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Leila followed the manager past a row of offices, hiding her disappointment with a careful smile. Jo-Ann Wallace wasn’t fooled by her performance. The sharply dressed woman pointed to an open cubicle fitted with a steel desk and ergonomic chair. A window offered a view of a parking lot spread wide like an asphalt lake. “This is yours.”

“Oh, nice! A window.”

“The better views are for the top associates. Speaking of which, we hired you to work with one of our best. He comes to us from headquarters in New York and travels there often. Part of your job will be to keep him up to speed when he’s away. Come. I’ll introduce you.”

Jo-Ann took the lead, head high, so proud of her position of gatekeeper to the throne. Leila fell one step behind. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe she was wrong for this job. Was it too soon to quit? Was it quitting if you hadn’t worked a day? Oh, enough! She willed herself to snap out of it, whatever “it” was. At an age when most girls stayed home battling acne, she’d stared down panels of judges wearing nothing but a bikini and a pair of heels. To now be intimidated by these office drones? Ridiculous.

The nameplate on the door adjacent to her workspace read Nicolas Adrian, Associate. Determined to make a good first impression, she smoothed her hair and squared her shoulders.

Jo-Ann raised her hand to knock, but stopped at the sound of laughter on the other side of the closed door. Mr. Adrian was apparently having a good old time, engaged in a lively telephone conversation that might or might not be work-related. He followed statements like “I had a great time last night” with “Is that really your best offer? Can’t you come higher?” Leila focused on the voice. Low in tone, smooth and without the hard snobbish edge she’d grown accustomed to with the patrons of Bal Harbour Shops. It immediately roped her in.

“He sounds nice,” she said.

Jo-Ann frowned. “The associates are sharks. There’s nothing ‘nice’ about them. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

There was nothing “nice” about Jo-Ann, either.

The door swung open. Both she and Jo-Ann jumped back, confronted by a pair of inquisitive inky-blue eyes. Nicolas Adrian filled the doorway. He wore a beautifully tailored navy suit with a starched white shirt open at the collar. His golden complexion betrayed a devotion to the sun. If he was a shark, Leila thought, he was a Great White.

“Good morning. How can I help?”

Jo-Ann stretched her neck to confront him. “Nick, meet your new assistant, Leila Amis.”

Ignoring Leila, he asked, “What happened to Monica?”

“You know what happened to Monica.”

“I really don’t.”

Jo-Ann maintained a firm silence during which Leila tried to connect the dots. Had Jo-Ann switched out his assistant without him knowing? Did she think he wouldn’t notice? His frustration with the woman was clear. Leila wanted to grab him by the shoulders and force him to acknowledge her. But when he did turn his gaze to her, she wasn’t prepared, and very nearly stumbled backward.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to be rude.”

Maybe this was her way out. “If there’s a problem, I can go.”

“No!” the two cried in unison, finally agreeing on something.

“There’s no problem. It’s all sorted out,” Jo-Ann said. “You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.”

“Leila, it’s nothing personal,” he said. “I’m sure we’ll get along.”

He said her name as if he’d always known her. And she knew his type. Nicolas Adrian was a flirt—a gorgeous, blue-eyed flirt.

“Go ahead and get settled,” Jo-Ann said. “You’ll be in training most of the day.”

Leila scurried off to her desk, adjusted the seat and found a cubby for her purse. The top drawer was stocked with office supplies. She grabbed a pen and a pad with the agency’s uninspiring logo: a Welcome Home mat.

Note to self, she wrote. That man is trouble.

* * *

After that initial five-minute meeting, she didn’t see much of her new boss. Jo-Ann had her shadow a few other assistants for quick one-on-one training sessions. That whirlwind desk tour gave her insights into the office dynamics. Jo-Ann was treacherous. Emilia, the receptionist, was a gossip... Nick, Tony and Greg were the youngest and coolest associates—the Big Three... A female associate? She quit... Greg gave the best holiday gifts... Tony was cheap, but worked hard.

“What about Mr. Adrian?” Leila worked up the courage to ask during the two o’clock coffee break. While one woman stirred a small amount of espresso into a whole lot of sugar, they all responded. The opinion was mixed, ranging from high praise to the down and dirty.

“You mean Nick? He can do no wrong in my book. He’s a saint. Saint Nicolas!”

“He’s no saint, and I’m willing to prove it. All I need is five minutes alone with that man. Make it ten.”

Still others had an ax to grind. “How would I know? Monica kept him all to herself.”

Late in the afternoon, she was at the reception desk learning the complexities of the telephone system—“...and to transfer calls press 7”—when her earlier fears returned. Would her plan work? Was she staring down a future based on how aptly she could transfer a call?

Then he showed up. For all his lauded virtues, he looked like the devil in a bespoke suit. Saint Nicolas, my ass! There was something about him that magically erased her emotional browser history. Ex-boyfriends, old crushes, broken hearts: delete. There was just him standing there, looking squarely at her.

Emilia, true to her reputation, was hanging on his every word. Not that he said much.

“Leila?”

“Yes.”

“I’m heading out. See you in the morning.”

“Good night, Mr. Adrian.”

A pause. “Okay. Don’t call me that.”

And then he was gone, out the double-glass doors heading toward the elevators. Emilia tugged on Leila’s sleeve. “Girl, you lucked out.”

* * *

On the drive home, Leila didn’t feel so lucky. Had she won the lottery of bosses or inherited a colossal clusterfuck? What was the deal with Monica, anyway? No one would say. Nicolas Adrian couldn’t be any more attractive. Just thinking about him made her hot. So much so, she switched off the struggling AC and rolled down the windows of her Mazda roadster for much needed fresh air.

As she pulled into her building’s parking lot, Leila caught sight of her roommate, Alicia. A few months ago, Leila had confidently responded to her Craigslist ad, figuring a female college student was a safe bet. She hadn’t been wrong. Working on a graduate degree in social work at Barry University, Alicia spent most of her time there. Leila knew she was heading to class now and wouldn’t be back until late.

“Hey,” Alicia said. “How was your first day on the job? Learn anything?”

Leila stepped out of the car. “I learned how to transfer calls. I’m an ace at it.”

Alicia snickered.

A firm believer that women in general, and women of color in particular, should stay in school and earn every degree possible, she’d practically begged Leila to go back to college. “You’re too smart,” she’d said. “There are dumber people than you working on PhDs.” But Leila had been convinced that she’d strayed off the conventional path and was too far along to find her way back. Besides, she owed it to herself to follow her instincts.

“And how’s the boss? The typical jerk?”

“Oh, no,” she said without thinking. “He’s butter on toast.”

Alicia shifted under the weight of her backpack. “High in carbs and trans fat?”

They shared a laugh before Leila said, “Warm and delicious.”

“Yeah,” Alicia said. “But really, really bad for you at the end of the day.”

We’ll see, Leila thought, skipping up the stairs leading to their third-floor apartment.

* * *

A half hour later she woke from a dream where Don’t Call Me Mr. Adrian had her naked on his desk and she was purring, “All I need is ten minutes.”

Heart racing and covered in sweat, she sat up on the couch where she’d dozed off fully dressed. She brushed her hair out of her face and absently unbuttoned her blouse, tossing it on the carpet floor. Am I going to be able to work with this man?

The answer came swiftly. You can and you will.

Really, what choice did she have? If she quit one more thing, she’d officially be crowned Ms. Quitsville USA.

Chapter 2

That evening Nick met with Monica for dinner. Losing her had been a blow—a blow from which he’d fully recovered once Leila had shown up. Had he gained something better? That question left stones of guilt in his gut and kept him from relaxing in Monica’s company.

They’d chosen a sushi restaurant close to the office. Monica had put some care in her appearance. Her red hair was styled in crafty spiral curls. She was proud and wouldn’t want him to feel sorry for her.

“Listen,” he said, cutting through the small talk. “I made a few calls. I might’ve found you something.”

He placed a business card on the empty square plate before her. She snatched it up. “A nonprofit?”

“I know, it’s not—”

“No. It’s great.”

“Lower pay.”

“Better hours, typically.”

“Okay, then.” Since having her twins, time was more valuable than currency. “Give them a call. They’re expecting you.”

“Thanks, Nick,” she said. “I’m going to miss you.”

Her green eyes were glassy with tears. Feeling unsettled, he asked, “Sake or beer?”

“You know me. Beer.”

When their waiter came around, Nick placed their orders, happy for the distraction. Then she asked, “Are you going to miss me?”

“How can you ask me that?”

For all intents and purposes, Monica had been his partner in crime. And it bothered him that, consciously or not, he’d shelved her in the past.

The waiter returned with their beers and a wooden bowl of edamame. Monica reached for a pod and sucked on it, murmuring something about sea salt. He sipped from the bottle as a new silence settled between them.

“I heard the new girl started today.”

He nodded. “I gave Jo-Ann hell.”

“I heard she’s pretty enough.”

“Who are you talking to?”

“Just answer the question.”

“You didn’t ask one.”

The waiter returned with Miso soup as Monica glared at Nick from across the table. “I’ll admit it. I don’t like to be replaced. And to hear that you’re gushing—”

“Come on, Money...”

The pet name worked like magic. She relaxed and dropped the subject.

“I’ve got to get back to work.” She picked up the large soup spoon. “Daytime TV is the worst. One court show after another. I didn’t pull the kids out of day care, you know. I figured—”

Nick ignored his soup. He couldn’t drop it. “Who said anything about gushing? I’m being nice. She’s a sweet girl.”

Monica looked confused for a while and then dropped her spoon and exploded. “Oh crap, you’re crushing on her!”

Now he knew she really needed to get back to work. She was making this into a soap opera. “I don’t know what they told you—”

“I can’t say too much without revealing my sources.”

He already knew her sources. “Don’t bother. It’s all bull.”

“I don’t work for you anymore, so I’m going to go ahead and be honest.”

“When have you ever held back?”

“You’d be surprised.”

He laughed. “What’s your take? You think I fell in love in a day or something?”

Monica’s gaze narrowed on his face. “Who’s talking about love?”

She had him there. “No one.”

“But you think she’s beautiful.”

Nick didn’t think it. It was a fact. His thoughts ran to the moment he’d opened his door and found her there, packaged like a gift in that flirty skirt and heels. Arguably, it was an odd choice for a first day on the job, but he’d loved it. Those legs, that skin... He wished they’d met under different circumstances. He’d have enjoyed getting her out of those silly clothes.

Monica cleared her throat. She was still waiting for an answer.

“I think she’s gorgeous.”

Monica shot up, raising her fist in victory. “I knew it!”

Nick tapped his foot against the metal leg of the table, waiting for her to settle down.

She took a sip of beer and composed herself.

“Monica, it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Want to know what I think?”

He looked at her, unguarded, waiting.

“I knew you’d fall hard for someone someday. You’re not the player you think you are.”

“That day is not today, babe.”

“I hope so,” she said. “Chasing some girl around a desk is not your style. Plus, you need more than an office wife.”

“You mean a second office wife. My first wife walked out on me and married a nice guy.”

“I was fired. Don’t rewrite history.”

“More romantic my way.”

“Promise you won’t do anything stupid.”

“I worked with you and you’re the sexiest thing around.”

“I wasn’t fishing for a compliment, but thanks. I needed to hear that,” she said. “Still. I think you should be careful.”

“What do you think’s going to happen?” He asked because he really wanted to know. How was this going to play out? Leila would be there tomorrow and the next day. And he wasn’t about to change. His sexual life had never been about self-denial.

“Nothing will happen to you,” Monica said gravely. “But Jo-Ann will drum that girl out of K & M so fast she won’t know what hit her.”

Chapter 3

Sharks move constantly, Leila observed her second day on the job. Nicolas Adrian arrived late and left early, wheeling a black, hard-shell suitcase behind him. “I’ll be in New York the rest of the week. See you Monday.” Leila was relieved. It gave her a full week to get settled and to focus on her training. But then he returned sooner than expected. Early Thursday, she heard him down the hall, swapping stories with Tony and Greg.

Simply hearing his voice caused Leila’s pulse to skip. She told herself it was natural to be nervous, her hands trembling as she tidied her desk. She dumped a half-empty cup of yogurt. Beside her keyboard was a framed photo of her in full pageant regalia posing next to her aunt Camille, a Diana Ross lookalike. A stranger might mistake them for mother and daughter based on their similar broad smiles alone. Leila grabbed it and tucked it in a bottom drawer.

When he finally rounded the corner, followed by the other two, her desk was tidy but her emotions were a mess. Her eyes rushed to his face. Nicolas Adrian was a striking man. The hard lines of his face could turn off the romantics and the dreamers, but those blue eyes certainly could turn them back on.

“Hey there, Leila.”

“Mr. Adrian. Good morning. You’re back early.” Her voice was weak, betraying her.

He rested a cup of Starbucks coffee on her desk. “For you. I don’t know how you like it, so I improvised.”

She reached for the cup. “It’s fine. Thanks.”

“Just tell me what you like. For next time.”

“Milk. Sugar.”

“A latte, then.”

To save money Leila had avoided Starbucks, brewing coffee at home. Miami’s party scene was pricey. She spent enough on cocktails every weekend and didn’t need an expensive coffee habit, too. If a latte equaled coffee plus Coffee-mate, she’d be fine.

“I’m not picky, Mr. Adrian. Whatever works.”

“Stop calling me that.”

Damn it. She needed the buffer that formality provided. She needed that shield. This was his second warning, though, and she’d have to stop. “Okay. What do I call you?”

“You know my name.”

Her grip tightened around the paper cup and the heat seared her fingertips. The group moved into his office. Before the door closed behind them, she heard Tony say, “Your new girl is hot.”

Nick’s quick response was cutting. “Back off.”

She didn’t see much of him after that. He’d left for lunch at noon, called in a few times, but never returned, which was fine because she had to recover from that brief morning exchange. The next day, Friday, he made an appearance around three. Instead of saying, “Good afternoon. How are you getting along? Do you have any questions?” He gestured for her to follow him. “We’ve got a new listing.”

She grabbed a pad and pen and trailed after him. This marked her first time in his office. The walls were bare except for matted and framed bachelor’s and master’s degrees in business administration; the first from University of Toronto, the second from NYU. Leila thought of Alicia—“Get a degree! Any degree!”—and felt sick. She focused on a bank of windows showcasing the chaotic mess on Brickell Avenue. The gridlocked traffic looked like a parade of luxury cars.

Nick handed her a sticky note with an address scribbled on it. “I want this property photographed right away. Call Chris Hopper. His number is in the master file. Tell him to meet me there around four, if he can.”

“And if he can’t?”

“Call that other guy. No, call Suzanne. She does good work.”

Leila returned to her desk and frantically scrolled through the master file, an elaborate spreadsheet of Monica’s creation. Chris Hopper agreed to the appointment. Nick was on his phone when she popped in to tell him. He mouthed, “Great.” Soon thereafter, he came out with keys in hand.

“Ready?”

“Ready for what?”

“A site visit.” He glanced at his watch, a sleek Patek Philippe with a black-lacquered face. “Or is it too late? I never asked. Do you have kids? Monica couldn’t stay late, either.”

Even as he talked, Leila stood and shrugged off the cardigan she wore to keep warm in the chilly air-conditioned office. The cotton knit fell weightlessly to her chair. Underneath, she wore a sleeveless mini-dress.

Was it her imagination or had his eyes faithfully followed her every gesture?

She grabbed her purse. “I don’t have kids.” And I’m not Monica.

“Then let’s go.”

From the reception desk, Emilia waived them off with a wry little smile. And while they waited for the elevator, Leila explained that no one had told her she’d have a chance to visit properties or do anything other than answer the phone and manage his calendar. She was grateful for the chance to get out on the field, so to speak.

“It helps if you know what I’m working on,” he said. “I make most of my decisions on site.”

The elevator opened. Nick pressed G for garage.

“Don’t worry. I’m very flexible.” The doors slammed shut. Nick studied her with those keenly perceptive eyes but said nothing. She felt the need to clarify. “Meaning I can work long hours.”

“Sure.”

They rode in silence. A FedEx deliveryman joined them on the ninth floor and got off on the sixth. When they were alone again, Nick said, “Leila is an uncommon name.”

“It means ‘born at night.’”

“Were you?”

She nodded. “Midnight.”

“The bewitching hour.”

She smiled. “Clever.”

“Amis is French, right?”

She nodded. “You know that because you’re from Canada.”

“And you’re from Florida’s west coast.”

“How do you know?”

“Your résumé says you went to school in Naples.”

“You’ve read my résumé?”

“Jo-Ann gave it to me.”

There wasn’t much to her résumé. She was embarrassed by how thin it was: high school and some college. She’d earned her real estate license a year ago, but her only sales experience was in entry-level retail. Leila gripped the handle of her purse to keep from fidgeting nervously. This had to be the longest elevator ride in history.

When they reached the garage, she followed him to his reserved spot. He drove a black Mercedes coupe. She sank into the leather seat and admired the chrome accents of the dashboard. It was all the things her modest Mazda roadster aspired to be but fell short of. She watched as he pressed the ignition button and put the car in reverse.

“This car makes me—”

He stomped on the breaks. “Makes you what?”

Leila grappled for the right word. “Happy. It makes me happy.”

“Is that it?”

Was her seat on fire? “What else is there?”

He lifted his foot off the pedal. “Leila, are you into cars?”

God, she loved the way he said her name.

“Sort of. Sure.”

“I’m into women who are into cars,” he said with a wink. “But don’t tell anyone.”

* * *

The listing was a one-story, mid-century home in Miami Beach’s exclusive Bayshore neighborhood. The original layout had been tweaked to appeal to modern tastes. The renovated kitchen opened to an all-purpose living, dining and TV room. All closets and bathrooms had been updated. The showstopper was the yard that backed onto Collins Canal and the dock that could accommodate a decent-size yacht and flatter the ego of any budding millionaire.

While the photographer snapped pictures for the agency’s website, Leila tried to imagine the daily routines of the family who’d once lived in the vacated rooms. On a sunny day, they’d probably have breakfast outdoors. Did they throw birthday parties by the pool or spend holiday weekends boating?

“What do you think?” Nick asked.

“I think it’s a lovely home.”

“Would you like to live here?”

They were in the master bedroom. Leila opened the plantation shutters to admire the water views. “I could get used to this. But how much would it set me back?”

“Four million.”

Her heart stopped. “Are you kidding?”

“Why does that surprise you?”

Well, when she thought of millions, she thought of mansions. This lovely family home was by no stretch a mansion. “You know this same house in any other neighborhood wouldn’t cost that much.”

“That doesn’t change anything.” He leaned against the low cherrywood dresser. Every room had a furniture-showroom vibe. “Leila, I need you to believe in the sale.”

She laughed. “You’ve got me confused with a magical fairy.”

He grew quiet, a shadow passing over his face.

“It’s a joke,” she said, worried she’d gone too far.

“I don’t think I’ve heard you laugh before. You’re so serious all the time.”

“Because I’m trying to impress you, Nick!”

Saying his name had leveled the playing field somehow. They’d swapped the rigid employee-boss dynamic for something looser, less defined. Something trickier. And Nick hadn’t missed it. His face lit up with satisfaction.

“Could you stop trying so hard?” he asked.

He hadn’t been exactly easy to read or to warm up to. They’d barely exchanged a dozen words since she’d taken the job. Every morning she dressed like an Office Assistant doll, worried she didn’t measure up to the ghost of Monica.

“Maybe if I knew what you expected from me...”

“Here’s the thing,” he said. “I could run my business under a bridge. I don’t need an assistant, not really. But I’d like to have someone on my side. Can you be that someone?”

“Good luck getting cell phone reception under a bridge.”

He gave her a wry smile. “That’s more like it.”

The photographer tapped on the open door. “Hey, Nick, I think I’m done.”

He left to review the man’s work.

Leila leaned against the wall, caught in exquisite turmoil.

She could be that someone.

* * *

On the drive back to the office, Nick said he hadn’t eaten all day. “There’s a place on Washington I like. Would you mind hanging out with me?”

“I don’t mind.”

This was the perfect opportunity for them to talk. She reached for her phone, sending a quick text to cancel her happy hour plans. She was supposed to meet a guy, a medical resident at Jackson Memorial, whom, after a few chaste dates, she’d started referring to as Dr. No. He was nice enough, but maybe that was the problem.

“If you have plans, I can take you back to the office,” he said. “You’re off the clock.”

“I don’t have plans,” she replied. “Not anymore, anyway.”

“Are you—?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I’d rather have dinner with you.”

That sounded more personal than she’d intended.