“How you haven’t stopped thinking about hooking up with Kyle since you found out he was single,” Christa says dryly.

“Or . . . our housewarming party.” Ashley stares at me through wide, pleading eyes. “Please, please, please, please . . . It’d be a good excuse to invite Kyle.”

My heart skitters at the thought of seeing him outside of the office. Somewhere more comfortable, more social. “Shouldn’t we have more than a couch and TV set up before we host people here?”

Ashley bites her lip in thought, her gaze skating over the cheap round table in the middle of the room, and then to the empty, white walls, and out to the barren patio behind the glass. “It’s just such a waste, to have a place like this and not throw a party.” Her shoulders sag with disappointment.

“I mean, I guess I could hire that interior decorator who did my office to fill up this place, but I don’t have time to field all those questions—”

“I’ll do it!” she bursts, putting her hand up as if in class. “I’ll take care of everything.”

“Really?”

“Are you kidding me? I know your taste; just give me your budget. Questions will be limited, I promise.” She grins. “And then we can have a party, right?”

I chuckle. “Sure. Okay.”

“Perfect.” She slides over a notepad with her chicken scratch. “Early list of invitees.”

I shake my head with amusement as I scan the list. “My brother?”

“You keep saying we need to meet him.”

“I guess . . .” I frown. “Who are George and Harriet?”

“Our neighbors.”

“We have neighbors?” There are only two units on this floor and the other one hadn’t been sold when I moved in.

Ashley’s eyebrows arch. “Yeah, for like two months now. She’s a teacher at a private school. He’s an investment banker. They’re nice. Well, she’s nice. I haven’t met him yet. I had afternoon tea with her last week. She has great taste.”

Leave it to Ashley to gain herself an invitation to Earl Grey and crumpets.

I keep skimming the list, until one name jumps out at me. “Eric?”

“You said Kyle still talks to him.” She shrugs innocently. “I’m sure he’d love to see all of us again.”

“Right. He missed everyone at Wawa so much that he dropped off the planet and never returned your emails,” Christa mutters, heaving herself off the couch to stroll over to the kitchen island, Elton tucked in one arm. She leans over my shoulder to scan the party invitation list. “You’re kidding me.” She shakes her head firmly. “You are not inviting Zelda to our housewarming party. No way. No psychics.”

Ashley rolls her eyes. “Relax. I’m doing it to be polite. She won’t come. But do you think we should invite your dad, Piper? This is his place.”

“He definitely won’t come. And no.” I would have said that before finding out about the payoff. Now . . . “He’s not welcome. Besides, I’m sure he’ll be too busy intimidating seventeen-year-old boys somewhere. God, what is that sound?” I exclaim, no longer able to ignore the odd rumbling coming from Elton as he nuzzles Christa’s ear.

“He’s just happy. Right, Elton?” Christa rubs her nose affectionately against his while she walks away, her voice shifting several octaves to croon, “Who’s a good kitty? Yes, you’re a good kitty.”

“He snuck into my room last night while I was in the bathroom, pruned the aloe vera, and then puked on my slippers,” Ashley offers as proof of the very opposite to Christa’s claims. “If there’s any chance you’ve developed a sudden allergy to cats, now would be the time to speak up.”

“I heard that!” Christa stops at the hallway that leads to her bedroom. “And Piper? You’re not fooling anyone except yourself.”

I sigh heavily, stabbing at my pie. “I just don’t know what to do.”

“Yes, you do. You need to figure out if you and Kyle can actually make this work in today’s world. Is this going to be an epic star-crossed lovers’ saga or some tawdry two-hour romance where the heiress to billions is banging the security guard on her desk?”

“I’d read either of those stories,” Ashley murmurs through a sip of milk.

Christa rolls her eyes at our romance-obsessed friend. “Figure it out, and decide if you’re okay with it.”

I sigh. “You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right.” She disappears down the hall.

“So, Shakespeare in Tights has a desperate friend in need of a job, and I’m just supposed to hire her,” David mutters. Thwack. The tennis ball bounces off the window and back, landing in his grip so smoothly that it seems tethered.

When Mark mentioned a friend who was looking for administrative work and asked if David would consider interviewing her, my first instinct was to ask what she did to make him hate her so much. But when he explained that he gave her the rundown on David, that she has a glass-is-always-half-full attitude, and is in fact desperate for a job, the wheels in my brain started churning. This would solve the problem of David—an albeit small problem in comparison to my complications with Tripp, Kyle, and my father—and having David out of my hair is always a good goal to keep.

“She has administrative experience.”

“Yeah, at a truck leasing company.” His voice is filled with disdain as he scowls at the résumé Mark printed out and left on his desk this morning.

“What was that important thing you missed yesterday?” I mock-frown, my index finger to my lip. “Giving a keynote speech, was it?”

“Point taken,” he mutters with a huff. “But I’m not promising anything.”

“Promise you’ll at least give her a fair shot?”

“Well, of course I’ll do that. You know me.”

“I do. Which is why I’m asking you to not be yourself.”

He rolls his eyes.

I want to slap him upside the head and tell him to stop being an idiot. But David is much more receptive to having his ego stroked. “Look, you are far too busy a man to be managing these trivial things.” I keep my voice calm and soothing. “I need Mark’s support full-time and you are not poaching Jack’s assistant. Mark has known Renée for years and can vouch for her as being a competent and hardworking woman.” More important, Renée has already completed David Worthington 101, a course taught by Mark and one that I can guarantee was not complimentary.

She still wanted to interview.

Mark’s smooth voice carries down the hall, announcing their arrival.

“Okay, she’s here. Don’t be a dick,” I warn, turning to watch my sacrificial lamb approach. I struggle to keep my mouth from dropping. “Wow.”

Renée is compact in stature, especially next to Mark. I’m guessing five feet tall without the towering heels. She’s fit, the navy pencil dress showing off tight, hour-glass curves and muscular legs. Her shock of platinum-blonde hair reaches down past her chest and is poker-straight.

Large, expressive blue eyes take me in as Mark leads her forward, and she bites her pouty bottom lip before realizing it and stopping herself.