Page 47 of Wicked Fortune

I groan, then type a quick reply. Sorry. On my way.

I toss the phone onto the desk, then run my hands through my hair, frustration churning through me. I need time to think, but Lila won’t tolerate me blowing off work—especially not on my second day. And the last thing I need is her breathing down my neck.

I’m going to have to sacrifice something to the Business Gods, because despite being ridiculously late, Lila gave me no grief at all. I’m not sure if that’s because Matthew told her that I’d been working at home (a nice cover for which I was grateful) or because she’s had an epiphany and both likes and values me as a co-worker now.

I’m going to with option two. Because I’m just that kind of optimistic gal.

Even better, she’s out of the office now, leaving me to my own devices. I have no idea where she’s gone, but I sent up a silent thank you to whoever drew her away, even though that leaves me alone to handle the office despite not fully knowing all the ropes. But Matthew’s in his office tackling dozens of return phone calls, so if I’m desperate I can catch him between the time one light on the phone goes out and another lights up. Or, I can try.

Besides, the work Lila left on my desk doesn’t require an in-depth knowledge of the company or the entertainment business. Filing only requires the alphabet, and I’ve had that down pat for years.

By the time I’m three hours into the project, however, my chipper mood fades. Life, I’m beginning to think, might be a lot easier if the Phoenicians had left well enough alone.

I’ve reached a point where the Alphabet Song is going non-stop through my head and I’m seriously considering a lobotomy when there’s a tap at my door. Then Matthew pokes his head in, his smile as refreshing as a cool glass of water. “I thought you looked incredible last night, but you may have one-upped yourself today.”

I think he’s joking, but there’s real heat in his expression, and I do a quick mental assessment. I’m wearing reading glasses, my hair is pulled back with a messy fringe tickling my face, and my fitted tank only barely passes as work attire. Hardly a look to drive men wild.

“What?” I say defensively as he lingers, still silently scoping me out.

“Nothing.” His grin widens. “I’m just trying to figure out if it’s the sexy librarian vibe or the chaos of your desk that’s doing it for me.”

I fight a smile as I lean back in my chair. “It’s the chaos. Your sadistic side gets off on watching people suffer.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Only if they look good doing it.” He steps closer. “And you, Ms. Parker, make filing look like an art form.”

I lift a brow, feigning nonchalance. “You get off watching me file?”

“Maybe.” His tone drops, low and teasing. “But it’s not just the filing. Or the tank top. Or the way your hair keeps falling in your eyes no matter how many times you push it back.”

I wait for him to continue, but he stays silent. “What then?”

“It’s the way you jump into things headfirst.” His voice is soft, his grin fading into something more serious. “Like you’re ready to conquer the world. It’s kind of irresistible.”

My heart skips a beat, his words hitting me harder than I want to admit. For a moment, I let myself wonder if he really sees me that way—if maybe, just maybe, there’s more to this thing between us than banter and chemistry.

Then his grin returns, and he steps back, shattering the moment with a wink. “But yeah, it’s mostly the filing.”

I laugh, the tension breaking, though my pulse is still racing. “Good to know where I stand.”

“Right at the top of the organizational hierarchy.” He backs toward the door. “I’ll leave you to it. But don’t forget—I never play fair.”

My stomach growls, and I glance at the clock. Already past one. I reach to press the intercom, then sway in my chair, silently debating. Finally, I go for it. “Mr. Holt?”

I can hear the smile in his voice as he says, “Yes, Ms. Parker?”

“Lila texted that she’ll be back in fifteen. I think I’m going to step out for lunch. Have you eaten?”

“Actually, I’m having lunch in Santa Monica.”

“Oh. That sounds like fun.” I wait a beat, expecting him to invite me, then kick myself for being unreasonably disappointed when he doesn’t. I remind myself that we’re not dating—Are we dating?—and even if we are, we wouldn’t be flouting it during working hours.

Plus, when I check his calendar, I can see that it’s a business lunch.

I’d still rather grab a bite with him, but my ego is assuaged. Besides, the Hardline Dining Room serves amazing sushi.

“Then I’ll see you after your lunch,” I say.

“I won’t be coming back to the office.”