"I don't need you to rescue me," I growl.

The soft lines of his honest confession harden around his mouth. He swallows. "Of course not."

"I'm going to be late."

"Me too."

I breeze past him, but feel footfalls falling in time with mine. I refuse to glance over my shoulder.

"Navy," he says.

I pick up my pace, practically jogging to the double doors of my building even though I'd rather be running anywhere else, maybe even into his embrace.

When my hands rest on the metal bar of the door, the fact that I'm empty handed replaces the stupid thought. I turn back to order a replacement coffee, being sure to tip the server generously for wasting her time.

Fifteen minutes late, huffing, puffing, and pink-cheeked, I meet the pinched face and stubby, grabby arms of my boss, Mr. Bouche.

"Miss Carroting, I expect you to have my coffee before I arrive."

"Carrington. And I apologize, sir." I shouldn't have nearly fallen on my ass and I certainly shouldn't have wasted a moment talking to Carrick.

"We have a meeting in ten. Please prepare the pastry trays and make sure the coffee is hot this time."

The coffee in the urns isn't good enough for him, but he'll gladly have me serve it to the clients he woos and romances with big talk of top media placements.

The meeting bleeds into lunch and I clear my throat several times to disguise the grumbling of my stomach.

"Miss Carrolton, is there something you'd like to say?" Mr. Bouche asks.

I clear my throat again. "No, sorry."

He resumes his mind-numbingly boring promise of fame and fortune to the client. She looks like she needs a nap. Me too, sister, me too. I pass coffee refills and sneak a nibble from a broken pastry.

At last, the meeting is over and as I excuse myself for lunch, my boss calls me back, "Miss Carbo-" He shakes his head.

From behind me a deep voice says, "Carrington. Navy Carrington."

I whip around.

"Ah, Mr. Kennely. You've met our newest assistant?"

I don't look at Mr. Kennely or his lips.

"You could say that Navy and I go back." He turns to Mr. Bouche. "Can you remind me your name again? I'm terrible at remembering-"

He claps Carrick on the shoulder. "Ah, I can relate. I'm Gibwick Bouche, but you can call me Gib."

"I prefer Bouche, rhymes with-" Carrick winks at me.

I stifle a laugh, focusing my attention on the paper hearts on the door to the employee lunchroom, a surprising addition to the otherwise professional decor.

My boss claps his tiny hands together. "You've known each other a while then. Well, isn't that nice. Miss Callingrun, you'd think with his kind of connection-well, never mind. It's always a wonderful day to have a Kennely in our office. Would you like Miss Carrottop to get you a coffee, a pastry, or a sticky bun-I missed eating one in my last meeting."

I don't even try to hide the roll of my eyes. Bouche is insufferable.

Carrick smirks and nods. "I'd love for her to-"

"Mr. Kennely," calls Coco Albright, one of the partners. She wages a war with the marble floor in her spiked heels. Her red skirt triumphs over the simplicity of my glossy lips and even though her ebony blouse accentuates her assets, everyone around here looks her in the eyes. She must be my age and I can't deny my jealousy at her having her shit so neatly buttoned together. "Glad to catch you before you go. Can I have you sign these?" She holds out a stack of papers.

"Miss Carting-was just going to bring him a coffee."

"Please bring it to my office," Coco says to me. "Oh, how do you like it Carrick?" she asks.

"She knows how I like it," Carrick says in a low, conspiratorial voice.

I ignore his smug smile, the twist of Coco's lips at his comment, and stomp away, my boots clomping on the marble floor instead of the click, click, click of Coco's power walk.

After acknowledging Carrick's appearance here, assessing the strange, flirtatious game he's suddenly playing, making sure I don't have spinach in my teeth, and getting his coffee, just milk. I lift my hand to knock on Coco's office door when it opens.

Carrick comes out. "There you are."

"Sorry to keep you waiting."

"I think you mean the other way around."

Coco looks on with veiled interest.

"I'm Miss Carring-whatever, the coffee girl. It's my job to run and fetch and wear a smile."

"I like your smile," Carrick says.

I shove the coffee in his hands.

"Coco," Carrick says in his smooth, charming voice. "Do you mind if I borrow Navy for a few minutes. Promise to bring her back."

Coco starts to answer, but I say, "No, thank you."

"You'd rather run and fetch and-" he starts.

"I have work to do."

He palms the cup of coffee, the rim meets his lips, and he swallows long. Not even Coco can resist the show. As though surprised I'm still standing there he asks, "I thought you had to help Mr. Douche with his dry cleaning?"

Coco lets out the combination of a gasp and a giggle and then breezes into her office, obviously flustered.

I barricade myself with crossed arms in front of my chest. "What are you doing here?" I ask.

"I told you, I had a meeting."

"Here?"

"Yes, here. With Coco-" he says with amusement.

"Why?"

"Miss Cartoonton-" Mr. Bouche calls from his office.

Before I storm off, Carrick mouths the words Mr. Douche.

I'd like to sleep through the next day so I don't risk seeing Carrick at the office. Fortunately, he's not there, but every time someone addresses Mr. Bouche, a laugh bubbles on my lips, making it so I can almost tolerate him butchering my last name.

I scrape through Wednesday, finding myself whirling around every time heavy footsteps approach down the hall. I startle when the phone rings. My stomach cartwheels when the elevator doors suction open. But I don't see him. Thank goodness.

That evening, Katya, not only my best friend with my best interests in mind, but also my roommate, meaning I can't escape her, reminds me of my pending yoga and dinner date. She'll have none of my excuses or wanderings around the house as I procrastinate going out with Spencer-the Hottie in 7G.

"I'm not meeting him until six. For a couple's yoga class." I brush my hands down my face. "How did I let myself get talked into this?" I ask, edging my way back to my room.

"Have you seen Spencer lately?"

"Of course. He lives down the hall. I saw him yesterday in the elevator. Awkward," I sing song. "There'll be no avoiding what's sure to be more of those moments in the foreseeable future unless one of us moves."

"Let's hope not." Her lidded eyes suggest reverie. "He's going to put you right tonight, Navy."

My eyes widen at the suggestion.

"Oh yes." She licks her lips.

"Did you sneak over to his apartment and submit an indecent proposal?"

"No, but not a bad idea. Spencer is a deal maker. A closer. Everything he does is done to get results. You might say he's the kind of man who appreciates a return on his investments."

I shake my head. "We're adding sex to the pressure of tonight? Isn't it enough just for me to keep from farting in class?"

She tries not to smile and then says, "Not just sex. Sex with Spencer." Her words are italicized and punctuated.

"What does that mean?"

"You'll be telling me in the morning."

Kat has me bathed, moisturized, and dressed in the sexiest yoga clothes in her closet. She primes me on conversation starters and responses. "Do you remember how to kiss?"

"Kat!" My mouth falls open.

"No, not like that."

I rehinge my jaw. "I wasn't demonstrating." It's been a long time, but the brief brush of my lips against Carrick's the other day, reminds me I haven't forgotten the way it makes me feel. I swallow.

"Why are you smiling like that?" she asks.

"Like what?"

"You were about to bite my head off and now you're dimpling."

"Dimpling?" I ask.

"The rare, dimpled smile I've only seen a handful of times."

"I am not smiling," I adamantly refute.

She grabs her coat.

"Where are you going?"

"I have to teach a class, but I want a full report. See you later. And be safe," she says, chucking a condom at me before whisking into the hallway. "It's like riding a bike," she calls after the door bangs shut.

How did this happen?

Copious amounts of alcohol.

Peer pressure.

A weak resolve.

Loneliness.

A check mark in all four boxes.

I pace around the apartment.

Are Spencer and I supposed to go over to the class together? It would be weird if we both left from the same building, but didn't meet up first. Maybe he's leaving from the office? Or perhaps he forgot a change of clothes and will knock on the door? My palms sweat. My throat is dry. My leg jitters and I feel like I might bounce out of my skin.

How do adults do this dating thing without a massive dose of tranquilizers?

Kat texts me, reminding me to leave, or I'll be late. My pacing carries me to the door before I can talk myself out of it.

I'm manhandled twice in the full subway car: once by an octogenarian who almost fell over when the train stopped abruptly and once by a toddler who was fascinated by the metallic stripes on my pants. Even dressed like Katya I don't quite have the same allure.

I wait in the short line by the sign-in desk at the studio. Hipsters and aging hippies fill the room in pairs. There's one threesome. The guy has a scraggly beard and the two chicks fawn over him like he's their guru. Fingers crossed he's not the teacher or I'm out of here.

There's no sign of Spencer after I pay so I hurry to the bathroom for a private moment to prevent any embarrassing incidents involving sudden gusts of wind. There's both a man and woman figure on the locked door signifying it's occupied. I wait, glancing over my shoulder for Spencer, being sure not to make eye contact with the hippie menage a trois.

The doorknob clicks and I turn around, stepping headfirst into a broad chest.

"Oh, hello," Carrick says as though running into each other multiple times in the last week isn't unusual.

"This is starting to freak me out."

He smirks. Damn that smirk. The memory of the way his lip lifts and his eyes narrow like he's landed on something both fascinating and desirable, may have faded with time, but my body didn't forget. There's heat. A lot of heat. "What are you doing here?" I ask.