“Well, I’m glad that you’re finding your rhythm,” he said, looking me up and down in a way that made me blush. “Though I do remember you used to have plenty at a shitty little bar across the state.”

“I’d prefer to leave the past where it lies,” I said, twirling my own keys to match his boisterous fidgeting.

“That’s the problem with the past, Beauty,” he sighed, his face playing at resignation. “It never lets itself be left behind.”

“Maybe for some people,” I allowed. But not for me. I couldn’t have my past be present right now, not when I was so focused on doing well here, on tentatively moving forward.

“Yeah, maybe just for some people,” he mused. “Well, would you care for a ride to wherever you’re headed? Dinner, perhaps?”

“I have a car,” I reminded him, jingling my keys loudly. “And dinner’s waiting for me at home.”

“Oh?” Dan asked, his ears practically perking up in interest. “Someone waiting for you at home? A boyfriend, eager to impress you with his prowess at the stove?”

“No,” I snorted, laughing. “A crockpot.”

One of the purchases I’d made when I still had Roland’s credit card in my possession was a slow cooker. The packaging promised that I could dump a bunch of ingredients in before I went to work and get home to a delicious dinner. To a person who wasn’t so confident in her cooking skills, that seemed like a damn miracle.

Dan laughed, too, and shook his head. “Well, I’ll let you get to that,” he said. “Wouldn’t want you to burn your house down with scorched dinner. But could I take you out sometime? When dinner’s not waiting for you?”

I put my hands on my hips. “That sounds awfully like a date,” I mock scolded. “And I don’t think you want me reporting to human resources that I’m feeling pressured to date my boss.”

“I’m not your boss,” he scoffed. “That’s my brother’s job. And there’s no office policy about dating.”

Dating? Really? Did Dan actually want to date me? My cheeks colored of their own accord, and my stomach seemed to try to take flight inside of my body.

“That may be,” I said, keeping my voice as light as I could. “But it’s still not really professional, is it?”

“Not really professional is me asking you for another lap dance,” Dan purred, unperturbed.

My face was so hot I wondered if I was running a fever. How could he just stand there, straight-faced, propositioning me to take my clothes off? I should’ve known back at the bar that agreeing to dance for him would come back to bite me in the ass.

“You’re right about that,” I managed to say. “That wouldn’t be very professional at all.”

“Just keep it in mind, is all I ask for,” he said, grinning and turning to go. “The date, that is. Not the lap dance. Though a man can dream.”

He sauntered over to the nicest car in the lot by far, and I watched him go, wondering just what was so great about a crockpot dinner that made me pass up that tall drink of man. He was so sexy, and in spite of my misgivings about our professional relationship, I actually wanted to go on a date with him.

Hell, if I were being perfectly honest with myself, I would’ve given him another lap dance. That’s how much I liked him.

Maybe I’d understand Dan and Roland’s differences better if I’d had a sibling. Alas, though, I’d been a single child—probably for better than worse. I didn’t envy the idea that I’d have to deal with a living sibling, angry at me for causing our parents’ deaths.

But the difference between the two men was vast. Dan was handsome, for one, and outgoing, easy to talk to and get along with. He was flashy but compassionate, and flirtatious to boot.

And then there was Roland. Reclusive, unpleasant to gaze upon, and endlessly rude. How could they both be products of the same parents? I resolved to ask Sam as soon as possible if Roland wasn’t perhaps adopted into Dan’s family—or the other way around.

The rest of the week flew by. I started getting to work at 7:30 in the morning just to try and avoid Roland’s ire at my incompetency, but he still found things to be critical about.

“Too casual,” he barked at me when I gave him his paper and coffee while wearing dark wash jeans—which I thought looked fantastic with my blazer.

“This isn’t a club,” he said again, when I wore a dress with some sequins in the detailing.

However, it wasn’t until his sly “where’s the funeral” comment regarding my sleek, all-black suit that I struck back.

“This is my first office job!” I spat, sick of him commenting on my appearance. “If there is a dress code, forward it to me. There will be some wardrobe hiccups as I try and adjust to this particular culture! My previous job…” I gulped. Dan might have known what my previous job was, but I wasn’t about to divulge it willingly to Roland.

“Decidedly more casual, I’d imagine,” he replied coolly, making me flush to the very roots of my hair. Oh my God, he knew. I wished I could die right then and there.

“If you’re struggling with fitting in with the office culture here,” Roland added, not looking the least bit embarrassed, “you could always, I don’t know, open your damn eyes and look around the fucking office to see what the other women are wearing. Is that too hard a task? Want to screw that up, too?”

“No, I’ll open my damn eyes and look around the fucking office, like you said,” I replied, my shame thankfully replaced with irritation. “And maybe I’ll get some shitty fashion tips from some of these assholes, too.”

He gave me an appraising look, like all the tough language had impressed him, and I felt a weird little glow of pride. Yes, this girl had a sailor mouth right alongside the best of them.

“Get out,” he said almost amicably, and I left feeling like I’d won that round—or, at the very least, held my own.

At the end of the week, though, after a whirlwind of training and digitizing and trying to gain my footing at this confusing place, one major safety net was removed: Myra. On Friday afternoon, we all gathered near the breakroom to celebrate her very last day with Shepard Shipments. Most of me was consumed with panic. I always felt better at Myra’s side, accompanying her on the errands Roland sent her on, always knowing that she had my back when that frightening phone rang. Now, it was going to be just me, training wheels off, trying to do her work.

There was a swell of people I normally didn’t see on this floor, and I realized that employees from companies occupying the floors below had arrived to see Myra off. That was how important a contribution she had made to this place.

One person, however, was noticeably absent from the celebrations, which included an enormous cake and plastic flutes of champagne: Roland. The door to his office remained closed, even as the volume of laughter increased as the amount of champagne people drank increased.

It made me unreasonably angry to realize that he wasn’t here, sending off Myra, who’d been his right hand woman and then some. Couldn’t he at least come out and give her a hug in front of everyone? I didn’t expect him to imbibe in cake or champagne or anything else that symbolized happiness. He obviously wouldn’t touch happiness with a ten-foot pole.

“What’s that face for?” Myra asked me, handing me a slice of cake on a plate.

“It’s nothing,” I said, grumpy as I stabbed a fork into the treat, staring daggers at Roland’s office door, which remained closed and impervious to my anger.

“You might as well tell me,” she said, sipping on her champagne. “Your face tells the world what’s going on in that head of yours. And I won’t be here after today for you to vent to.”

“It’s just that Roland isn’t here for your going away party,” I complained, stuffing a piece of the cake in my mouth. It was moist and heavenly, but I didn’t want to get distracted from my purpose. “You’ve been with him all these years, doing everything for him. You’d think he’d climb down from his throne and at least say goodbye.”