Page 40 of Manhattan State of Mind

“How’s your memory?”

“Still on vacation,” I sing-song, humor is the best coping mechanism when you can’t remember your own life.

“All right then,” Andy says, starting to back away. “Let me know if you need anything. You know, for the memory situation.”

My lips quirk. Like what? An ergonomic mouse won’t help me now.

“Actually, speak to Helen from HR.” He nods quickly and scurries down the aisle.

I watch him disappear, and my gaze collides with Wolfe’s through his transparent office. I practically jump out of my skin.Get a grip, you’ve lost your memory, not your sanity.

Gritting my teeth, I redirect my attention back to my screen.

Wolfe is an enigma.

He’s so difficult to read; his words were shockingly gentle toward me in the meeting yesterday despite the fact I obviously annoy him. But it’s more than that—there’s something unnerving about him that makes me think he’s got his eye on me.

Am I imagining things?

What makes a guy like Wolfe tick? What secret stories do those brooding, dark eyes hold?

Unable to resist, I sneak another peek at the handsome scary man through the glass.

His lips move as he talks on the phone, but his frown is fixed on me.

A flash of emotion ignites in his eyes—loathing? No, it’s softer, like regret. But then it’s gone, and his expression hardens into its usual unreadable mask.

Matty’s stupid joke about Wolfe pushing me that night bursts into my mind, stirring an uneasy feeling in my gut. I don’t actually believe that, but whatdidhappen? I tossed and turned for hours last night racking my brain. No one saw me fall and I have no memory of it myself. Not knowing feels like it’s going to kill me, but I can hardly march into Wolfe’s office and ask him outright.

I force my attention back to my screen just as something smacks into my head—the office dunce cap.

“Really, Matty?” I snap, praying Wolfe didn’t just see that. I snatch the chicken hat Matty tossed at me, narrowing my eyes at him.

He just smirks back. “What? You definitely earned it today.”

“You’re supposed to be nice to me. I’m in a fragile fucking state of mind here,” I moan indignantly. “And I don’t think it’s recommended by the doctors in my fancy clinic to throw things at amnesia patients.”

“Just getting you back in the groove.” His smile doesn’t waver. “I’ve been tossing that hat your way all year.”

I shoot him a look. Apparently, it takes more than a silk blouse to get a little respect around here.

Getting back to the job at hand, I go through the contents of my desk drawer, hunting for the wireframe mockups I need. Thank God I’m a neat freak.

An image tumbles out alongside them: a photograph of me at a comic convention. It’s one of those booth photos.

A spasm jolts through me and I hastily cough to cover it up, my heart racing. There I am, in all my Miss Nova glory. And thereheis.

The man with the sexy briefs…?

Daredevil.

Who are you, Daredevil?

My thoughts race uncontrollably as I stare at the image, my first piece of concrete evidence that he exists. The men’s briefs I found in my bedroom could’ve been a purchase I made, but this photograph is an entirely different story.

He’s tall, donning a mask that shrouds his eyes and nose in mystery. His arm is wrapped protectively around me. I’m sporting a big, infectious grin, cosmic blue lipstick, and eyeliner drawn into starry cat-eyes. I’m gazing up at this masked man in a blue and red bodysuit like he’s the living embodiment of all my filthy fantasies come to life.

Was I really that happy?