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The reason is that I watched the whole walk. Every step of it. Hips swaying, long legs placing each step exactly where she wants it, chin high, and I’m standing in front of two employees getting hard in broad daylight. I’d like a word with whoever’s running my body right now because it sure isn’t me.

And then Diesel, my dog, who’s spent fourteen years mostly pretending the human race doesn’t exist, trots straight past my leg and sits down at her feet like he’s been assigned to be her welcoming committee.

She looks down at him. “Well. Hi there.”

Her voice is low and warm, and I feel it land somewhere south of my belt buckle, which is a brand-new problem I didn’t have ten seconds ago.

He offers her his paw.

That’s not a trick he’s been taught, nor is it something I’ve ever seen him do in my life.

“Traitor,” I tell him.

Her head comes up. Dark eyes under dark lashes, and they land on me and stay there too long. Like she’s checking my face against a picture she’s got filed somewhere. Holding that look is like touching an exposed current.

I don’t look away, and neither does she. Then whatever it was closes up, and her hand’s out, brisk and professional.

“Vanessa Daniels. The agency sent me. I’m your new office manager.”

I look at the hand. Taking in the perfect manicure. Slim fingers, neat pale polish, and out of nowhere I picture those fingers curled in the front of my shirt, pulling me in. The picture lands so hard and so specific I have to breathe through it before I trust myself to speak.

“No,” I say. “You’re not.”

Marcus makes a sound like a man swallowing a laugh whole. Her hand stays out exactly two seconds past comfortable, then drops, and she tips her head like I’ve just made things interesting.

“Aiden Cole. I’m assuming.”

“You’re assuming right. And I’m telling you the agency wasted your gas. This is a boatyard. We fix engines and pull boats out of the water. I need somebody who can chase parts orders and yell at insurance swindlers,” the word comes out with an edge I don’t plan. “And who can survive in a room that always smells like diesel. I don’t need an image consultant.”

“Good, because I’m not one.” She’s already looking past me at the office door. “That’s the office? The one with the window that doesn’t latch?”

“How do you-”

“It’s open an inch and the frame’s swollen. You can see it from here.”

She turns back to me, pleasant as anything.

“The agency told me you’ve burned through four placements since April. They think the problem is the drive from Portland. I think the problem is standing in front of me, but I took the job anyway.”

Over by the fence, Tommy drops a wrench.

“You took the job,” I say.

“Signed this morning. I’ve got the paperwork in the truck, along with everything I own, so I’d say I’m fairly committed.”

A gull screams overhead and she doesn’t flinch at that either. “I’ll start with the invoices.”

“There’s no-”

“There’s a stack of them visible through your office window, and at least six have collection stamps.”

She says it lightly. Just an observation. It lands like a slap anyway, because she read my desk from thirty feet through a dirty window, and because Marcus is standing next to me radiating I told you so at a frequency dogs can hear.

“You’re not from Portland,” I say. “Plates say otherwise.”

“Very observant. It’s a long story and it’s none of your business yet.” The yet is doing something and I don’t like it.

“So where do I park that’s not blocking your lift?” she asks. “Or is that part of the initiation?”