Lisa

I don't think Taehyung Ashford likes me very much.

At least, not if the way he keeps dogging my steps is any clue. I'd thought he'd be at work, not hanging around while I direct his soon-to-be-ex's furniture into a moving truck. That'd make it easier on me. I wouldn't have to avoid his eyes and try not to remember how he'd attempted to bribe me to spy on said soon-to-be-ex.

And then how I'd eaten her out instead. Fingered her and made her come until her eyes crossed.

Yeah, it's best not to try and remember that right now.

I gulp as the movers finish carrying a gorgeous Italian leather sofa into the truck. I turn around and gasp. Mr. Ashford standing not ten feet away from me, looking at me with narrowed eyes. He says nothing.

I bite back the urge to speak. What is there to say? If he and my boss weren't separated, I'd ask if I could help him with something. As it is, it's all I can do not to snap, What's your problem?

"She's sure moving fast, isn't she?" he asks me.

I push my hair out of my face. My blouse is sticking to me. It's another sunny, hot September day, and I've devoted my time to this ever since I got up—I didn't stop by the office at all. I haven't laid eyes on Jennie all day, when I so desperately want to, to make sure our conversation last night wasn't a dream. Instead, I have to look at this fucking guy.

"She's not a big believer in wasting time." I glance wistfully at a patch of shade five feet away, granted by the oak trees that line the paved driveway.

"Always moving on to the next big thing, that's Jennie." The sour note in his voice makes me wince. He might be a jackass, but there's no denying Jennie seems to have issues that have nothing to do with him as a person. "What do you reckon the next big thing is this time? Any ideas?"

"I couldn't say." Something about the way he looks at me makes me want to squirm. But I can't work out what that something is. "I'm just here to assist with the move."

"I guess that's what assistants do." He sticks his hands into his pockets and tilts his head to the side, never breaking eye contact. "I wouldn't know. Never had one. Never needed one. I like to do my own dirty work."

That's bullshit. I can't help myself. "So who gets your lunch and makes your copies?"

He scowls. Undoubtedly it's an intern or an office admin, but it's definitely not him, and he's caught out. "You know, young lady, you could stand to work on that attitude."

"It's been working just fine for me so far. Listen. I'm just doing my job here, and I'm not getting involved in your divorce."

The words make me prickle with uneasiness. After all, I'm pretty securely enmeshed in Jennie Kim's personal life right now, even if she swears her divorce isn't because of me. But our…arrangement…is just something on the side of our lives. It's separate from all this nonsense Mr. Ashfords's trying to pull me into.

"You're not?" he said. "Careful about blanket statements. The only thing sure in life is death and taxes."

Keeping his hands in his pockets, he turns on his heel and stalks back toward the front door of the humongous house.

What are they going to do about this place? Split it and share the proceeds? I'm not sure how much Mr. Ashford makes, but it'd have to be a hell of a lot for him to afford this kind of house on his own. And it's such a status symbol. Just something else for him to resent losing.

Then again, he'd been wanting to pack up and move to New York anyway. I guess now he can. Yet again, I marvel at the nerve it took to ask Jennie to uproot her whole life when he knows what her firm means to her. Shoot, even I can see that, and there's no way I know Jennie better than her husband.

Do I?

The question plagues me as I follow the truck to Jennie's apartment. I've been given my own key card. I wonder if I'll get to keep it. There's not really a reason for me to. We've agreed to keep the arrangement in the office.

She told me doing that was risky. How can she not understand that anything else is far riskier? At least for me. At least for my heart.

We can be careful. We will be. It can't be that hard, can it?

When I arrive at the apartment, the decorator I found on Stephanie's list is already hard at work, directing. Jennie will return tonight to a place that's designed to feel like home already. The decorator did her Paces house, so I guess he knows what Jennie likes.

"Um," I say as two burly men place the leather sofa at a diagonal angle from the fireplace. "Shouldn't that be facing the fireplace? So she can look at the fire?"

The decorator, whose name is Hermann and who has a brutally Teutonic accent to match, scowls at me. "This will accent the lines of the room. And if you know Jennie, you know she has no time to spend looking at fireplaces."

I'm put in my place as solidly as the furniture. I try not to seethe, and snap photos when he's not looking. I text a picture of the sofa to Jennie and say: Decoration in progress

Within one minute, she responds.

Why isn't the sofa facing the fireplace? Tell Hermann to move it there.

Hermann is not appreciative of the assistance and definitely not of me. He has the men move the sofa and spends the next few hours passive-aggressively asking me what I think about every little thing, from where to arrange Jennie's easy chair to the placement of the table lamps.

Instead of getting huffy, I take him at face value. The chair should go beneath the Tiffany lamp and in front of the ottoman by the window with the best view. The table lamp will go on the table next to Jennie's king-sized bed. It's shockingly easy for me to picture the kind of space she'd like to live in.

In fact, by the time we're done and Hermann's left in a huff, I can't help noticing it's the kind of space I'd like to live in, too. I'm no interior decorator, and this won't win any awards, but it's not half bad, if I do say so myself.

I should call Jennie and let her know everything's taken care of. The day's nearly over already—it's almost eight p.m. There are bound to be lots of tasks I have yet to catch up on. All day I've felt mounting dread as e-mails piled up in my phone.

Rather than do any of that, I wander around the apartment by myself. I turn off all the lights except the Tiffany lamp and look at the city in the fading daylight. It really is a heck of a view. I kick off my shoes, settle down in Jennie's leather armchair, and prop my feet up on her ottoman.

What does she do in this chair? Work, I guess. I can see her with her laptop balanced on her knees. Maybe she puts her feet up just like I'm doing while she reads over a brief or a file or makes some calls. Maybe she reads a book.

In this chair, she could work, she could read, she could stare out the window, or she could spread her legs while I kneel on the floor and eat her out again. Make her so wet that her arousal drips all over this beautiful leather. Get her to do things she's never done before—try outrageous things, like—

Holy shit, like—

I'm fumbling for my phone. My hands are shaking. I'm dialing her number.

She picks up on the first ring. "Lisa?" she says. Her voice is hoarse, breathless.

I close my eyes. "Are you alone?"

"Am I—oh, yes, I'm…"

"I'm coming back to the office. Can you be ready?"

"Ready?" Her voice cracks.

"I need to have you. Tonight. Now." I take a deep breath. She's so wet. So unbearably tight. "And Jennie…I mean to have you."