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  “Ah, here she is now! Colin, here’s the only member of our creative team you haven’t met. One of our finest copywriters, Ruby Sugars.” Felicity’s standing at the front of the room next to a tall man in a dark suit. He flips through papers in his briefcase, slightly distracted. Felicity’s smile is so rigid it looks painful.

  I waggle two fingers in an embarrassed wave and try to slip into a row of chairs at the back of the room. Everyone’s here, and the place is packed. It’s stuffy and simmering with nervous tension.

  “Come on up here, Ruby!” Felicity calls. “Colin would like to congratulate the whole creative team for our work with Elcon.”

  Elcon—one of the many campaigns I came up with and Felicity took all the credit for. Now she’s being generous, trying to share the love, just when I least want to be publicly thanked. Oh, for fuck’s sake, can this Monday get any worse?

  Reluctantly, I turn and navigate the chairs to the front of the room, brushing cat hair off my slacks, trying hard not to meet anybody’s eye.

  “Ruby’s a little shy,” I can hear Felicity saying in a stage whisper. This gets a round of guffaws, quite a few with distinctly lecherous undertones.

  Finally, I reach the front of the room. My face is burning. I desperately long for an earthquake, an enormous crack in the pavement that will swallow our building whole. My eyes stay glued to the carpet as I shuffle up beside Felicity.

  “Hello,” a deep male voice says, his tone surprised.

  I raise my eyes from the floor and meet Colin Wright’s steady gaze. Only it isn’t Colin Wright.

  It’s Lancer.

  * * *

  “Ruby’s been with us four years,” Felicity’s saying. She keeps yammering on, but I can’t hear her. The roaring in my ears blocks out anything else.

  Those eyes—brown flecked with amber. The dark eyebrows, now quirked at an angle that hovers between amusement and horror. The pinstriped pattern on the conference room wall undulates behind him. I feel woozy. His mouth on my wet slit. His lips gently closing on my nipple. Our limbs intertwined, damp with sweat. His hands circling my waist as he whispers in my ear, “I need to fuck you again, Bettie.”

  Silence falls. Crickets chirp. I hear Felicity clear her throat.

  I force myself to say something, anything. What comes out is, “Hello, Mr. Lancer.”

  Titters and suppressed laughter explode around the room like a handful of grenades. If my face gets any hotter, it will surely melt.

  “Mr. Wright,” Felicity corrects, sounding aghast.

  “But Colin’s fine,” he adds.

  “C-colin,” I repeat, sounding like Nero horking up a hairball. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

  Felicity steps closer and says under her breath, “Have a seat.”

  Blindly, I stumble through the neatly arranged obstacle course of chairs. I spot an empty seat beside Simon and sink into it. He’s clearly having a hell of a time holding in his laughter. His lips twitch and his eyes water. I shoot him a dirty look, slumping lower in my seat.

  Felicity’s launched into lecture mode, going on about Colin Wright and how he started Wright, Milton and Sykes with two of his closest friend Daniel Milton and Owen Sykes eight years ago. In an authoritative voice, she explains how they quickly became one of New York’s most respected agencies, launching the San Francisco office within two years. I know all this—it’s on our website, for fuck’s sake—but she keeps up her chirpy monologue as if it’s all breaking news. She keeps casting glances at Colin every few seconds like an eager pupil seeking approval from the teacher.

  “Sleep in?” Simon murmurs wryly.

  I sigh. “That obvious, huh?”

  “Lancer? What was that?”

  “Glad I could amuse you,” I grumble.

  He leans closer. “Felicity’s so hot for this guy.”

  “Really?” My mouth tastes like dust. “But they’re not...?”

  “Involved?” He shrugs and replies in a snide tone, “I doubt it.”

  I study Felicity more closely. She’s obviously dressed with particular care this morning. Her clothes are always impeccable, of course—not my style, but invariably up-to-the-minute fashion-wise. Today, her silk dress and suede heels look so expensive you could probably fund a small war with the price they’d fetch on eBay.

  As if this situation isn’t disastrous enough, now I have to deal with The Stick having a crush on my one night stand? A guy who also happens to be our boss? I feel sweaty and flustered, dirty inside and out. Memories of our night together keep flashing through my brain, images way too erotic for this claustrophobic conference room. I can’t stand the idea of my perfect fantasy night colliding head-on with my sucky work life.

  What’s he thinking, anyway? Colin Wright continues leaning against the table, listening to Felicity’s speech with an expression of mild constipation. Is he as freaked out as I feel?

  I wonder if I can go home sick after this interminable meeting’s over. Claim I’ve got the stomach flu or something. It’s not too far off. My guts churn inside me like a bag of snakes.

  I whisper to Simon, “When’s this supposed to be over?”

  “Not sure. You got somewhere you have to be?”

  “Bed. I feel sick.”

  He casts a quick glance at me, amused. “Is that why you look like that?”

  “Like what?” I look down at myself, self-conscious.

  “Ruby,” he says gently, “your shirt’s on backward.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Doughnuts

  I’ve just popped Breakfast at Tiffany’s into my Blu-ray player when my door buzzes. I’ve got an avocado face mask on, I’m dressed in my rattiest pj’s, and I’m in no mood for company. With a groan, I trot to the window, Nero hot on my heels. He leaps onto the sill while I peek through the curtains. It’s pissing rain—something I’m pathetically grateful for, since it matches my mood perfectly.

  Wanda’s yellow Mini Cooper is parked across the street. I dart back behind the drapes, but not before her polka-dotted umbrella swoops sideways, revealing her upturned face.

  “I know you’re up there!” she yells. When I don’t move, she shrieks, “I’ve got doughnuts, bitch!”

  I let out another groan. There’s no point resisting. She’s got doughnuts. Reluctantly, I press the buzzer, undo the dead bolt, curl up on the couch and listen as she clambers up all three flights of stairs.

  “Whew! You need an elevator.” She hangs her dripping umbrella on my coat rack, crosses the room and places a pink bakery box on the coffee table in front of me. “There you go. A peace offering.”

  I just glare at her. Nero settles his considerable heft in my lap and gives her an equally disdainful look.

  “Oh, please! You’re not still mad.” She collapses beside us on the couch, shaking out her damp hair, earning a reproachful meow from Nero.

  I scratch his chin, grateful for this rare show of loyalty.

  She hugs her knees and looks incredulous. “You can’t possibly hold this against me! How was I supposed to know?”

  “Um, gee, his name is Wright. Did it not occur to you that I work for a company by the same name?”

  “Come on, Wright? It’s like Jones or Smith. And anyway, I wasn’t interested in where he worked.”

  “He doesn’t work there,” I hiss, “he owns the fucking company!”

  “Which just goes to show, my clients are very respectable,” she says primly.

  I cover my face with my hands, shaking my head. “You have no idea how bad this is.”

  “You’re upset. I get that. But it’s not the end of the world.”

  “I could lose my job!”

  “You hate your job,” she retorts.

  “I do not. I just hate The Stick.”

  “Because she mak
es your job miserable.”

  “So what? Lots of people hate their bosses. It doesn’t change the fact that I need to make a living.”

  She waves a hand dismissively. “You can get a job somewhere else if it comes to that.”

  “Says the girl with the massive trust fund.” Even I can hear the nasty edge in my voice.

  “Really? You want to pull that shit with your amazing friend who brings you doughnuts?”

  I sigh. She’s right. It’s not as if she set this up on purpose. And it’s lame to bring up her trust fund; it’s not her fault she’s filthy rich. “I’m sorry. I just can’t believe my shitty luck.”

  She puts a hand on my arm. “Maybe it’s fate.”

  “Fate?” I repeat in a scathing tone.

  “You may have been stingy with the details, but I get the idea your chemistry with this guy is off the charts. Maybe this is God’s way of telling you to see more of each other.”

  “Wait a second! I thought the whole ‘fantasy date’ thing was about one night of uninhibited, anonymous sex.”

  “For some people.” She widens her eyes. “But maybe you two have something worth exploring.”

  “Wanda, it’s Tuesday at eleven and I’m home in my pj’s because I can’t stand to face him! How can I ‘explore’ something with a man I can’t even look in the eye?”

  “You’re in shock. That’s understandable.” She reaches forward and lifts the lid of the bakery box a few inches. A delicious scent wafts from within. “Hence the emergency doughnuts.”

  “Where’d you get those?” I ask, distracted.

  “Bob’s.”

  “No you didn’t!” Bob’s Donuts is my favorite bakery in the world, an amazing little place on Nob Hill that’s open twenty-four hours.

  “I did!” she sings, jumping up. “Should I make coffee?”

  I nod, leaning forward to lift the lid a little higher. I breathe in the decadent, sugary smell, feeling suddenly dizzy with hunger. Wanda heads for the kitchen. I follow her, knowing if I sit there with the bakery box I’ll gobble them up without coffee, and that would be a serious crime.

  “I know you’re not ready to hear this,” she says, pulling my French press from the cupboard, “but this might be the best thing that ever happened to you.”

  “You’re right. I’m not ready to hear that.”

  “Even if you don’t end up riding off into the sunset, you could have a few more nights of amazing sex while he’s here.”

  I hop onto the counter. Nero comes in and rubs against Wanda’s shins, the big, fat traitor. “What part of ‘he’s my boss’ do you not understand?”

  “He’s not your day-to-day boss.” She fills the coffee grinder with fresh beans, pushes the button.

  I shout over the noise. “What’s your point?”

  “He lives in New York! He’s only here for a few weeks. You may have fucked him, but it won’t affect your day-to-day professional life.”

  Grudgingly, I have to admit she’s probably right. While it’s still unnerving knowing I had wild, toe-curling sex with the man who signs my paychecks, it’s not as though I’ll have to face him in the office every day.

  “True.”

  “And if it happens again before he goes, so much the better. Now go wash your face; I don’t want to have coffee with the Wicked Witch.”

  She finishes brewing while I go scrub the avocado mask off. Together we curl up on the couch, Nero squashed between us. We moan over the doughnuts, drink way too much coffee, and end up laughing hysterically over nothing at all, high on sugar and caffeine. By the time she leaves an hour later, I feel much better. Everyone deserves a mental health day once in a while. I’ll give myself the afternoon to laze about like a sloth. I’ll even give myself permission to mentally revisit the dream world I slipped into with Lancer Saturday night. Tomorrow morning, though, I’ll get up and go to work with my game face on. I can be professional. Just watch me.

  Chapter Twelve

  Send Him In

  Walking into the office Wednesday morning, I imagine a bubble encasing me, protecting me from harm. My nana used to put me in a bubble when I felt worried about something at school or nervous before a party: she’d trace the outline in the air around me, then seal it with a kiss. I am calm, I tell myself. I’m in my bubble. Nothing can rattle me.

  I glide to my desk, a serene smile on my face. So far, so good. Nobody’s heckling or jeering. Maybe all the razzing about my stupid email has finally died down. From here on I’ll be a model employee, the picture of cool efficiency. I’ll win awards in copywriting excellence; they’ll feature my photo on the Wright, Milton and Sykes website with the caption Ruby Sugars: Ad Woman of the Year.

  “Morning, Ruby.”

  I jump at the sound of Felicity’s voice just behind me. My fingers involuntarily squeeze my coffee cup, popping the lid off and spewing latte all over the paperwork spread across my desk.

  Felicity and I stare at the dripping mess in mute horror.

  “Jesus,” she mutters. “Clean this up, then come to my office.”

  “Yes. Of course. Sorry!”

  The whole time I’m mopping up the milky coffee, my mind’s racing. She can’t know. Of course she doesn’t know! How could she? He wouldn’t tell her. Why would he? Now I’ve stained my blouse! Is he here? He’ll think I’m a wreck. I am a wreck!

  By the time I scuttle into Felicity’s office, clutching at the damp spot where I’ve scrubbed maniacally at my blouse, my bubble has popped; the serene smile’s become a demented grimace.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  She waves me in. “Yes. Have a seat. Close the door.”

  Why do the words close the door always sound so ominous coming from her? I sit down in her torturous leather-and-chrome chair, my stomach churning.

  “Feeling better?” she asks, flipping through some files on her desk.

  “Sorry?”

  She looks up, one eyebrow arched sardonically. “You were sick, right?”

  “Oh, um, yeah. Stomach flu. Lots of...vomiting. Much better now.”

  Her lips pucker in distaste. “Glad to hear it. Now, about this Gioioso account. I’m not sure we’re heading in the right direction.”

  “Oh?”

  “Carrie and Matt have shown me what they’ve got, and it’s okay, but I’m just not feeling it, you know?”

  “The Italian style thing isn’t working?” I feign surprise.

  “Not for me.” She flips through a calendar briskly. “And we’ve got that pitch a week from today.”

  This is a frequent technique of hers. In the meeting with everyone else she puts my ideas down, discounts them. Then, a few days later, she expresses interest, asks me to elaborate. I explain my vision in more detail, she tells me to work on it with Simon, then she presents it to the clients without ever acknowledging that the idea came from me.

  Her phone buzzes. She pushes a button, and her assistant’s voice says, “Mr. Wright’s here to see you.”

  Fuck. I think I’m going to be sick.

  She glances at me. “Fine. Ruby and I are done. Send him in.”

  I try to hurry out the door before he can enter. My hand automatically goes back to the damp coffee stain on my blouse, just above my left nipple. I probably look like I’m pledging allegiance to the flag. As I wrench the door open frantically, my breath catches. There he is, gorgeous as ever in a gray flannel suit.

  “Hi.” The single syllable comes out a barely audible squeak.

  “Hello.” His expression is unreadable. “Ruby, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Ruby.”

  From behind me I hear a musical laugh. I spin around, amazed that such a sweet, tinkling giggle could come from The Stick. What’s she laughing at, anyway? She jumps to her feet. Her face glow
s with a warm smile. “Ruby was just on her way out. Come on in, Colin! So good to see you.”

  I hurry out the door, my insides fizzing with a bizarre cocktail of rage, humiliation and excitement at the smell of Colin’s spicy, expensive-smelling cologne.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lipstick at Work

  It’s Friday before I see Colin again. He’s got like four thousand meetings scheduled, apparently, and Simon and I are racing to complete a big project under deadline. We’re working on the files for a new cosmetics line. It’s stressful because my sick day set me back a little, but I welcome the chance to throw myself into the work. Women’s products are my favorite, especially makeup, hair, clothes and shoes. It’s so easy for me to get into the mindset of the target audience, to imagine what will catch her eye. It’s like buying a present for a really good girlfriend.

  “What’s up with you?” Simon asks when we’ve sent Felicity our latest draft.

  I try to look innocent. “Nothing. What do you mean?”

  “You look different.” He gestures vaguely at my face. “More alive.”

  “Colored my hair.”

  “You look good.”

  Embarrassed but also secretly pleased, I turn to my computer and notice a message in my inbox. It’s from Colin, requesting a meeting in the upstairs conference room at three. I look at the clock. It’s 2:50! He sent the message just before noon, but I was too wrapped up in our project to notice.

  Quickly, fingers trembling, I reply to his note, letting him know I’m free if he still wants to see me. I’m careful to keep my tone as crisp and professional as his. Okay, yes, I revise it three times, but I do it quickly—I have to, if he still wants to meet in the next few minutes.

  My phone rings right away. I don’t recognize the number. “Hello?”

  “Ruby. It’s Colin.” His tone is just as brusque and bland as his email. “Come on up, will you?”

  “Sure. I’ll be there in a minute.”