I demur. He makes quick work of the roses, placing the entire arrangement into the trash can and sweeping up the trail of leaves littered over the floor with a hand broom and dustpan.

Then from behind the wall that separates us, I hear Shasta’s voice. “Oh my God. What the . . . Joellen? Is this you?”

I pop my head over the wall and find her at her desk, staring at her computer screen. Her eyes are wide with disbelief, and her expression sends a twinge of panic through my stomach.

“Is this me where?”

“On TMZ.” She looks up at me, blinking. “You’re on TMZ.”

“Me?” I laugh in relief. “I don’t think so.”

She looks at her computer screen, then back up at me, then back at her screen. “Then you’ve got a twin you don’t know about, because this looks exactly like you.”

Frowning, I make my way over to her cubicle, then lean over her shoulder to see what she’s looking at. There on the screen is a close-up shot of me and Cam, nose to nose in the ladies’ dresses department of Saks, gazing at each other.

Neither of us is smiling. His big hand is curled possessively around my upper arm. The dresses on hangers are crushed between us. It’s an intimate and intense moment and looks like we’re either in the middle of a fight . . . or about to make out.

The headline screams, CAMERON MCGREGOR AND MYSTERY WOMAN SIGHTED SHOPPING!

Son of a bitch. The man with the camera sold the picture of Cam and me to TMZ.

Cold with horror, I whisper the first thing that comes to mind. “Does my hair really look like that?”

Shasta squeals. “It is you!”

“Shh!” I peek up over the cubicle wall, but no one else seems to have heard. Crouching back down, I go into full-blown panic mode, complete with sweating palms and heart palpitations. “Oh God. What should I do?”

“Girl!” thunders Shasta, making me wince. “What you should do is tell me what the hell is going on with you and Cameron McGregor!” As I cringe and beg her to keep her voice down, she peppers me with questions, each more invasive than the last.

“How did you meet him? How could you keep it a secret? Are you two a thing? Is he amazing in bed? Oh, cripes, I bet he’s crazy in bed. Is he hung? You have to spill—oh! How long can he last? Is he freaky? I bet he’s super freaky, right?” She wiggles her eyebrows salaciously, and is about to continue her tirade, until a familiar voice interrupts and we both freeze.

“Ladies. Hard at work, are we?”

Shasta and I gulp and make guppy eyes at each other. Slowly, I straighten and turn to face the music, edging over a few inches in an attempt to block Shasta’s computer screen.

“Um. Good morning, Mr. Maddox.”

He glances at Shasta, hiding behind me, then at the screen, which I’m sure is still at least partly visible, then looks back at me. “Good morning.”

He answers smoothly, not a ripple of emotion in his voice, but his eyes are pinwheeling like a crazy person’s, which is how I know I’m totally busted. He already knows about the story.

Shasta offers a weak, “Hi,” then goes back to hiding behind my big butt.

“Joellen. I had a question about your application.” He looks at Shasta meaningfully, and I understand. “Walk with me.”

He turns and leaves without waiting for an answer, because of course he doesn’t have to wait. He’s the beautiful CEO, and I’m the lowly scullery maid who’d be happy to scrub his floors for all eternity for crumbs of his time and attention.

I lurch after him, sweating profusely.

His legs are long, and he’s set a strenuous pace, so it’s hard to keep up. It feels like we’re running from someone. I’m consumed with guilt for no other reason than it seems like I should be as we stride down the corridor at a breakneck clip.

“So you’re in the news.”

His voice is terse, his jaw is set, and his eyes are roving back and forth like he’s watching for incoming missiles. It makes me feel a little better that he’s uncomfortable, too.

“Um . . . yeah. How’d you hear about it?”

“Word gets around fast. Was he the date you said you had?”

“No!” I say, too loudly. “He’s my neighbor!”

Several people look at us from their cubicles as we storm past. He nods at one of them, ignores the rest. “So you said.”

I have no response to that, not understanding if it’s a challenge or what. Does he think I’m lying? “He’s just helping me with a . . . um . . . project. There’s nothing going on between us.”

We turn a corner, almost colliding with someone coming from the other direction, but quickly regain equilibrium and continue our strange walk-run, looking straight ahead.

“So you two made up?”

“Huh?” I am a sparkling fount of intelligence.

“His music. You said he was disturbing you with his music.”

“Oh. Right. That. Yes, we made up.” That sounds too lovey-dovey, like a lovers’ reconciliation, so I quickly amend it. “We called a truce, I mean. And then, uh, he needed help shopping for his, uh, girlfriend. In Scotland. For a Christmas present.”

For the love of God, Joellen, just stick your entire leg in your mouth and get it over with!

Michael adjusts his tie, yanking at it as if it’s strangling him. He’s in a beautifully fitted navy suit, his skin glows with health under the florescent lights, his face is clean shaven, and his hair is perfect. Everything about him is so perfect.

Too perfect?

Disturbed by my betrayal, I stumble on nothing but quickly right myself.

“Meet me after work for a drink.”

Now I almost fall flat on my face.

“Six o’clock. The Liquid Kitty on Fifth.”

He’s oblivious to my sudden catatonia. Not waiting for a response, he makes a right turn abruptly and stalks off down another corridor, leaving me gaping after him.

Is this a date? Did Michael Maddox just ask me on a date?

Before I can faint into a gelatinous pile of limbs, I glimpse Portia headed toward me. My heart sinks. It’s too late to run away, because we’ve made eye contact, so I pretend I’m coming back from some nonexistent meeting and stride forward with a plastered-on smile and a purposeful walk.

She cuts me off just as I’m turning a corner, stopping in front of me so my path is blocked.

She rests her hand on my forearm and digs her fingers in. “Be careful,” she says softly, blue eyes glittering. “Be very careful, Joellen.”

Before I can answer, she’s gone, clicking away on five-inch heels, leaving me wondering why her words felt less like an enemy’s threat and more like a comrade’s warning.

I spend the rest of the day in terror, wearing out my antiperspirant and feeling as if I might keel over and die at any moment. My adrenal glands are hysterically pumping stress hormones into my veins, and it takes an enormous amount of self-control not to let loose the lunatic scream throbbing inside my chest.

By the time I get home, I’m a mess.

“I’ve only got thirty minutes to get ready,” I tell the cat breathlessly, slapping cat food into a dish. “What should I wear? Should I shave my legs?” Mr. Bingley stares at me with a judgy face. “You’re right, that’s just inviting trouble. But wait—I want trouble, don’t I? This is Michael Maddox we’re talking about here. I want all the trouble I can get!” The cat’s eyes narrow to slits. “No, you’re right, play it cool, don’t be overeager, focus on the long run. If I shag him in the bathroom of a bar called the Liquid Kitty the first time we go out, we’ll never be able to tell anyone our first date story.”