Good morning, #MrsInvisibleMan.

Wow. I smile. I’m smiling like… huge. It almost feels like we’re friends now. I stare up at the ceiling for a few seconds. Vaughn Asher is texting me good morning. And he’s calling me MrsInvisibleMan. It’s weird that he’s calling me that, but I started it last night with the #MrsInvisibleOnline hashtag. I tap the screen to pull up the keypad and type out a response.

What kind of perks do I get for being your Mrs?

He texts back immediately and I bite my lip as I wait, my eyes glued to the little typing message.

I take care of what’s mine. Whatever you want.

Haha. Then I will get you my list. :) I gotta go to work. Toots.

I throw the phone down and get up so I’m not tempted to stay in bed and chat with him. I have to mentally shake myself for a second, because it’s just so surreal. I’m starstruck and yet not all at the same time. Last week this man was the star of all my sexual fantasies. And this week I know him intimately.

Not as intimately as I’d like, it’s been a strange introduction. But holy hell, I had sex with him. Twice.

Yeah, it was the same day, and they were both on vacation. But still. Twice.

And he’s still calling—and texting, and messaging—so that means he wants more than sex. Right? I’m not delusional, am I? He’s definitely interested in something else, because for whatever reason, he’s making sure he leaves a lasting impression. And he might even be going out of his way to make it… well, maybe not good. But certainly satisfactory.

I take care of what’s mine.

That’s not something a man says when he’s looking to move past a one-night stand.

Am I way off here? Is he just blowing smoke up my ass? But why do that? I’m nobody.

Maybe that’s why he wants you, Grace? Because you’re safe. You’re secret. You’re invisible.

But I even met his parents. Sure, it was the briefest of meetings. I barely said hello. But I met the famous Adam Asher. And his weird brother Conner. And his beautiful fragile sister, who really did marry the wrong man, even I picked up on that.

I take a shower and my fingers wander down to the cleft of my sex. I consider it for a moment, but I pull back before I even get started. If I’m going to be twexting with Vaughn Asher tonight, I want to be aching for release.

Thirty minutes later I’m heading out the door and out of habit I head to my car, but just as I’m clicking the door locks, I remember—I don’t have to drive.

Yes. I even do a fist pump.

The full meaning of my promotion hits me and I allow myself a wide, broad, beaming smile as I walk back into my building, exit the front door, and find myself out on Wazee Street. It’s always been a dream of mine to be able to live and work locally. And now that I’m working in our Downtown office instead of the Cherry Creek office, I can do that.

I walk up to the Sixteenth Street Mall and the free mall bus is just pulling up. My Starbucks is only a block and a half down, but what the hell? How many people get to take the mall bus to work? I get on, stand, weaving a little as the bus moves, then get off on the next stop with a grin. My Starbucks is only a few steps away and my new work—right across the street.

I do a little happy dance in my head and pull the door open on my favorite coffee establishment. I keep my coffee money on my handy Starbucks app, so I pull that up as I stand in line and wait my turn.

And this is when my dream comes crashing back to reality.

I spent almost all my money on that first-class plane ticket home and I won’t be paid for another week. I have to make a car payment in a few days, and that right there will wipe out my whole account. I will be short, in fact, once I pay insurance. The prepaid balance on my Starbucks card is even worse. I might not even be able to afford my coffee right now. If my memory serves, my card might have about three dollars left.

Maybe I can sell my car? Then I wouldn’t have that payment. Two payments if I stopped my insurance.

I dig through my purse, looking for change.

“What can I get you?” the overworked cashier asks me.

“Um, just a venti Coffee of the Day, thanks.” I look longingly at the muffins as I wait for him to fill up my cup. That’s one perk of getting cheap coffee. They fill it up for you as you wait. “And a blueberry muffin,” I add quickly once he sets down my drink.

“Four seventy-five.”

I flash my app under the scanner and gather up my nickels and dimes. I know I don’t have that much on my card.

But he hands it back with a receipt and says, “Next!”

I take my coffee over to the milk station and add in three sugars and half-and-half, still thinking about my card balance.

I guess it’s my lucky day. I smile again as I stir my coffee and put a lid on it. My step is a bit lighter as I walk out the door and enjoy the crisp fall air as I stroll across the street to my office.

The downtown office of Big Guys Events, of which I am now an employee, is run by Scott Baker and his brother, Blake. They own the Cherry Creek office too, but they call that one Little Lady Events, and it’s run by the bitchy sisters, Leah and Ali—gag, they are a Mean Girls movie waiting to happen. I was never a favorite of theirs, so I was a little surprised when I got promoted up to Big Guys, but hey, I’m just living, breathing proof that hard work pays off.

The Big Guys are super-cool. We hit it off immediately at my interview and I’m hoping they give me club events to manage as my first gig. Big Guys handles a bunch of those, all of them hip, trendy rock clubs that have up-and-coming bands playing every weekend and special events once a month.

I’d be the special events girl. I wouldn’t be dealing with rock bands, thank God. Just planning one or two fantastic parties for each club every month.

Whew.

The reality of that is sort of stressing me out as I pull open the door to our building and push the button for the elevator. Our building is six stories tall and only has our offices on the top two floors. The bottom floor is a sandwich shop, but there’s a separate entrance for that.

The doors open so I get in and hit the button for the fifth floor for a quick stop at my office—squee—before I have to check in with the Big Guys on the top floor for my assignments. The doors open and Flora, the main receptionist, greets me with a wave as she talks to someone on the phone through her headset. My office is the last on this floor. It’s small and dark, but I do not care.