Page 152 of Manhattan State of Mind

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As usual, the neon arrow follows me into reception, no longer pointing at the Memoryless Woman, but the Memoryless Woman Who Had A Thing With The Boss.

People who usually wouldn’t give me the time of day now stop and stare. All eyes turn to me, judging, dissecting. I force a bright smile as my heels click-clack conspicuously across the floor.

Not that I think heels make me a better creative or anything, but why shouldn’t I wear them if I want to? I’m a woman on the edge, so if any of these nosy bastards say the wrong thing, they’ll be getting a spiky heel up their crack.

“Hi, Abigail,” I call out loudly across the reception and wave.

Her eyes nearly make a break for it out of her skull before she plasters on a smile and waves me over, no doubt looking for gossip.

“Can’t stop, sorry!” I yell as I nearly crash into Logan the security guard. “So sorry for breaking into Mr. Wolfe’s car. Hope I didn’t get you in trouble or anything?”

Logan looks startled. “No, no trouble. I was just worried about you.” How sweet.

“You’re too kind.” I give a wave and stride toward the elevator.

The elevator bay is packed, but suddenly everyone is tripping over themselves to make room for me in their carriage.

Just as the elevator doors are about to close, a polished black shoe wedges in.

My heart leaps out of my chest, does a little somersault, and lands with a splat on the elevator floor.

Of course it’s him––JP fucking Wolfe.

You could hear a pin drop as all eyes volley between us, the tense elevator now a living tennis match. I wish I could melt into the floor and disappear. I give JP a tight smile and stare desperately at the closing doors.

Despite his suave exterior, dark circles under his eyes betray exhaustion. Part of me aches to run my hands through his hair, to hold him, to kiss him. The mere sight of him makes my body ache.

As we ascend, I agonize over how to play this. Shit, is he getting off on my floor?

The doors open and everyone deferentially steps back to let the boss exit first.

I consider riding this thing to the top just to avoid him, but that’s too obvious.

So I follow him out, pulse quickening as those penetrating eyes find mine. Unfairly handsome in his tailored suit, he waits for me.

“Lucy,” he rumbles in a deep baritone, his gaze seeking answers. “How are you holding up?”

“Spectacular,” I snap sarcastically through a tight smile.

He acknowledges my tone with a sad half-smile and inhales deeply, drawing my attention to his broad chest and the heart beating underneath. A swell of emotion chokes me.

I wish he’d stop looking at me like that.

“Things are going to change around here,” he says. “I’ll do whatever it takes to make you comfortable at work.”

My throat constricts. Is this his way of saying he’s done fighting for us?

I don’t know what he’s getting at, but it doesn’t matter now. I’m taking control of my own destiny, starting with the Project Tangra presentation.

“It’s fine, really,” I manage to choke out, forcing myself to hold his gaze. “Look, I’m sorry for Libby chucking a saucepan of water over you.”

He lets out a soft chuckle. “It’s not the worst thing that’s happened to me lately.”

I make a noncommittal grunt, too choked up to quip anything in return. “I gotta run.”

“Hold on.” He pulls a white envelope from his jacket pocket. “I want you to have this. Look at it when you’re alone.”