And three: whoever this mystery man is, the one who had me all weepy, he’s got some seriously hot briefs.
SEVEN
Lucy
My thoughts are playing a maddening game of hide-and-seek, but I’m going to hunt those elusive little fuckers down.
And where better to start than the office, where I spend most of my days?
Three days of house arrest with Spider was enough. The less said about the rogue toenail clippings lurking in the bathroom, the better.
Every time I step foot into my apartment, Roxy, the life-sized, inflatable reminder of my new life, greets me. Roxy is the name on her packaging.
I mostly wallowed in the strange familiarity of my apartment, barring an aimless foray to the Plaza Hotel, where Libby, in her well-intended yet futile attempts, tried to unlock my memory through reiki.
But unfortunately, all amounted to naught—not a sniff of recollection of ever having been there.
Nestled amid Manhattan’s concrete zoo, the Quinn & Wolfe Hotel Group HQ is a staggering, seventy-floor strut of glass, ambition, and ego. A steel point juts out aggressively from the top, like a shiny middle finger to the skyline.
Walking into HQ’s reception feels weirdly comforting. Everything’s the same—the suits are in their suits, the creatives are in their jeans and I… well, I’m feeling pretty sexy in my silk blouse.
I smooth down the fabric, feeling like Wonder Woman in her power suit. Still in jeans but the blouse gives it a whole new vibe from my usual checkered shirts.
27-year-old Lucy is a teensy bit more sophisticated. I’m the I’ve-got-an-important-meeting Lucy, not the I-can-devour-an-entire-flock-of-chicken-wings-before-HR-finishes-the-safety-presentation Lucy.
According to my emails and phone marathons with Matty, I’ve got another shot at a promotion in a few months. Amnesia isn’t going to work in my favor, but maybe this style upgrade will get me some brownie points.
The reception area is a flurry of activity as usual. People rush into elevators, eyes glued to their phones as they walk, cursing as they bump into each other.
Everything’s the same, but something feels distinctly off.
Me. There’s a huge arrow over my head screaming LOOK AT THE WEIRDO!
“Lucy!” Abigail from reception chirps. “You’re looking well. Glad you’re feeling better!”
I flash her a smile. “Thanks, Abigail.”
I’m not sure if I’d agree with her assessment of my current state, given I feel like I’ve been transported into the fucking future.
I wave goodbye, my mind already sprinting toward my desk. Fitting in with no memory of the last year won’t be easy but moping at home wasn’t helping. Time to throw myself into work, memory or no memory.
Spotting a few familiar faces, I give a cursory nod and sprint toward the elevators. Quinn & Wolfe is huge, and my social circle here, comparatively tiny. Andy has a point. I’ve been living in my little bubble, too shy to venture out.
“Hi, beautiful!” A burly security guard saunters over. It takes me a minute to realize he means me.
“Er, hi,” I stammer, pasting on a rigid smile as anxiety begins to churn within. Now’s my chance to fess up and tell this guy I have no clue who he is.
I subtly read his name tag. “Logan! Hi! Sorry, I can’t stop. I’ll see you around.”
He winks at me and gives me a thumbs-up. “You’ll kill it, Lucy, you always do.”
I scoot into the elevator, relieved to find it empty. My nerves are fraying, and I haven’t even reached my floor yet.
Just as the elevator is about to close, someone jams their foot in to stop it.
When I look up, JP fucking Wolfe strides in.
You havegotto be kidding me. Out of all the possible elevator buddies today, he is the last person I want to see—the dark, brooding, and unreasonably intimidating co-owner. I’d rather be locked in with an actual wolf.
