Page 33 of Manhattan State of Mind

His eyes blaze with such ferocity that everyone on the floor must feel it.

Clearly, he thinks I’m unfit to work, sitting here playing with toys my first day back. I think I just aged in reverse. Compared to him, I feel like a child instead of a 27-year-old woman, and he’s only got ten years on me.

In a frenzy, I yank my chair back, smacking my knee in the process. Yowch.

I duck behind my monitor, shoving Daredevil under the desk—but the stupid plastic fool has other plans, rolling onto the floor, right into the path of the oncoming storm.

Cursing under my breath, I plunge to the floor to rescue Daredevil. Wolfe is practically upon me.

“Lucy.” His voice rumbles low. I’m imagining it, surely, but—no. That’s definitely my name rolling off his lips.

Heart pounding in my chest, I dare to look up at him. We’re locked in some bizarre unmoving vortex, eyes fused in an unspoken standoff.

My cheeks swell with a deep flush, my earlobes throbbing from the rush of blood.

I release a gargled, “Hi.”

As he begins to lean in, I make a desperate lunge for Daredevil, nabbing him before Wolfe can.

Then, I’m back in my chair quicker than a blink, feigning deep interest in my laptop screen as Wolfe glides past me.

I glance at Matty to gauge his reaction to the weird interaction between Wolfe and me, but he’s engrossed in some YouTube video.

What just happened?

My head feels forty shades of fucked up. I’m torn between the fear of Wolfe’s wrath and the intoxicating thrill of his unexpected attention.

And I haven’t the faintest idea which terrifies me more.

NINE

Lucy

Taylor. The last person I need to see.

She marches in, all business, skirt swishing, hair wrestled into a bun so severe it’d give that porn star—the one Matty was caught ogling on the company desktop—a run for her money.

Over the past year, she’s morphed into a new level of power player, her blazer even boasting shoulder pads, reminiscent of the ’80s superheroes’ costumes.

Instead of sitting, she stands in the aisle. “Boardroom five. Now.”

I glance around. Everyone seems unfazed—even Matty doesn’t so much as twitch an eyebrow.

She whirls around on her pointed heels, executing a theatrical pirouette, before sashaying off toward boardroom five.

One after another, my colleagues fall into line behind her.

Something’s not right here.

Even Matty peels himself off his desk, abandoning his cereal.

Alarmed, I snag his arm before he can join the departing herd. “What the hell’s going on? Why’s Taylor summoning us to the boardroom?”

He stares down at me. “Holy shit. You don’t know.”

A chill of apprehension skitters down my spine. “Know? Know what?”

“Taylor’s helming Project Tangra, Luce. Andy put her in charge.”