An Affair that Might Just Ruin Her Life

I'm writing this because I'm heartbroken.

I'm writing this because I'm in love.

I'm writing this because more amazing, astounding, mind-blowing things have happened to me in the last two months than in my whole life before I met him, combined.

I'm writing this because I've lost more than I ever thought I would be able to bear.

And even though I hate myself for doing it, I pray to God I can hold him...

...kiss him...

...make love to him...

...just one last time.

• • •

Okay, enough of mopey beginnings. I'm really not that kind of girl, I swear.

I guess I should say 'woman,' not 'girl.' I am 24, after all, and, well, you know – 'yay feminism,' right?

It's just that I never really felt like I was an adult. In a lot of ancient societies, they had some sort of ritual that women go through where you know you're a woman afterwards. 'You passed the ritual? Congratulations, you're a woman by definition!'

In the 21st Century United States of America, getting married or having a baby probably qualifies. Although I've never been married or had a baby, so... problem not solved.

I guess the other closest possibility for a single woman is losing your virginity... but that happened for me when I was 17, and I sure as hell didn't feel like a woman with my high school boyfriend. Or my two college boyfriends. Or any 'boyfriend,' really.

He was the first one that made me feel like a woman. Entirely. Through and through.

But we'll get to that soon enough.

My name is Lily Ross. Born in Charlotte, North Carolina, went to the University of Georgia, got a business degree with a psychology minor, had a horrible time getting a job after college, finally moved out to Los Angeles because my best friend Anh got hired at a prestigious consulting firm and promised me she could get me in, too. She did... although in a terrible position for next to no pay.

But I'm not complaining, mind you! (Not much, anyway.) It was a job, I had my foot in the door, and – Los Angeles! Come on! One of the most glamorous cities in the world!

That much is true, though I never saw the glamorous side of it until waaaaay after I arrived.

Also, Anh had an apartment in Hollywood! Land of movie stars, the silver screen, the place where dreams come true! Right?

Wrong.

Hollywood as an idea – the 'dream factory' – I guess that's still valid. But Hollywood the 'place'? The geographic location you'll find on Google Maps? All the film studios and movie stars bolted over 50 years ago. Except Paramount Pictures, but they're right next to a graveyard, so let that tell you something.

Our Hollyweird apartment is down the street from a tattoo parlor and a skeezy-as-hell 'Thai massage' parlor.

That was my first introduction to reality versus fantasy.

I know these are all boring details to you, but I guess I bring it up for a couple of reasons.

One: as you'll see very shortly, my version of fantasy and reality began to blur together quickly and very dangerously.

Two: I was intimidated as hell by the women in Los Angeles when I got out here. It's like the best skin/hair/boob gene pool dumping ground in the country. (And if you want some extra help in the boob department, the plastic surgeons in Beverly Hills will gladly sell it to you.) Sometimes it feels like every good-looking girl from every town in America comes out here to try to make it... and when you're not in that crowd, it can be rough on your self-esteem.

However, as my dad used to say, sometimes even a blind squirrel finds a nut.

In case you missed it, I'm the blind squirrel in that analogy.

Nothing that happened to me happened because I'm gorgeous. I'm not. In Los Angeles, I'd almost say I'm plain.

At 5'4", I'm fairly short by LA standards. I could stand to lose 10 pounds (maybe even 15... that's it, I'm cutting off speculation at 15). I'm not even in the same zip code (okay, not even the same state) as Sofia Vergara or Jennifer Lopez in terms of, um, assets. Not exactly Victoria's Secret model material.

Guys I've dated tell me I have pretty eyes. My hair's good. I like my cheekbones. I have nice calves, and they look even better in heels. (We're not going to talk about my thighs.)

I'm fairly smart, I think I'm funny (you may beg to differ after you've spent enough time with me), and I have a few interesting quirks.

The point is, none of this happened because I look like a pin-up model. Because I don't.

Hell, I'm still not sure how it happened.

It was a Friday night at Exerton Consulting, and of course, my boss was being a douchebag.

Excuse my French.

Exerton is a small multi-national consulting firm with offices in a few big cities around the globe – LA, New York, London, Tokyo. But they're not among the biggest fish in the pond, not by a long shot.

'Consulting firm,' you ask. 'What does that mean?'

(If you didn't ask that and don't care, skip down about ten paragraphs.)

It means that other companies think they have problems, so they get Exerton's 'experts' to come in and tell them how to fix said problems. Efficiency problems, human resources problems, hiring problems, blah blah blah, are your eyes glazing over yet?

By the way, most of the problems are things the companies could have solved by talking to lower-level employees, or by trusting good people in their own organization. But they never do that. Oh no. That would be craaaazy.

Don't mind me, I'm just being snarky because I got hired as a temp secretary. I couldn't even make the cut to regular staff, much less a junior consultant like Anh.

Anyway, back to the douchebag boss.

I work in the Executive Compensation division, which advises companies on how much to offer when they're hiring high-level executives – CEO's, CFO's, and other alphabet-soup positions – in order to be competitive.

So, basically, I make $20,000 a year (which, in LA, is like $12,000 a year in Atlanta) supporting a senior VP who makes at least a half million a year, who advises companies on whether they should offer 11 million or 12 million to a potential new CEO who drove the last company he worked at into the ground.

Sorry, I'm a little bitter.

I'm even more bitter because my boss, Klaus Zimmerman, is... well, he's not the nicest person on the planet. Even more than that, he's disorganized, high maintenance, and wishy-washy. He can't find anything and yells at me like it's my fault his office is a pigsty. He is constantly coming up with a humongous list of time-consuming demands that he adds to hourly. He makes a hundred last-minute changes on any big project we send out, which means that I'm constantly begging the copy room guys to reprint and rebind 50 reports at 5:45 PM so I can make the last FedEx pickup. Otherwise I get to drive seven miles through LA rush hour – which is, to say, I get to wait in traffic 45 minutes – to drop off the delivery at the closest shipping office.

And he has the evil, evil habit of saving a ton of busywork until 6PM Friday night, which he needs corrected and emailed to him, because he 'has to work at home on the weekends.'

Ah – but I get paid overtime for this!

Which means I make $12.50 an hour instead of $10. (Don't forget, the temp agency gets their cut.)

And virtually every Friday night is shot because I'm exhausted by the time I wrap up at 10PM getting Herr Klaus's reports ready.

I don't think he even works from home on the weekends. I think he just likes torturing me.

But I shouldn't complain, because if Klaus weren't such a jerk, I would have never met him.

It was 5:55 PM on Friday when Anh stopped by my desk and put on her sad, hesitant face.

Anh (pronounced 'On') is this adorable little Vietnamese American girl whom I've known since I was a sophomore in college and she was a freshman. At barely five feet in heels and a year younger than me, I feel okay calling her a 'girl.' She wouldn't mind.

I envy how thin she is; I like that she's one of the few people who makes me feel tall; and I love her for getting my sense of humor, for having been my therapist/mom through a couple of wretched breakups, and for generally putting up with me.

Plus, she lets me pay less in rent even though our bedrooms are the same size. I think she does that because, even though she got me the job, she feels bad that I wound up working for Herr Klaus.

I refer to him as 'Herr Klaus' because 'the Exec Comp Nazi' might get me fired. Yes, I know, I know, I shouldn't go around comparing my jerk boss to actual, real-life monsters who destroyed millions upon millions of people's lives.

But if Larry David and Jerry Seinfeld could do it with a guy who sells soup...

Anyway, that's why 'Herr Klaus.' Anh resisted the nickname at first because she's so sweet and tries to look for the best in everyone, but my continual usage of it wore her down.

"Herr Klaus snapping the whip again?" she asked.

"Yes. And not the type of whip I like, either," I mumbled.

That was a joke, and Anh knows it. In the bedroom, I'm about as vanilla as they come. (Pun not intended on 'come.')

Well... I was.

But we'll get to that, too.

She laughed, then put on the sad face again. "Do you think you might be able to come out with us to the club?"

Anh had a bunch of friends who went out clubbing on Fridays to blow off steam. I had been able to join them exactly one night in the last four months.

"No," I sighed, "it's one of those Friday nights."

"Awwww," she said, and patted my head sympathetically, sort of like you would a poodle. It's something she started when we first roomed together in college, and it stuck. By the way, she's the only one who can do it and live to tell the tale. "Text me when you get off. I'll slip away, get some Haagen Daaz at the grocery store, and we'll crack open a bottle of wine back home and watch a bad romantic comedy."

I love my roommate. Have I mentioned that I love my roommate?

Five minutes after Anh left, Klaus came out with his briefcase.

He was a short man who managed to be both scarecrow-skinny and yet have a small pot belly going on beneath his pricey suit. Except for a perpetually sour look, he was okay looking. Between that, his money, and the authoritative presence he struck that many women would mistake for confidence, he seemed to do all right with a certain class of Los Angeles gold digger.

"I need those documents for Teramore thoroughly proofed," he snapped.

"Okay."

"Not like last month on the Morings report," he added snidely.

I had missed something minor – which meant Klaus had missed something minor, too, since he was supposed to proof all the reports, but would he ever admit to a mistake on his part?

See, that was a trick question. Klaus doesn't make mistakes. According to Klaus, anyway.

The client had joked about the mistake in a phone call.

Klaus does not like to be laughed at. Or about. Or near.

So I had been catching hell for, oh, three weeks or so.

Inwardly I seethed. You make twenty or thirty great saves, and no appreciation. You make one lousy mistake, and you hear about it for weeks.

"Okay," I said, forcing a smile.

"I don't have time to continually look over your shoulder," he continued.

I had to grit my teeth.

I'll be staying four hours late tonight, when you could have just gotten the work to me earlier instead of dithering on the changes. Meanwhile, you'll be having drinks at the 'hottest new restaurant in LA' with some silicone princess. And not ONCE will you be looking over my shoulder the entire time, asshole.

"Fine."

"Your continued employment here is dependent on your making a better effort. I hope you understand that," he said, checking his smartphone.

If nothing else, I have learned self-control in my six months as Klaus's secretary. Because there are many times when I am ten seconds and one letter opener away from a 20-year prison sentence for murder.

I think I could get off on temporary insanity, though.

If I made a video recording of how he treated me, I think it might even be ruled justifiable homicide.

"Understood," I said in as annoying and chirpy a voice as I could manage.

"And another thing – " he started in.

Mercifully, that was when my phone rang.

"Excuse me," I said, relieved to escape a murder rap once again, and picked it up. "Exerton Consulting, Klaus Zimmerman's office."

"Hey, Lily," a familiar voice said.

Stanley, the front desk concierge/guard. One of my favorite people at Exerton. Huge black guy, looks like he could benchpress a station wagon, but sweet as a teddy bear.

"Hey, Stanley," I answered warmly.

"Mr. Zimmerman there?"

Stanley had had plenty of joyful run-ins with my boss through the years. He'd taken to using my 'Herr Klaus' nickname, too, but obviously he was worried about being overheard.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, he's standing right in front of me."

At which point Klaus began scowling and waving his hands in a 'no, no I'm NOT' kind of way.

"...although he's on his way out to a very important meeting," I amended.

With a silicone princess named Natalia or Buffy or Chantal.

Stanley sounded a little strange as he continued to talk. I couldn't quite peg it, but it was almost as though he were... intimidated.

Which is hard to do with a 300-pound dude who can benchpress station wagons.

"There's, uh... there's this gentleman here who wants to speak to him."

"Oh... tell him I'm sorry, but Mr. Zimmerman can't. If you put him on, though, I'll make an appointment for him next week."

"Uhhh... he says he's from LMGK."

Oh CRAP.

LMGK was one of Exerton's major rivals, a true international behemoth with offices in over two dozen cities across the globe. There had been rumors flying for months that LMGK was going to acquire Exerton, and things I had seen in the upper echelons tended to support those rumors. Like meetings between Klaus and all the other department heads with bigwigs from LMGK.

"Uh... hold on, Stanley." I pulled the phone from my ear and covered the mouthpiece. "There's a man in the lobby from LMGK who wants to speak to you."

Klaus groaned and checked his Rolex watch. His very gaudy, very expensive Rolex watch.

"Oh GOD... of course this happens to me right now... what's his name?" he snarled.

I uncovered the mouthpiece. "What's his name, Stan?"

"A Mr. Brooks. Mr. Connor Brooks."

"Connor Brooks," I said to Klaus – who put on the snottiest expression imaginable, like one of the queen bitches from the old Lindsay Lohan movie Mean Girls.

"Who?!"

I shrugged.

"Screw it, he's not messing up my Friday night," Klaus sneered.

Versus YOU screwing up every single one of mine, I thought angrily.

"I'm out. Take a message, schedule an appointment, whatever, but I'm out."

With that, Klaus started for the elevators. He was out of sight in three seconds flat.

I sighed and turned back to the phone. "Put him on, would you, Stan?"

"Sure thing, Lily."

There was the sound of the phone exchanging hands.

I don't know what I expected. Maybe a high, nasally voice, the sort of whine that would belong to a guy who didn't have anything better to do on a Friday night except schedule business meetings. Or a boring monotone like the guy who says, "Bueller... Bueller..." in Ferris Bueller's Day Off.

But I certainly wasn't expecting what I got.

I think I can safely say it was the sexiest voice I'd ever heard.

George Clooney sexy.

Barry White smooth.

Clive Owen without the British accent.

And young. Much younger than the men I just mentioned – but I can't think of any hot actors my own age with a voice like that.

Deep. Rumbling. Powerful.

And confident.

You could tell from the first few words that this guy was used to getting his way. Not a demanding prima donna, but just kind of a 'the king has spoken, now make it so' kind of way.

You could also tell he was trouble from the get-go.

"This is Connor Brooks from LMGK. Please put Klaus Zimmerman on."

I just sort of sat there, hypnotized.

If his voice was wine, I'd want to drink it all. night. long.

Pour it all over me, please.

After a couple of seconds of me being a silent doofus, he spoke again, more impatient this time. "Hello? Is anyone there?"

I snapped back to reality. "Uh... I'm sorry, Mr. Brooks, but Mr. Zimmerman left just a few minutes ago. I can make an appointment with him if you – "

"Who's this? What's your name?" he asked.

He was forceful, but he wasn't a jerk. He wasn't rude, other than the fact that he'd interrupted me.

Which, okay, I guess is sort of rude, but if you'd heard his voice, you wouldn't mind if he interrupted you, either.

"Lily. Lily Ross."

"And you're his secretary, Lily?"

"Yes sir."

"Ahhh, 'yes sir,' I like that," he chuckled mockingly. "Lily, you have his cell number, don't you?"

"Uh... yes, but – "

"I'm going to need that number, Lily."

He kept saying my name again, over and over. Sometimes when people I don't know do that, I get annoyed. It's a fake sales-y way to build intimacy so they can sucker you in for a set of steak knives or comprehensive life insurance.

This guy, though... I really, really wanted to hear him say my name some more.

"I'm really sorry, Mr. Brooks, but I can't give out Mr. Zimmerman's cell number – "

"We're wasting time, Lily. You and I both know Klaus is still in the building. I need his cell before he drives off to whatever frou-frou wine bar he's going to tonight."

Bagging on Klaus.

I liked this guy.

Well, I loved his voice, but now I liked his personality, too.

But I wasn't about to catch a world of hell for a sexy voice. I figured I would be fired at worst; at best, three months of nagging and complaining. I could hear it already: And don't give out my phone number again to anybody like you did LAST year...

"I'm sorry, Mr. Brooks, I can't."

"Discretion. I like that. Then I need you to come down here, Lily. And bring your cell phone."

"...excuse me?"

"Come on, Lily, daylight's burning. Stanley will be here to chaperone, and I promise I won't bite. But I need to talk to Klaus. Immediately."

"I'm... not sure I'm comfortable – "

The voice on the other end sighed.

"Lily."

Pause.

"Please?"

When he said 'please,' he didn't beg.

He didn't whine.

He wasn't even really 'asking.'

He...

God.

I know you'll think that everything that happened afterwards is coloring how I'm interpreting it now, but...

...it was almost sexual.

It was the tone of voice a man might use on a woman in the bedroom, when she's on the verge of orgasm and he wants to push her over the edge.

It was the voice of a man who knew how to get what he wanted from women. A man who knew how to push all the right buttons – and skillfully. Who knew how to 'ask' without really asking at all.

A man who could make you want to say yes to just about anything.

I'm blushing as I remember it.

"I'll be down in two minutes," I stammered.

"Good," he purred, and hung up.

I was really, really nervous as I rode the elevator down all 23 stories to the lobby.

One, I was nervous that I was about to do something really stupid and get my ass chewed out by my boss.

Two, I was all butterflies about seeing the stranger who owned that golden voice. If he sounded that good, imagine how he must look...

Let me explain. I'm not great with guys. I don't flirt very well – in fact, any guy I find really attractive, I kind of lose it when I'm around him. Maybe it's lack of practice. I don't get approached that much by really handsome men, even though LA is the capital of pretty boys. I hear most of them are narcissistic and self-involved; I wouldn't know, since they rarely give me the time of day. And when a hot, charming guy does start talking to me at a party, I either give giggly, airheaded responses that make me look stupid, or stilted, one-word answers that make me seem like I'm not interested, when in fact I'm just nervous as hell. After a minute or two of that, most of the hot ones move on.

I tend to end up dating average guys, guys I become friends with first – guys who are sort of cute, not intimidating at all. The type of guy who becomes more attractive the longer you know them. The type that grows on you. Nice guys. Regular guys who are even-keeled and sweet, or at least seem that way for the first several months until the bad things start floating up to the surface.

I like that – I like nice guys. But once... just once... I wanted to have one of the hot ones.

So I was nervous that he was going to be absolutely gorgeous, and that I was going to make a fool of myself.

Three, I was pretty much positive there was no way he was as good-looking as his voice would suggest, and I didn't want to ruin the fantasy.

I know, it sounds stupid – "Oh, you're afraid he'll be good looking, and you're afraid he'll be ugly! Make up your damn mind!" Followed by a slap on the back of my head.

But hear me out. Ever see a guy from the back, and you're like 'DAMN, break me off a piece of that'? (Not that I would get to break me off a piece of that in reality, but I can still dream.) Amazing ass, great shoulders, gorgeous hair, fantastic arms? You're thinking somebody went back in time and made a clone of Brad Pitt or Johnny Depp at age 27. Or 33. Or 38, even. And then you see them from the front...

And you're like, 'Oh, no. No, no, no.'

It's the 'glamorous Hollywood is actually composed of tattoo parlors and skeezy massage parlors' effect.

Or the Monet effect: beautiful from far away, but not so good up close. I think that was from Clueless.

Either way, reality doesn't match up to fantasy.

Sometimes I won't even try to see what the guy looks like from the front even though his backside belongs in a Greek temple. I've been disappointed enough that I treasure my little fantasies.

It's all about managing expectations. Again, with nice guys, it's, 'Oh, he's kind of cute... I'll go out with him. Oh, he's funny... and he's got a good personality... okay, I'll give it a shot.'

'Low expectations' equals 'not as much disappointment' in my book.

And my expectations for Mr. Connor Brooks were sky-high.

If I were going to be disappointed, I would have preferred to hold on to my fantasy.

As it turns out, I was not disappointed.

Far, far from it.

The crowd in the marble-floored, exquisitely decorated lobby was thinned out by the time I stepped out of the elevator. In Los Angeles, anybody who has a modicum of power or money jumps ship by 4PM so they can get a head start on traffic. To home, to drinks, to dinner, or maybe out of town to Vegas.

Everybody else pretty much calls it quits by 6PM and accepts their lot in life is to suffer on jam-packed freeways.

The peons, like me, are stuck watching all the other people get on with their lives.

So when I walked out of the elevator, there weren't that many people to get in the way of my seeing him.

Oh.

My.

God.

He was standing at the desk chatting with Stanley. It had to be him. No way that one man that gorgeous, and another guy with the voice on the phone, could simultaneously coexist in the same building and not be the same person. The odds were too high. Even if they were two people, their combined sexiness would pull them together and fuse them into one perfect male, like two stars passing too close to each other in space. Sexiness gravity.

See? 'Sexiness gravity.' Good God. This is the sort of stupid stuff that starts running through my head and why I sound like an idiot around hot men.

And he was hot. Over six feet tall, probably six-two. Dark, wavy hair in a fashionable cut, slightly over the ear but not too long. Strong chin, perfect jawline. A strong nose that was just rough enough to make him look more manly than pretty-boy. A perfectly even set of white teeth in a heart-melting grin. And the lips on that smile... oh my. Those were lips made for long, lingering kisses.

The most astounding, crystal-clear blue eyes. Like ocean water in the Caribbean, the color you see in picture-perfect postcards. They somehow managed to envelope you with their warmth and send a shiver through you, too, like he could look deep inside you to your innermost secrets and desires.

I couldn't pinpoint his age, but I figured it was late 20's to early 30's. He had the very beginnings of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, a mischievous crinkle that went with the gleam in his eyes when he grinned. The crinkling wasn't the age so much as the tan, though – a beautiful golden brown. Not the type that says, 'I go to a tanning salon,' but 'I just came back from two weeks in Hawaii.'

He was dressed in a dark suit – something exquisitely tailored and very expensive-looking – so it was a little harder to see his body, but what I could see made my stomach flutter. His shoulders were broad. His chest pressed but didn't strain at his crisp, white shirt. He was wearing a blue tie, one that matched his eyes beautifully. He had loosened it and unfastened the top three buttons of his shirt, exposing a powerful, chiseled neck, more of that tan skin, and the upper edges of well-defined pecs. A few dark chest hairs peeked above the top fastened button.

His thighs looked like they were muscular under the expensive pants, though it was hard to tell. He had on these trendy, kick-ass shoes – probably boots of some sort, with a kind of rock 'n roll embroidering, if that makes any sense. They would have gone as well with a $500 pair of jeans in a night club as they did with his $5000 suit.

And I swear I don't care about these things, but... I couldn't help notice that his shoes were pretty big. And so were his hands: well-crafted, masculine, and large, like Michaelangelo's David. (No wedding ring, by the way.) I also stole a brief, very brief look at his... ahem, below his beltline, and while I'm not very well-versed in judging these sorts of things with all the clothes on, let's just say that I wouldn't be surprised if he filled out his underwear pretty well in the front.

I shouldn't have said that. Oh God. But, hey, I thought it at the time, so there you are. Can't take it back now.

If you want the short-hand version, he looked like a model in an ad for a highbrow, extremely expensive brand of scotch. The kind of guy who would have hung with Sinatra in the 50's, or with George Clooney or Kanye West now. Hell, the kind of guy they would call to hang out with. The kind of man who would have kicked Don Draper's ass in Mad Men. A Young Turk on a break from conquering the world. The kind of man that every guy wanted to be, and every woman wanted to get to know.

'Get to know' is a euphemism, in case you hadn't figured that out.

As I walked up, Stanley and the stranger were finishing talking about sports – the Lakers or something. Then Mr. Movie Star looked over at me and his eyes lit up. He got that gleam I described earlier, and the corners of his eyes crinkled as he grinned.

"You must be Lily," he said, and held out his hand.

My heart was already pounding, but when he said that, it did a triple flip in my chest. Hearing that voice on the phone? Super sexy. But not even half as good as hearing it in person.

The difference was like homemade banana pudding versus the stuff in a packet. Don't get me wrong, I really like the stuff in the packet. But I loooove me some banana pudding made from scratch.

Okay, that's kind of goofy (and now you know more than you ever wanted to about my dessert preferences). A better analogy would be real sex versus phone sex. Phone sex can be incredibly hot – but it doesn't hold a candle to real sex.

Um... just to be clear... at that point in my life, standing in that lobby at 6PM on a Friday, I'd never had phone sex.

Yet.

One other thing: as I held up my arm to shake his hand, I smelled his cologne.

Ohhhhhh God.

I read somewhere that our deepest and most primal memories are connected to smell. If you think about it, as a baby, you probably responded to scents – your mother's, your father's – before you could figure out what the hell sounds they were making, or before your eyes even focused right.

Even now, when I think of Christmas, I smell baking cookies in the kitchen and that clean, pine scent of freshly cut Christmas trees.

Other memories are just as vivid: burning leaves on an autumn day. Clean laundry fresh from the dryer.

When I think of him now, I smell that cologne.

Masculine and heady, with the basic layers of musk and sandalwood, and just a tiny bit of sweetness thrown in.

It wasn't overpowering at all. Just a hint. A tease. I mean, I was right next to him, and I caught the barest whiff.

It smelled classy. Expensive. Exotic, and yet... comforting, somehow.

And damn sexy.

Because I was completely tongue-tied (what with the voice and the scent), I looked over at Stanley. He nodded reassuringly like, Dude's okay.

Which was good. I trust Stanley. If he gets a good read off of somebody, I accept his intuition.

"M-Mr. Brooks?" I stuttered as my hand clasped his.

Ohhhhhh God.

His skin was so warm. His handshake was really strong, but unlike a lot of jerks who try to push women (and other men) around, he didn't try to crush me. He just let his hand envelope mine. Firm but inviting.

I melted a little bit more.

"Good to put a face to the voice," he said as he hung onto my hand for a second or two longer than was absolutely necessary. (I didn't mind. Not at all.)

"Yes," I agreed, because that was all I could think to say at the moment.

Then he dropped my hand and got down to business. "Okay. Call your boss for me."

The unpleasant prospect of having Klaus chew me out over the phone pumped a shot of adrenaline into my system. And that temporarily overrode all the sex hormones flooding through my veins.

"Ohhhh... I don't really know if – "

"Relax, Lily, you'll talk to him first, and it'll be on your phone, so I won't even see the number. Besides, he's probably not even out of the parking deck yet, is he?" Connor smiled.

And, no, the truth was that he probably wasn't.

I sighed, pulled my cell phone out of my little black purse, and hit 'KLAUS' on my contacts list.

This was not going to go well.

But how could I say 'no' to what was actually a pretty reasonable request?

And, even more importantly, with those gorgeous blue eyes twinkling at me?

"What," Klaus's perpetually pissed-off voice answered.

"Um... I have Mr. Brooks here, and he's pretty insistent about – "

"WHAT THE HELL?! What part of your brain shut down when I left, Lily?!"

And then he went off on a mini-tirade of profanity and insults that was worse than usual.

Just as my blood reached the boiling point (which was really only 1.5 seconds in, after Klaus dropped the first F-bomb) and I was on the verge of saying something that would get me fired, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and caught that smell again. That sexy, intoxicating scent.

I looked up to see Connor's hand extended towards me, palm outward, right about my shoulder level.

He was looking at me with a bemused expression. Like puppy-dog eyes, but if the puppy dog knew you weren't a very good owner and he had to explain to you how to walk him and feed him, but he still loved you anyway.

"May I?" he asked with that sexy-as-hell smile.

Meanwhile, Klaus's torrent of profanity was still pouring full force into my ear.

What the hell, I thought, grinned wryly, and handed the phone over to him. Connor glanced at the phone screen and then held it up to his face.

"KLAUS!" he shouted in a backslapping, Hey, buddy! kind of way. "Connor... Brooks here from LMGK. How's it going?"

First impression: Connor just commanded the conversation right from the beginning. He reached out verbally, took hold of Klaus by the neck, and steered him in the direction he wanted him to go.

Second impression: he paused slightly after his first name. At first I thought he was being friendly by saying 'Connor' alone, then realized Klaus might not know who he was, so he included the last name as a formality.

Turns out I was wrong, which I found out later that night.

The torrent of profanity ended abruptly. There was a long pause, and then a single word on the other end: "Hello."

He didn't say it in a friendly voice, but it was a hell of a lot friendlier than what he'd been subjecting me to a second ago.

"Here's the thing, Klaus – I'd like to call you back on my phone so I can conference in somebody else. He's expecting my call. You okay with that?"

There was the muffled, Charlie Brown's teacher wah-wah-wah-WAAAAH of Klaus's voice complaining on the other end.

"Thirty seconds, Klaus, and I'll get right back to you. Be sure to pick up, bud – you're gonna wanna hear this!"

And then Connor hung up on Klaus without waiting for a reply.

Ohhhh CRAP.

Mr. Movie Star had pretty much just signed my death warrant.