“Hey.” Her tone weighs several tons too.

I gesture to her office. “Do you have a few minutes?”

“For the new boss? Of course.”

I wince. “Yes. For the new boss.”

“I think I can squeeze you in before my two p.m.,” she says. Her tone is playful, though I think I get why. Acting like we’re work pals has to be easier than acknowledging we’re not.

I step inside. My eyes sweep over the shelves, and even though I should focus on the matter at hand, I steal the chance to learn more about the woman I wanted to go out with at the end of the week.

I half expect to see some of her retro housewife illustrations, but those might not be appropriate in a business setting.

Appropriate.

I need to remember that word.

Need to live by it. Act accordingly.

That means not letting my dick make decisions.

The brain should be more powerful than the prick. Truly, it should. I ought to know. My dick had been taking an extended hiatus till last night.

Focusing on her workspace, I spot a shelf holding kitschy, etched glasses with state maps—Indiana, Georgia, South Dakota. Souvenir glasses, like the kind you’d find on the side of the road in some days-gone-by truck stop. Next to her desk is a framed minimalist poster—a black-and-white image with the words Beyoncé Wasn’t Built in a Day.

I gesture to it. “That’s a good one.”

She stands near her desk, hands folded in front of her, looking perfectly put together in her white blouse and trim pink skirt. “Thanks. I wanted to hang up a pinup lady sign saying If you’re talking behind my back, you’re in a perfect position to kiss my ass.” She takes a deep breath. “Alas, this mantra seemed better for the company.”

Better for the company.

Yup.

I need to do what’s best for the company too.

But first, I take one more look around.

Her desk sports a bobblehead of Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, a giant pigtailed head on top of her tiny body with the red slippers.

“Dorothy fan?”

“She had great shoes. And good friends. What else does a modern woman need?”

“Just a cat maybe,” I offer.

“And I have that. Though, admittedly, he’s not quite as talented as yours.”

“Few are. Queen LT is a special one.”

“I am obscenely jealous of your cat. My cat’s greatest trick is staring scornfully at me, no matter what I say or do.”

“Sounds like a . . . cat.”

She laughs. “He is. I once left a mug in front of him just to see if he would swat it. Break it. Anything. You know, for internet amusement.” She shakes her head, forlorn. “Alas, he did nothing.”

“Don’t ever give up hope. Someday, Bryn, we will live in a world where cats can be trained.”

She offers a genuine smile, and it tugs at my heart, making me wish we were on a date right now, having this conversation in a café, or in the sushi restaurant I was going to take her to.

“Until then, a girl can dream,” she says.

A guy can too.

Clearing my throat, I’m about to dive into the reason I’m here, when I spot a mug on her desk with Obi-Wan swiping his hand in front of a glass of red wine and the caption This isn’t the wine you’re looking for.

I laugh and tap my finger against the ceramic. “The wine people—talk about marketing. They really figured it out.”

Her green eyes sparkle. They’re glinting, even. “I know, right? These days you can’t walk down the street without seeing a wine shirt, a ‘Wine O’clock’ coaster, a ‘But first, wine’ apron. I want to be the person in the wine industry who thought of merchandising.”

“Wine is the new black,” I say.

Her grin widens, and I want to keep this conversation up, to banter with her like we did last night and then this morning via text.

Seems she wants that too.

But I’m the boss.

And we need to have the talk.

I gesture to the loveseat along her wall. “May I sit?”

“Of course.”

She doesn’t sit next to me. She sits in her desk chair. My gaze drifts to the door. Still open. I cross the few feet and shut it. This is not a conversation anyone should hear.

I don’t mince words. “Listen, I had no idea you worked here.”

A mirthless laugh is her answer. “I had no idea you were buying our site. Media finance? ‘I’m in media finance,’” she says, imitating me.

“I could say the same of you. ‘I run a lifestyle site,’” I parrot back.

Her eyes widen. “Well, I do run a lifestyle site.”

“I know, I know. It’s ironic. We purposefully decided not to discuss work, and it turns out maybe we should have.”

She arches one brow. “Should we have though? Do you actually wish we’d discovered this last night?”

Damn. Talk about forward. This is why I dig Bryn—she doesn’t play around. She speaks her mind.