Sunday she’d tried one of the mega churches, standing outside the doors while the parishioners filed out on their way to brunch. Here she’d spotted several women with potential. Approaching them, however, was a whole new problem. How the hell was she supposed to sell a date with Blake to passersby? It was hard enough figuring out how she was going to allure dates when she had the time to build him up. Perhaps if she held up a sign with his much-too-gorgeous-for-his-own-good face and the words WANNA DATE? She’d put that on her mental list of possibilities for the future.

Sunday night she refused to think about it anymore. By Monday morning, she had a headache and a case of cold feet. She was already so much of a failure in her own eyes. She really didn’t want to fail this too. Yet she was beginning to think it was inevitable. So could anyone blame her for not wanting to hurry to her job?

There was another reason for her hesitancy—one much harder to admit. It could be boiled down to two words: Blake Donovan. Not only had her visit to his mansion enlightened her on the women he was attracted to, but now Andy was also pretty sure she knew the kinds of things he’d like to do with those women. She’d seen his tight pants after looking at those explicit pics and if she hadn’t been sure then, his comment about hotel reservations made his intentions crystal clear.

It was to be expected; he was a man after all. Looking at extremely erotic images would surely pique his interest. Standing next to him, leaning on his firm shoulder as his musky scent filled her senses, even she’d been aroused. Because of the pictures, of course. For no other reason. It was an overall arousing scenario. Surely, if she were a man, she’d also have become interested.

But for some reason, witnessing his … interest … in other women bothered her. Bothered her a lot. It was psycho, because this was ultimately her job. She was supposed to find the woman that interested Blake to no end. Why did that thought tug so uncomfortably in her chest?

Best not to answer that.

“Aren’t you going to be late?” Lacy called groggily from where she’d passed out on the couch the night before.

Andy grabbed some pumps to toss into her bag then slunk into the armchair to tie her sneakers. “Maybe.” Definitely.

Lacy squinted open her eyes just enough to send a scowl across the coffee table. “You’ve been there less than a week. Tardiness—”

“Oh, shut it, Lacy. I’m not in the mood.”

“Your mood doesn’t count. It’s keeping that creeper boss of yours happy that pays the bills.” She pulled a pillow over her face. “Did you at least make coffee?”

Andy pretended not to have heard the muffled question. If she’d gotten up instead of hitting SNOOZE, she could have made the coffee. Instead, she had pushed the button and closed her eyes, then proceeded to lie there fuming about the day ahead of her instead of enjoying the extra ten minutes. Then she had done it twice more. So now she was riled up and undercaffeinated. Freaking Mondays.

She closed the apartment door behind her just as Lacy’s pillow hit. “Missed, sucker!” she called through the door as she locked it. She was still smiling to herself when she turned around and saw a gorgeous Asian woman standing in front of the neighbor’s door and staring at her.

“Are you looking for Mrs. Brandy?” The words were out before Andy remembered that wasn’t the elderly next-door neighbor’s real name. “I mean, Mrs. Brando.”

The woman looked at the envelope in her hand. “Yeah. I got her mail by mistake. I’m in the same apartment, but the next building over.” She knocked for what couldn’t have been the first time, judging by the toe-tapping.

“She’s out of town for two weeks. I’ve just been stuffing her mail under her door.” Andy took the mail from the other woman’s slim, manicured hand and crouched. “Getting a bit of buildup, I see. Just give it a little—push—ah! There we go.” She wedged the envelope past the jam triumphantly then looked up to see the woman’s expression.

“She asked me to. I didn’t just decide to do that randomly,” Andy reassured her. The woman’s face relaxed into a stunning smile.

“Thanks for the tip. If I end up with any more of her mail, I know what to do. So … Mrs. Brandy?” They fell into step heading for the stairs.

“That’s what my sister and I call her. She’s a bit of a drinker.”

“Ah. Clever.” The woman’s heels clicked smartly down the steps ahead of Andy.

She couldn’t help but notice how fit her new acquaintance’s legs looked stemming down from her skirt. Particularly her calves. She’d always wished for that kind of definition herself, but didn’t have the willpower to acquire it.

“Her name’s basically begging for it, isn’t it?” Andy was impressed with how well she was performing at small talk. She usually didn’t articulate anything very well before at least four ounces of coffee.

“That or some Marlon Brando joke. Is she very manly?”

“Actually, she is … I’m Andy, by the way. Andy Dawson.” She stuck out a hand.

The woman’s grip was firm but not overbearing. “Jaylene Kim.”

Ah, Korean. Andy was starting to formulate a plan. And a read. “You said you’re from next door?”

“The next building, yeah.”

They reached the front door, which Andy held open. “God, I have got to get better about knowing my neighbors.”

“No worries. I’m the same way.” Jaylene flashed that smile again, made even more glorious in contrast with her bright red lips. The woman’s makeup was flawless.

“Are you headed—” They stepped out into the warm Boston morning.

“To the subway. You?” Jaylene paused for Andy’s answer.

“Me too.” Though she had considered grabbing a cab—it was the only way she’d make it to the office on time. But if she could snag a date for Blake out of this chance encounter, the tardiness would be justified. With a possibly too-wide grin, Andy said, “So what do you do, Jaylene?”

“I teach at Boston University Academy.”

Andy watched as Jaylene spoke, mesmerized by the way her lips moved and how precise and articulate each word was. “You’re a professor?”

“Not quite. It’s a private high school on BU’s campus. I teach English.”

English at a private high school? How girlie could a woman get? Feminine, demure.

Jaylene wiped a hand across her dry brow. “I’m a little embarrassed that I’m taking the train.”

“Do you usually walk the whole thing?” Andy was impressed. Physical exertion of any sort was not her cup of tea. She suffered through the yoga but wasn’t about to take it any further.

“I don’t. But only because I run seven miles before I get ready for work.” It was amazing how she didn’t even sound like she was bragging. As if it were the norm. “Running to work would be a little much. Plus, sweaty.”

“Oh, yeah. Me too.” Andy pinned her eyes to her cross trainers—the ones that still looked as pristine as the day she’d bought them a year ago since they hadn’t gotten much action. Dammit. I never grabbed my heels. “I mean, I exercise before work because, sweaty.” Lies.

“So you’re off to work as well?”

“Yeah. I’m, uh, a personal assistant for an IT executive.” Andy swallowed, preparing to make her move. “Hey, can I ask a totally forward question? Are you seeing anyone?”

“Um…” The other woman’s steps slowed.

“Not for me. For someone else. A guy.” Andy realized she was likely not making the situation any better, but charged ahead anyway. “I mean, I’m not hitting on you. I didn’t think you were a lesbian, if that’s what you thought. Not that I wouldn’t be interested if I was, that’s just not—if you were thinking that’s what I meant.”

“Actually, I didn’t know what to think. I still don’t.”

“Of course not. I’m going about this all weird.” God, pimping was so … awkward? “It’s for my boss. He’s decided to get out in the field and though we just met, I have to say, I really think you’d mesh with him. His name is Blake Donovan—”