Page 71 of How Not to Mess with a Millionaire

“I don’t have a dog. And my car is paid off.”

“You know what I mean. You look like you’re in desperate need of cheering up.”

“Why would I need cheering up?”

“You tell me.” Fliss steepled her fingers under her chin. “You spent a month in paradise. Got your job back, along with a sweet promotion. My guess is it’s gotta be a guy thing.”

“I don’t have a guy.” Not exactly a lie. She didn’t, not anymore. Her sister didn’t have to know that losing one was the cause of her woes.

Fliss drummed her fingers together thoughtfully. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

“This is a nice change,” Zoe said, unwrapping her chopsticks and hoping her sister wouldn’t notice the subtle shift of subject. “You worrying about me instead of the other way around.”

“I told you. I did a lot of growing up while you were gone.”

Amen for that.

Zoe dipped her chopsticks into the soup, spearing a wavy, ear-shaped mushroom, then paused to glance at her sister. “Want some? I can grab a bowl from the break room.”

“Thanks, but I have to pass. Dylan’s probably waiting for me at the Wharf by now.” Fliss whipped out her phone and shot off a quick text, then shoved it back into her pocket and stood. “This has been fun, but I gotta run.”

“Maybe next time you can stay for lunch.”

“And maybe next time you can tell me what—or who—has you moping around like you lost your best friend.” Fliss’s brow crinkled. “In all seriousness, I know I haven’t always been the best sister. I’m selfish and self-centered and kind of a brat most of the time. But I also love the hell out of you, and I’m here if you need someone to talk to.”

Zoe would have hugged her sister if she didn’t think it would freak her out. Their family wasn’t exactly known for their physical displays of affection. She settled for blowing her a kiss. “Thanks, baby sis. You’re not so bad. I promise I’ll tell you everything the next time I see you.”

Well, maybe not everything. She wasn’t discussing the details of her sex life with her underage sister. But, at some point, she was going to have to unload on someone. Might as well be Fliss.

“I’m holding you to that,” Fliss said.

Zoe raised her chopsticks in a mock salute. “And I’m holding you to lunch.”

Once Fliss was out of sight, Zoe gave up the pretense of eating. As good as the ramen smelled, it wasn’t enough to revive her virtually nonexistent appetite. Some people ate their feelings; Zoe starved hers.

She put the lid back on the container and deposited it in the mini fridge under her desk, next to a six-pack of watermelon seltzer and a couple of golden delicious apples that had seen better days and probably weren’t so delicious anymore. Maybe later she’d feel like eating. Like later this decade.

Zoe turned back to her computer and did what she’d been doing since she returned home and accepted the promotion from associate designer to project manager—immersed herself in her work. It didn’t lessen the pain of losing Dante, but it forced her to concentrate on something else, at least for a few hours.

This time, her project was a five-story townhouse in Nob Hill. The second one she’d been assigned to work on in the past few weeks. If the homeowners liked her work, she had her fingers crossed that the higher-ups would let her handle something even bigger. Like a commercial property. Maybe an office building or a hotel.

She’d barely glanced at the sketch still on her computer screen when a soft knock made her head swivel toward the door. It swung open, and her new boss, Mr. Lafferty, entered without waiting for her to answer. The balding, middle-aged man reminded her of Bruce Willis inRED, although unlike Bruce’s character in the movie, ex-CIA agent Frank Moses, he tended to prefer faux-fur rugs and patterned throw pillows to bullets and bombs.

“I apologize for bursting in on you like this,” he said, folding his beefy frame into one of her overly expensive guest chairs. “But we have a new project, and I need you to get started on it right away.”

She glanced at the design on her monitor and frowned. “What about the townhouse?”

“Someone else can handle that. I need you on this.” He tapped a folder on his lap, which Zoe hadn’t noticed until that second.

“What exactly is this?”

He slid the folder across the desk to her. She opened it, barely suppressing a groan.

“A restaurant?” Figured. And an Italian restaurant, to boot. A daily reminder of the very thing—the very person—she was trying to forget.

“You wanted to do some commercial work, right?” her boss asked.

“Yes,” she said with far less enthusiasm than she would have under different circumstances. Sure, she wanted to work her way up to commercial properties. But this—this was too much to ask. The universe was clearly conspiring against her.