hours. But yeah. Asking as the other Wes.

I feel like these are pretty clear and simple boundaries that even he and I can maintain. Could it really be as simple as us needing to keep things a secret from my dad and our coworkers?

Wes: What’s the second question?

Me: Actually, I have three questions. Question number two is a two-parter: Are you currently in my backyard and are you wearing a shirt?

Wes: Yes, but I can fix that last part in less than one second. Are you wearing a shirt?