Wait. Oh, never mind. Nothing wrong with eye candy in the office.

“Come on in and have a seat.” I motion to the tub chairs and glance at Grecia. “Thanks, Grecia. If Bek’s in her office, route all incoming calls to her and take your break.”

She smiles thankfully as Carlton walks past me and sits in one of the chairs. I close the door and stroll to my side of the desk, aware of his eyes on me. Shouldn’t have worn the tight dress today…

Then again, I wasn’t expecting to interview Mr. Cute here, was I? Ugh. I’m going to start asking for headshots for prospective employees.

Image is everything and all that.

I sit down and smile at him. “Tell me about yourself, to start.”

“Uh…” He glances at the résumé like he needs a script prompt. “I’m twenty-six, from Berkeley in California.”

Nailed it.

“I have two degrees, one in computer programming and one in graphic design, and…”

I nod as he continues his monologue. It’s refreshingly random and unscripted, so I think he thought I was going to dive straight into the questions. When it becomes clear he’s running out of steam and clearly on the verge of talking me through every pet he’s owned since age three, I stop him and start on the list of questions Grecia and Bekah helped me draw up.

I freaking hate interviewing. It’s the worst part about this job… Which is why I picked someone young when I hired Marshall.

I hope my next employee isn’t a murderous idiot.

I spend the next thirty minutes with Carlton, and by the time I’m asking him the last question about flexibility, I’m almost certain he’s not violently inclined. Well, I’m really hoping he isn’t, not only ’cause of the cute thing, but because he is absolutely perfect for this role.

“Thank you,” I say, standing and walking around my desk. “I’ll be in touch next week. Thanks for coming in, Carlton.”

“No, thank you for the chance, Ms. Bond. You obviously run a successful business, and it would be an honor to be part of your team.”

I open the door and smirk. “Flattery will get you nowhere, honey, but cupcakes might just.” I shake his hand again.

He laughs. “Bye, Ms. Bond.”

“Goodbye, Carlton.” I shake my head, smiling, and walk back to my desk, where I grab my phone. Turning it over, I see the voice message icon blinking in the corner of the screen, so I unlock it and dial the annoying robotic lady.

I don’t have to be a genius to know that it’s from Drake—and probably angry.

“I swear to God, Noelle Bond, you better not fuck with me tomorrow. ’Cause if you do, sweetheart, my restraint might snap and I will bend you over and fuck you into the middle of next week—and next time you tell me about your underwear then hang up and ignore me, I’m gonna get your ass over my knee and spank it until you come. Understood? Excellent. Ten o’clock tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

My jaw drops as the lady tells me that the message is over. He’s going to—where? What? Sweet baby Jesus on horseback! I cover my eyes with my hand and drop the phone. My breathing is more than a little erratic right now, but hell if I know if it’s because I’m angry or excited by that prospect.

Because, hell, I kinda wanna call him right now and do the panty thing to see if he will keep his threat.

Then again, I know he will… And Spanx aren’t made for spanking. Ironically.

So, instead of baiting him further, I text him a simple, I’d like to see you try, and put my phone in my purse.

Oh—wait.

Never mind. I totally baited him.

I’m so in trouble tomorrow.

B ring your gun.

That was the text message I woke up to this morning. Actually, it was the one I woke up to at one a.m. while my phone was buzzing like a vibrator on high power under my pillow. Well, I say I woke up to it. What actually happened was a very unladylike word combined with “waffle” as I threw my phone into my pile of dirty laundry by my bedroom door.

Yeah. I’m not proud of the very rare c-word escape mission, but I’m not responsible for what I say or do when I’m woken up at one a.m. while dreaming about Gigi’s. Really, Drake should have known better.

You never, ever wake a sleeping woman. Not even for sex. If we want sleepy sex, we initiate it. The last time my ex tried to have sleepy sex with me, I elbowed him on reflex and the whole Dallas PD thought he’d been hit in the face with a tree.

Again: not responsible.

I’m not shocked he texted me at that time of the morning—but, while I’m thinking of it, what was he doing texting me at that time? Was he awake? Working? Did he wake up randomly with a thought that he needed to tell me that? Why was he thinking about me at one in the morning? One. In. The. Morning.

Holy shit. I sound like a fucking thirteen-year-old hypothesizing about the cute boy who glanced at her in the middle of math. Does he like me? Was he really looking at me? OHMYGOD what if he was?

I need to seriously screw my head on tight and clamp up my vagina or this date is a bust—mostly because Drake Nash will own me entirely.

Damn, being a woman is so freakin’ hard. I’d bet anything he isn’t sitting at home right now, feeling like he wants to throw up all the elephants line-dancing in his stomach. Neither is he worrying about his fucking underwear in case his dress blows up and shows it. You know, for all the wind right now, but no one wants a Marilyn moment.

Because really, why did I wake up at five a.m. to read that message? That wasn’t even the first time I’d woken up. Like the ten millionth, and I haven’t even slept since.

Hell. Drake Nash is ruining me. Worse? I’m pretty sure I like it.

I need psychiatric help if, only weeks ago, I hated the man and, now, I’m all in a twizzle about a date with him. A date I’m only going on so my grandmother stops getting all up in my business.

Sure, Noelle. You tell yourself that.

Ugh. I’m a fucking moron.

But my gun. Why on Earth would the man I shot in the foot tell me to bring a gun to our first date? Perhaps he’s the crazy one. Perhaps he and the rest of the world are stuck in a never-ending ball of insanity and I’m the normal one.

Yeah. Definitely shouldn’t have added that sugar to my cereal earlier.

I twist the bangle at my wrist. Around and around and around and around until it pretty much spins by itself.

God, where is he?

Why am I doing this to myself? I am a strong, independent, kickass woman. I’ve been in situations where my life was absolutely at risk. I’ve held the fates of others’ in the palms of my hands, and I’ve stared straight down the barrel of a gun. But can I go on a date with someone without wanting to throw up everywhere? Can. I. Hell.

The knocks at my door are loud and confident. Can knocks even be confident? Or is it intimidating? Like a big boom-boom-boom that rattles windows and doors and sofa cushions and oh my God this is so ridiculous.

Someone take a frying pan to my face. Seriously. For real. Right now.

If I call my brothers, maybe one of them will shoot me and put me out of this misery. Hell, I’d take being knocked out right now.

Hello? Someone? Anyone?

The last time I felt this nauseated, I was waiting for my period after I’d lost my virginity.

Crap.

I nibble on my thumbnail, and hell, I need to shove this ridiculous nervousness the heck down, because it’s not like it’s a blind date Nonna set up. It’s not like I don’t know Drake. I know him better than I possibly should.

And maybe that’s the problem.

I know how dangerous this man could be to my heart. The most fiercely guarded part of me—not because she knows pain, but because she fears it. And if anyone, anyone, could inflict real pain on her, it’d be Drake.