Page 23 of Under Her

“Which floor?” I ask the brunette.

I slide a look at her. She’s cute. But I don’t know her, and I know everyone who works here. Maybe she’s here for an early meeting with one of the teams.

“Fourteen.”

That’s my floor. My brows come together in confusion as I reach out to push the button. Then, it dawns on me. She must be Morgan’s new PA.

“Your Morgan’s new PA,” I say as the door closes.

I dip my chin to look at her and find that she’s already staring up at me.

I feel a jolt of familiarity.

“I did wonder if it was you when Morgan told me the name of the CEO. Wilder’s not a name you hear often. And it is you. Clearly, you don’t remember me.”

Her green eyes flash with something, and she tips her chin up and takes a step closer.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

She knows me. And I have a sinking feeling I know exactly how she knows me. Because I’ve had sex with her. Most women only know me for that reason.

But I don’t remember her. Not even a flicker.

Have I screwed that many women that I no longer remember them?

Honestly, I think I already know the answer to that question because it’s standing right in front of me.

I’m starting to sweat. “Of course I remember you.” I swallow roughly against the lie.

She laughs. It tinkles in the small space, which feels like it’s getting smaller by the second.

“Wow. Was I that forgettable?” Hurt flashes through her eyes. “It was less than a week ago when you were in my bed, screwing me senseless. But I guess it makes sense that you didn’t call me if you’d forgotten me the moment you left my place. I’m guessing that’s why you snuck out while I was still sleeping.”

Less than a week ago? The only women I’ve had sex with this past week were the waitress from Friday—and she’s definitely not her because she was a redhead and a true one, as the carpet matched the drapes—and this chick…

Oh, fuck no.

Arlington Heights. The shirt-writer.

“Arlington Heights,” I blurt out, feeling a shot of familiarity, the more I stare at her face. “You wrote on my shirt.”

“That’s me. And my name is Sierra,” she says in a haughty voice. She folds her arms over her chest. “I’m the girl from Arlington Heights who you hooked up with last week and never called.”

“And you’re…” I can’t bring myself to say the words.

“Morgan’s PA,” she finishes for me.

Oh, fucking no. Just fucking no.

The elevator pings its arrival, and the door opens, but I can’t stop staring at Sierra. The shirt-writer from Arlington.

It’s like the worst kind of joke. It’d be funny if it wasn’t so goddamn bad.

“Oh, hey!” The chipper tone in Morgan’s voice makes me nearly shit my pants. “You two have already met.”

I turn my head to look at Morgan standing there, outside the elevator, smiling and looking sexy as hell, and my dick shrivels up and dies in my pants.

Well, I wanted him to quit getting hard around her. I guess screwing her new PA has done that.