“Really?”

He nods vigorously. “Believe me, I had my share of run-ins with the daft buggers when I was at Oxford. They’re animals. Animals who’re in love with themselves. Rugby players take the term egomaniac to a whole new level.”

I find myself nodding my head, too. “Yeah, that basically describes Cameron McGregor in a nutshell.”

Michael’s brows shoot up. “Your neighbor is Cameron McGregor?”

Why does he look so horrified? “Um, yes?”

“The captain of the Scotland national union team, the Red Devils? That Cameron McGregor?”

“Honestly, I have no idea what team he plays for—”

“Six foot six, messy brown hair, built like a skyscraper, covered in tattoos?”

“That sounds like him, yes.”

Michael pulls a face. “Christ. You might want to move.”

My heart sinks. “Oh God. That sounds bad.”

“I don’t know how closely you follow sports, but your neighbor is all over the papers, and usually not for his performance on the pitch. Bar fights, sex scandals, being drunk and disorderly in public . . . McGregor’s temper is almost as notorious as his women. The UK gossip rags call him Prince Pantydropper because of the sheer number of his conquests.”

Michael wrinkles his nose as he says the nickname, proving beyond a doubt that he’s a gentleman of the first order. Only a truly fine man of exceptional character would look down on the ability to cause a horde of women to drop their drawers.

“He’s well on his way to earning that title on this side of the pond, too,” I grumble, thinking of stand-up sex and strip poker parties. I’m afraid of what I’ll go home to tonight. The kiddie pool Jell-O wrestling match suddenly doesn’t seem so far-fetched. I sigh, shaking my head. “I hope I don’t run into him in the hallway again.”

“Steer clear of him, Joellen.”

Michael says that with thrilling firmness, with dominance, like it’s an order he expects to be obeyed. Why that should make my ovaries sit up and beg—tongues out, tails wagging—I don’t know, but Lord I wish he’d use that tone again.

Preferably while I’m bent over his knee with my knickers around my ankles.

Inspecting my face, Michael cocks his head. “Your cheeks just turned bright red. Are you feeling all right?”

“Yep. Peachy keen,” I say, my voice strangled.

Jesus? Satan? Aliens from outer space? Anybody who feels like claiming the life of a sad-sack copyeditor can step right up. Bonus points if you hurry.

“Did I say something wrong? I hope I haven’t offended you.”

Now he looks at me with alarm evident in his baby blues. It’s probably only because he’s my boss and he doesn’t want to get sued for sexual harassment, but for a moment I allow myself to simply bask in the pleasure of being the object of worry from a beautiful, elegant man.

Looking at my feet, I mutter, “Nothing you say could ever be offensive to me. I’m just . . .”

“Out of sorts.”

I glance up to find Michael smiling at me. He must’ve guessed the effect he has on me, because his smile is the gracious, benevolent one a king would send a beggar as he drove by in his gilded carriage, tossing coins out the window.

Can this man do anything wrong?

“Yes. Exactly.” I nod, starry eyed. “Out of sorts.”

“We both are.” His smile falters. He glances away. His eyes darken, and a thundercloud seems to pass over his face. In a different voice, he says, “I wish my only problem were a noisy neighbor.”

That’s it. Since he’s standing here talking to me, treating me like a real human being, and dangling a juicy tidbit about his personal life out there—again—I’m going for it.

“Is everything . . . okay?”

He glances back at me. His jaw works for a moment, then he makes a pronouncement so unexpected it nearly knocks me off my feet.

“I’m getting divorced.”

“Oh!” I cover my mouth with my hand. “Michael, I’m so sorry!”

I am not sorry, not one tiny bit, and have probably just damned myself to hell for that flat-out lie and how jubilant I feel hearing this poor man’s awful news. His marriage is falling apart, and meanwhile I could light up ten city blocks with my joyous glow. I’m incandescent with bliss and have to restrain myself from doing a happy dance around my cubicle.

I’m a terrible, terrible person.

“Thank you,” he says solemnly. “Though it wasn’t exactly unexpected. We’ve been having problems for years . . .”

He trails off, lost in thought, while I begin to mentally design my wedding dress and plan our honeymoon. Then he shakes himself out of his fugue and smiles. It looks almost bashful.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I told you that. Nobody else knows. We haven’t even told our families yet.”

His eyes plead with me to be discreet with his secret, so of course I rush to set his mind at ease. “You have my word I won’t say a thing to anyone.” That sounds much more convincing than my next sentence, which is another whopping lie. “I’m just so sorry this is happening to you.”

Michael looks at me for a beat longer than is comfortable, then murmurs, “Thank you, Joellen. You’re always so nice.”

Nice? I’m nice? Is that nice like a comfortable pair of shoes, or nice like a lap dance?

Michael smoothly changes the subject so I don’t have to give myself a brain aneurysm trying to decode the meaning of an innocuous four-letter word. “So, are you coming to the office holiday party?”

The office holiday party is an annual exercise in humiliation for me, akin to having all my skin peeled off and being thrown into a vat of hot salt water. I’m not exactly an extrovert to begin with, but standing around in a group of my peers nursing a glass of bad red wine while dressed in an outfit that looked fine at the store but somehow morphs into a clown costume when out in public is right up there on the Holidays Suck list.

Inevitably, I will spill food down the front of my blouse, blurt something borderline offensive or outright pathetic, and be ignored or pitied by pretty much everyone. Then Portia will come stand next to me with her withering smile, reeking of disdain, and I’ll retreat to a dark corner of whatever overpriced ballroom we’re in so I can indulge in self-loathing and cram my face with fatty finger foods to my heart’s content.

But every year Michael goes, so every year I go. And this year, he’s getting divorced.

“Yes.” I surprise myself at how enthusiastic I sound. “I’ll definitely be there.”

“Good. Will you save me a dance?”

His smile is warm, and so are my nether regions.

Holy moly. Michael Maddox wants to dance with me at the holiday party, in front of other people. Hell has officially frozen over.

“Sure,” I say casually, as if my digestive tract hasn’t just turned into a quaking bowl of jelly.

He smiles at me for a moment longer, then inclines his head in farewell and turns to leave. I watch him stride down the hall, his gait easy and confident, his posture much lighter than before. Then I’m struck by a thunderbolt of terror.

The office holiday party is in less than a month.

I throw myself into my chair, fire up my computer, and google How to lose forty pounds fast.

FIVE

By the time I leave work Sunday afternoon, I’ve finished the edit on the manuscript and worked myself into a lather over exactly how I’m going to achieve my new goal of transforming myself into a svelte goddess in the time it normally takes me to go up a dress size.