Pushing my fear of Amélie to one side, the next ten minutes are very productive, and I’m almost finished when my phone vibrates on the table, distracting me. It’s a photo message from Logan. I tap it and impatiently wait for it to load.

Underneath it reads:

*Lunch with my family.*

The photo becomes clear and I can’t help cooing, “Aww!”

The six of them — Logan, Mary-Gene, Rupert, Taylor, and his family are seated around a table in what looks like a lovely courtyard cafe, smiling for the camera. I study them as a whole. Jeez, they’re a good-looking family. My eyes linger on Taylor for a moment; the only person whose smile, again, looks insincere, which sends a flicker of annoyance through me. Then Logan steals my attention, his eyes shining as he conveys absolute delight in lunching with his family on his birthday. His smile brings out my own, and I find myself zooming in on the photo to focus solely on him. He’s so gorgeous, so effortlessly sexy, and so genuine in his happiness. This morning he told me that my inhibition is inspiring; well, so too is his free-flowing charisma. The joy he exudes, at all times, is contagious, infectious, and I’ve never been happier to be contaminated.

Another photo arrives, this time of him and his niece. Oh my! For some inexplicable reason his sexiness increases tenfold. The accompanying message reads:

*This is Abby. She says she’s the most excited to meet you.*

Then another message comes in, saying:

*Mom told me to send the pic of my niece and I. She’d seemed to think you’d enjoy it, saying something about women liking pictures of “men and babies”…?*

I laugh out loud. I can definitely get on board with the way his mother thinks. I type back:

*You have such a beautiful family, Logan! Please tell Abby that I can’t wait to meet her as well, and MG is 100% on the money ;)*

*Ha! Really? Men and babies?*

Stealing his line from the other night, I respond:

*It’s just biology, baby.*

Studying the photo of him and his niece again, I notice that his outfit is incomplete.

*There’s one thing missing.*

*Yes. You.*

I smile at his words.

*I was going to say your birthday badge. Get. It. On.*

Over the next half an hour I somehow manage to get the terrace report completed while simultaneously texting back and forth with Logan.

Once back at the office I find Amber’s present waiting for me on my desk. After giving it a quick once over, I hide it in my bag and return to work, putting the photographs that Mercy took, and my report, onto a USB stick and triple check that there’s nothing else on there as well. It’s not like I have a stash of nude photos or dirty movies to hide, but paranoia still gets to me. I check once more for good measure and then set off to find Amélie, stumbling across her sooner than I anticipated as she vacates a meeting room.

“Mrs. Clémence?” I get her attention.

She comes to a stop in front of me. I hold out the USB stick, and while most people would automatically reach out and take what is being offered to them, Amélie Clémence does not.

She looks at it, registers what it is, and then wants to know, “What’s on there?”

“The report on the roof terrace I instated yesterday. Logan’s roof terrace,” I add. Please don’t be mad that I didn’t hand it in first thing, I plead in my mind.

Finally she takes the USB from me. “You had a week to hand this in,” she says, looking impressed. I blanch. A week? “Did I forget to tell you that?” she asks innocently.

Yes! Yes, you fucking did! I try to keep my annoyance out of my voice. “Oh well,” I say tightly, “it’s done now.” Dammit, I could’ve had lunch with Logan after all!

“Very good, Miss. Samuels. I will survey this with great interest, and will let you know my thoughts.”

Of course you will, I think, my mood now sour.

Annoyance remains my constant companion throughout the whole afternoon, until I’m called to see Amélie an hour before the end of the day. I assume she wants to give me her feedback, and sure enough when I enter her office I’m quick to notice that my USB stick is sticking out of the side of her computer; she’s looked at what I’ve put together for her.

“Sit, Gemima,” she says, not bothering to introduce me to the only other person in the room, a grey haired man in a matching grey suit, who leans against her desk without saying a word.

My irritation towards her trumps any nerves that are stirring. I know that no matter what she says about my design and execution of it, I’m happy with it and more importantly, Logan loves it.

“What can I do for you, Amélie?” I ask cordially.

She slides three project files across the table towards me. “I’ve personally put together these three project briefs,” she tells me as I pick them up and glance inside each of them. They’re all for landscape design. “You wrote on your resume that you draw in your free time, is that true?”

“Yes,” I say immediately. “When I have free time,” I add, hoping that she’ll take the hint that I have no free time these days, now that I’ve got a delicious boyfriend to keep me occupied.

“Good,” she says, not taking the hint at all. “I would like you to study each of these briefs like you would any real project and present to me two designs for each of them.”

OK, that’s standard, I think, except for the fact that the Pierson Group doesn’t do landscape design. And what does she mean like any real project?

“You’ll have two weeks to hand all of them in. And your current workload must not suffer or be neglected in anyway. Understood?”

“Uh… Yes. And no. This company doesn’t do landscape design,” I remind her.

“That’s astute of you to notice,” the stranger in the room pipes up.

I glare at him with attitude. Excuse me? “If you’re going to get sassy with me, at least have the decency to introduce yourself first,” I snap at him.

Amélie’s eyes widen in shock; it’s a look that I’ve never seen on her face before. The man stares back at me, looking amused, which only irritates me further. Who is he? Amélie’s husband, perhaps? Why’s he in here?

My words silence him, and I turn my gaze onto Amélie once more, waiting for her to answer my question.

She doesn’t.

Instead, I ask, “Why would I do this if they aren’t real projects?”

“Because I’m asking you to,” she says curtly.

“Why are you asking me to give up my free time to do this?” I ask as politely as I can.

She surveys me for a moment, and I do not break under her harrowing glare. Somewhere throughout the day I’ve found my backbone, and I find that sitting across from her like this doesn’t intimidate me nearly as much as I previously thought it would. She’s perfectly capable of answering my questions, and I’m perfectly entitled to ask them. I won’t let her make me feel otherwise.

Finally conceding, Amélie tells me, “Doors are opening. Opportunities are coming. And your skills are being tested.” She smirks, adding, “That’s if you’re not shy of the challenge?”

Ah, the classic tactic of appealing to the ego.

“I’m not,” I tell her quickly, falling headfirst into her tactical trap.

“That’s what I hoped, Miss. Samuels. Two weeks, two designs per project,” she reiterates.

Piece of cake, I think. “Not a problem,” I assure her, ignoring the irritating feeling of the unknown man staring at me.

Does this mean that the Pierson Group is extending their repertoire into landscape design? Maybe I’ll get the opportunity to switch careers without even having to leave the company?

“You can go now,” Amélie tells me, her brusqueness almost making me laugh.

I spy the USB stick once more. Without moving from my seat, I ask, “What do you think?”