“You’re not like this. You’re the focus man.”

“The what?”

“That’s what people call you behind your back,” Amanda explains cheerfully, her big eyes wide and friendly. They’re the color of mink, with lashes so long the bottom layer sticks to the top, making her reach up with a finger and rub.

“People talk about me behind my back? What do they talk about?”

“Your nickname—pun intended—is Focus Man. Now live up to it,” Andrew says sourly.

Damn. I’ve only been with Anterdec for a year, and so far, so good. After they acquired my firm, my prospects weren’t exactly certain. With three kids in college, this needs to last. Just long enough to have an empty nest, and then...

And then no one depends on me. I’m free. Free to pursue whatever I want for the first time in my life.

A flash of mesh corset fills my free mind.

“Focus Man?” I laugh. “I can think of worse names to call me.”

We all take a sip of our gigantic coffees and sit in silence for a moment. Andrew types on his computer, drinking more, then looks at me.

“Done. Gina can take care of specifics, but I green-lighted another gO Spa RV and two more locations for new, full-service spas.”

“Do I get to help hire the staff?” Amanda asks Andrew with a wink.

“You,” he says archly, his voice going low and dark, “are staying at HQ with me.”

She gives him a wicked smile.

I miss having a woman smile at me like that.

I wonder if Chloe’s free for dinner.

If I’m Focus Man, I can be focused in more ways than one.

Chapter 6

Chloe

Carrie is right behind me as we head for our post-mortem in my office. That presentation went well. Better than well. My skin buzzes with triumph.

And maybe—just maybe—from being once-overed by a man with eyes the color of the sky.

“Oh my God, who died?” she gasps, pulling me out of my mini-fantasy.

There are roses in my office.

A lot of white roses. Six or eight dozen, by my guess.

Presentations like the one I just completed fill me with a weird mix of warrior-induced adrenaline and terror-induced cortisol. I’m primed for battle. This pathetic attempt to make up for what I saw that night—for what Joe did to me a month ago—has the opposite effect of what he intended.

The asshole just won’t let it go.

Won’t let me go.

Fury sears me from the inside out.

“Carrie, here, take some for your desk,” I say, grabbing the biggest vase and thrusting it at her. “Actually, take some for everyone. Take them all. They make my eyes water.” That’s a lie. My eyes aren’t blurring from rose fever. My vision is distorted by rage.

“Seriously, Chloe? Thanks!” It takes her three trips, but she gets them all out.

On her third go-around, she frowns. “Who are these from?”

“An old colleague.”

“He must really like you.”

“He used to,” I say faintly, my voice tinny, like I’m whispering through a pipe.

A sewer pipe.

Does Joe really think that eight dozen roses from Montelcini Flowers will magically erase the memory of his long stem in someone else’s mouth?

“What happened?”

What happened? What happened? The words spin through my mind, untethered and dangerous, like a pain-covered boomerang. None of this is Carrie’s fault, and I can’t get the image of Nick Grafton out of my head.

Any more than I can stop seeing the back of Joe’s blonde bunny’s head.

“Chloe?”

I steel myself and give her a neutral look. “Nothing. His tastes didn’t align with mine. He decided to go for a younger look.”

“That blows.”

Oh, if only you knew.

And with that, she’s gone. Carrie can take a hint.

I take out the mystery shop report and my Costco-sized bottle of aspirin, sit down at my desk, and do not move for the next hour.

Every ten minutes or so, the receptionist looks in and gives me an update. Joe has called six times. She wants to know when I am going to take his call.

NeverEver. Taylor Swift could not have said it better.

Deep in the details of an eviscerating—but accurate—mystery shop analysis, I don’t notice the man in the doorway until Carrie says, in a stage voice, “Her office is right here.”

“Chloe, that was a great presentation.” It’s The Frowner. Nick Grafton. Damn, I should have googled him but I forgot. “I’d like to talk more about your ideas for carrying the O brand through all levels of design. Things like that grey O border on the china—the client almost doesn’t even notice, but it’s always in view. Very smart. Would you have your admin call my assistant and set up a meeting for next week?”

“Of course. Thank you.” I’m flustered, surprised by his sudden appearance, and a little shaken. One sandal is off, and I’m frantically feeling around for it with my foot so I can stand up properly. And my lipstick is completely worn off… but that reminds me: “I have some thoughts about a line of private-label O cosmetics. I’d love your opinion.”

“Interesting. Next week then.” He hesitates. “A bit of a personal question—did you by any chance grow up around here?”

“Across the river, in Cambridge.” I look at him curiously.

“I have a younger brother, Charlie, and you look just like one of his friends. Any chance…?”

“Oh my god, Charlie Grafton!” I laugh. “I thought I recognized your last name. How is Charlie? We have totally lost touch.”

“Charlie’s, well, …” he starts, when my desk phone buzzes. I look down at it, but before I can pick up the receiver, the intercom starts, “Code Seven, Code Seven.”

We both stare at the phone, perplexed.

This is the call for security. Something is wrong at the front desk.

A business like O requires first-rate security 24/7. So much can go wrong, internally or externally, online or physically.

Privacy is paramount at O. Our cybersecurity is the tightest available. The last thing O needs is public exposure of our clients’ names.

Or their preferences.

* * *