Andrew swallowed as he pushed through the revolving doors into the autumn morning.

He was angry.

He told himself it was because he was now twenty minutes late starting his day.

He was lying.

Georgie

FRIDAY, 5:01 A.M.

Today’s plan of action required getting up even earlier than Wednesday. Which I didn’t know was possible.

But . . . worth it.

I’m nibbling the corner of my donut and chatting up Ramon, who’s already on his second donut, when I feel the air change.

Popping another bite of donut into my mouth, I slowly turn toward the source of the heat.

“Morning, Andrew.”

His expression is the same as it always is. Which is to say: completely expressionless.

But because I’m watching for it—anticipating it—I swear I see a little something extra flare in his eyes when he sees me.

Satisfaction? Gladness? Hard to say, since irritation is the only one of his nuances I know really well. But I’m pretty sure it was something.

“Mr. Ramirez. Georgiana. Good morning,” he says.

“Mr. Mulroney, sir. Good morning.”

“Donut?” I ask sweetly, pushing the box toward Andrew. “They’re perfectly delicious.”

His eyes narrow slightly at my emphasis on perfectly before his eyes drift over me, narrowing even farther at my ensemble.

As with Wednesday morning, I’m wearing gym clothes.

Unlike Wednesday morning, I got up extra early to bust my ass getting to the donut shop and then back here, so I could get the jump on him.

The puzzlement he’s trying to hide as he takes in my workout clothes makes the hideous 4:15 A.M. chirp of my alarm a happy memory.

“You’re late today,” I say, offering him a bite of my donut.

He ignores the donut. “Says the woman who didn’t show at all yesterday.”

“Someone’s keeping track.”

“Someone’s playing games. I don’t like games, Georgiana.”

“Which is why you need to play them, Andy.”

He blinks. “It’s Andrew.”

“Hmm. How about Drew?”

“No.” The word is a growl. “Georgiana.”

“Yes, Andy?”

He exhales. “I’m going to kill you.”

I can’t help the laugh. “See, I don’t think so.”

“Don’t you?”

“Nope,” I say, sucking sugar off my thumb. “You don’t send flowers to someone you’re going to kill.”

“Maybe they were for your funeral.”

I beam up at him. “So are we doing this?”

“Your funeral? God, I hope so.”

“Going to the gym,” I clarify. “You know, that whole thing about whether brainless Georgie can keep up with Andy and his Einstein mind.”

He grunts and checks his watch. “I said I was sorry about that.”

I laugh outright now. “You did not say sorry.”

Andrew looks away. “I tried to.”

I take pity on him and reach out to touch his forearm. Which, by the way, is very firm and nicely formed. Maybe I should consider this gym thing for real. “The flowers were perfect. Really.”

He meets my eyes, his mouth opening as though he wants to say something, but his gaze cuts over to Ramon, then to his watch once more.

“We should go.”

I bounce on my toes. “You’re letting me come with?”

“Do I even have a choice?”

“Ah, now see?” I say, pivoting and turning so that I can link my arm with his. “Look how well you know me already, and the day hasn’t even started.”

Andrew shakes his head and all but drags me forward. “You’re ridiculous.”

But I’m pretty sure I hear a smile in his voice when he says it.

Georgie

FRIDAY MORNING, LATER

If you’re wondering what Andrew Mulroney looks like while he’s in workout mode, picture this: Thor and Captain America somehow defeat biology and have a love child together. And call him Andrew.

You’re welcome for the visual.

Anyway, my idea of the gym is something like this: trot on the treadmill or the elliptical at a pace just vigorous enough to make your boobs and ponytail look good, but without actually breaking a sweat. Twenty minutes, max.

But twenty minutes pass, and out of the corner of my eye I see that Andrew’s at the same machine he started with and doesn’t look like he’s even remotely close to finished with his workout.

While I talked at him (yes, at him) on the way here, I asked why he came to this gym instead of the fancy one in our building.

He muttered something about a particular machine that he liked.

To which I replied that he was a machine.

And then he quit talking altogether.

I trot for another ten minutes or so, then decide that I should probably hit the shower if I’m going to have enough time to make myself pretty before I follow him to the office.

Because yup, I’m totally taking him up on his offer to see what the hell it is he does all day and prove that I can keep up. If he thinks sitting behind a desk and talking legalese is hard, he’s never been down Fifth Avenue in December. I make a mental note to force him to do that with me in a few weeks.

I trot over to where he’s loading weights onto the end of a metal rod. “What?” he asks, not looking at me.

I drape myself over the metal. “How much longer?”

He pauses in the process of hoisting the weight, his biceps flexing with the strain, then sets it back down again with an expression that’s half exasperated, half triumphant.

“That’s it?” he asks. “That’s all you’ve got? Thirty minutes in my shoes?”

I lift a finger and gesture at his feet. “I’m confident I would have made it much longer if you’d worn Dorothy’s slippers. Those black ones you’re wearing are boring.”

“They’re practical.”

“Boring,” I correct. “So what’s next?”

“Well, considering I’ve barely started on my workout—”

“Okay, fast-forward,” I say, spinning my finger. “Lucky for you, my usual hairstyle doesn’t do itself, so I’ll be able to keep myself busy while you finish your aspiring-bodybuilder routine. I mean, what happens after?”