At ten-thirty, legal review.
At noon, a meeting about the shelter placement program.
At two, conference prep for the new lodge launch with the Turner brothers from Mount Everlove, who co-own the propertyand apparently communicate mostly through short emails and impossible deadlines.
At five-thirty, dinner with a potential investor.
I click through his inbox, flag the important items, and try not to think about the fact that he will arrive in about an hour. Usually, he gets here at seven-thirty. Sometimes seven-twenty if the day is packed. He steps out of the elevator in one of his dark suits, jaw tight, eyes sharp, coffee in hand, already carrying the weight of the whole building on his shoulders.
I need time before that happens.
Time to prepare my face.
My face is a problem because it tells the truth. If I think someone is annoying, my face files a public complaint. If I want another cupcake, my face starts a campaign. If Jordan Richmond looks at me for longer than three seconds, my face apparently starts composing wedding vows.
Which is why I get here early.
I can settle in. Organize his papers. Remind myself that he is my boss. My grumpy, terrifying, growly boss who barely speaks unless necessary and somehow makes silence feel like a dare.
A tiny crush is normal.
A microscopic crush.
A crush so small it could live in a thimble.
My phone buzzes inside my tote.
I glance down.
Lydia.
My stomach folds in on itself, and my hand moves before the rest of me can get dragged into whatever emotional trap she has wrapped in pink ribbon this morning.
So, no. We are not doing that.
Not this early. Not before coffee. Not before I have enough emotional armor to handle my sister’s pretty little knives wrapped in glitter paper.
I flip the phone facedown and shove it under my notebook.
Lydia can wait.
She has always hated waiting for anything. Toys, attention, clothes, friends, and men.
My fingers move over the keyboard.
Nope.
I am not thinking about Wesley today either.
Wesley, my childhood best friend who became my boyfriend for one confusing, hopeful stretch of time. Wesley, who used to split fries with me at the diner after school and promise we would get married if we were both single at thirty. Wesley, who recently got laser eye surgery, discovered protein powder, started living at the gym, changed his hair, changed his clothes, and changed the way he smiled.
Changed the way he looked at me.
Like I was a sweater he had outgrown.
Then Lydia decided she wanted him.
And because the universe enjoys slapstick with emotional damage, he wanted her back.
