I can’t help my gaze from straying over to Emery every so often. She’s flawless with her poses, graceful and elegant as her body seamlessly transitions from one pose to the next. I’m intensely attracted to her. But remembering my vow to Hudson, I tamp down the feelings of lust stirring in my gut.

Maybe this morning’s yoga will give me a new outlook on life. I will prove to myself, Hudson, and Emery that I can keep it in my pants and have a meaningful platonic relationship with a woman.

Even as my thoughts wonder, my body continues attempting the poses. I can’t even imagine how I must look. I’m not flexible or graceful, and would rather be in the weight room or jogging on the beach.

At last, the class is done. Emery’s practically glowing; she looks so content and at peace.

“What did you think?” she asks, bending down to roll up her mat once the instructor has dismissed us with a “Namaste.”

I could pull some alpha-male attitude and tell her that men shouldn’t twist into those positions, but instead I offer her my hand and smile. “It was cool.”

She grins widely. “Really? You’d do it again?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Next thing I know, she’ll be trying to get me to go to Jazzercise or Zumba. And I’m not about to turn in my man card. No fucking way.

She chuckles and we head from the studio with a light sheen of sweat over our skin, and feeling energized.

“Oh. They have wheatgrass shots there. And fresh juices.” Emery’s voice is excited as she stops in front of the small café at the front of the building. “You want anything?” she asks.

I shrug. “Sure.”

I discover that juice is a relative term. Because theirs are green, and brown and chunky. I order a bottle of water while Emery gets a little glass of something green and downs it quickly.

We find a table in the café, and sit down. I continue sipping from my water bottle, trying to rehydrate.

“Thanks for bringing me here today,” she says.

“Of course.”

As we sit here, chatting about mundane things like the disgusting wheatgrass she’s currently drinking, I realize that we challenge each other. She keeps me on my toes.

“Tell me more about you,” Emery asks, leaning in toward me.

“What do you want to know?”

“Enlighten me.” She shrugs.

Leaning back in my seat, I cross my ankles. “My job is pretty much my life, and I love what I do. Taking an old run-down building and turning it into luxury units that rent for top dollar is awesome. It never gets old. I love seeing the transformations.”

“That’s amazing.” She nods. “What else . . . surely there has to be more to you than just work.”

“You want to know something deep, huh?”

She nods, eager.

I think about it for a second, and memories of my checkered past flash through my brain. But rather than watch her expression turn to one of sympathy when she learns of my past, I’d rather see her face light up with a smile. “Blow jobs are my spirit animal.”

She rolls her eyes at me, but laughs.

Mission accomplished.

“You seem normal enough. What in the hell did you do to piss off Roxy?” She chuckles as she says this, and suddenly all the blood in my veins turns to ice water.

I scrub a hand across the back of my neck. “Roxy and I . . . it’s a long story, and not one I care to discuss right now.”

She pouts. “Fine. Regardless of your history with Roxy, you didn’t deny what she told me about you.”

“What exactly did she say?” Now I’m actually curious.

She shrugs, playing with the long strands of hair from her ponytail that rest on her shoulder. “She just warned me to stay away from you. Told me about your man-whore background.”

“Well, your virtue is safe. I made a deal with my business partner. No more sleeping with tenants.” I’m not sure why I’m telling her this, maybe because it’ll be easier to enforce the friends-only rule I’ve set for myself if she knows that she’s off-limits to me.

“So sleeping around in general is still fine?” There’s a mocking tone to her voice.

“Absolutely. This will be just friends.” I gesture between us. “Unless, you naughty girl, you’re trying to tempt me.” I give her a flirty wink.

She frowns and shakes her head. “Not a chance in hell. I told you. I’m done with men, and you, Hayden Oliver, by all accounts are a piece of shit.”

“Excuse me?” I cock an eyebrow at her.

“I’ve dated guys like you before. And I classify all men who think with their dicks under S for Shitty.”

“I do think with my cock on a regular basis, so I can’t argue with you there. But he’s so much more fun than my brain.”

This gets a small smile from her, and my heart beats just a little faster.

“Seriously, why would I take a chance on you and have my heart broken again?”

“Because I have a nine-inch cock and I know where the G-spot is?”

Her cheeks turn pink, belying her cool, confident tone. “Tempting, but not good enough.”

I shrug. “Then I guess I’ll settle for just being friends.”

“Do you even have any women friends?”

I think it over. I have Dottie and Susan, but they’re more employees than friends, and of course Beth and Gracie, but they’re my sisters, and I doubt blood relatives count. “Of course I do,” I lie.

She narrows her eyes, obviously on to me. Nothing gets by Emery. She’s going to be a kick-ass attorney. Of course I don’t tell her that. Her self-esteem is robust enough. She doesn’t need me overinflating her ego.

“Just relax, princess. I won’t try to get in your panties unless you ask nicely, and I’m serious about the friends thing. I’ll show you around town. It’ll be fun.”

Her mouth presses into a line, but she doesn’t say anything else.

Our bantering has left me with a half hard-on I’m trying to conceal under the table. Emery doesn’t need to know that I’d like to fuck her six ways from Sunday until she’s clenching around my cock and screaming out my name.

Chapter Six

Emery

Monday morning at seven thirty sharp: the first day of the rest of my life.

I stride into the law office of Walker, Price, and Pratt, refreshed after my usual morning workout and a Greek yogurt smoothie for breakfast. I feel sleek and confident in my long black pencil skirt and matching blazer, powder-blue buttoned shirt, and sky-high nude pumps. I spent almost two hours yesterday obsessing over my wardrobe and makeup, wanting to make a professional first impression, and I think I’ve nailed it. Even if my walk from the parking lot was a race against time and tottering on my barely manageable heels.

I approach the sleek wraparound marble desk in the lobby’s corner, and take a deep breath. Here we go. The receptionist looks much younger than I would have predicted, maybe even around my age. Her thick black hair is pulled back tight in a ponytail to avoid tangling in her headset. She wears tortoiseshell cat-eye glasses¸ a loose rose-colored pullover blouse, and khaki slacks, which makes me wonder if I should have wasted so much time and energy on my own outfit. Her plum-painted fingernails fly over the keyboard, tackity-tacking like a train rattling over railroad tracks.

It takes her a moment to realize I’m standing there before she looks up from her work. “Can I help you?” she asks with a plastic smile.

“Hi, I’m Emery Winters. Is Mr. Pratt here yet?” He’s the partner I had corresponded with the most, but if he hasn’t arrived yet, I can still talk to the others and get started. The joys of a workplace where every other employee is your superior.

There is no spark of recognition whatsoever in the receptionist’s green eyes. “Do you have an appointment?”

I chuckle; someone has dropped the ball here, and it clearly wasn’t her. “In a way. I’m the new summer intern.”