Callan Carmichael is the worst kind of WOMANIZER!!

“He’s the last man standing of the three, Livvy. Really, you don’t want to go there.”

My mouth was hanging open. I was so affronted I even dug out my lipstick and crossed it out.

“Fucking skanks,” I cursed as I buried his name under my lipstick.

“Are you siding with him?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Shit.” She groans. “Callan is a bad boy through and through; he’s holding court now as the hottest, richest bachelor in the city.”

“I won’t go there. I can’t help being attracted but I’m not some animal ruled by lust and stuff. I can control it,” I assured. “Still. He’s my . . . friend. He bailed your ass the other day, Wynn; you can’t tell me you don’t think he’s worth it.”

“He’s totally worth it. I’m just saying there’s no way that man can be tamed.”

“Don’t worry, this girl isn’t in the market,” I assured her with false confidence.

The next week, I keep my head down, dive with gusto into everything that Mr. Lincoln needs, and stop going to the terrace. But it’s such a hard feat to pretend Callan’s not on Earth when he owns the company where I work.

I’m heading home well after 6 p.m. when the elevator down to the lobby opens and a tall man in a black shirt and jeans stands in the middle of two executives.

I feel my stomach clutch uncomfortably even before I really realize it’s him. Eyes that change in shades from honey to amber to gold spot me the second I spot him.

His eyes linger a little too long on mine.

I look away, past his shoulders, and board.

The elevator stops on the seventeenth floor, and two more people join us. A protective hand presses me closer to him. Jolting at the touch, I open my mouth to protest but he looks down at me and my voice sort of goes.

“Mr. Carmichael,” I say, all professional, once we reach the lobby.

“Livvy,” is his only response, half professional and half amused.

I step outside and hurry home.

I bump into him two times more.

Once in the cafeteria. Eating with one of his board members, Malcolm Saint, occasionally lifting his eyes to glance in my direction. I know that he and Malcolm and my brother are good friends, and I wonder if he’s the sort of guy who would talk to his friends about me.

Considering I’m Tahoe’s sister—not likely.

The second time, I’m exiting the revolving doors of the building. I stop and glance up the length of the building as if I could see him on the terrace.

He steps outside the very same instant and catches me staring up, and he smiles a little and just says, “Livvy.”

“Mr. Carmichael.”

God, would the floor open up and eat me now already?

That Friday, when he enters the cafeteria it feels like there’s a shift in energy in the room.

“Carmichael gets my heart pounding when he walks in,” Janine says, giggling over her lunch as we sit together in the west wing of the cafeteria.

Carrie, another intern, glances his way. “He’s all you see, isn’t he? It’s impossible not to notice him.”

I shuffle through the notes in my current research project folder.

“Except Livvy, she’s too busy.” Carrie grins and plays with her straw.

I smile, because I’m not sure what else to do.

But I won’t look at him.

Hurrying to finish my lunch, I head back up to continue assisting Mr. Lincoln organize his next proposal.

We stay late for an extra hour as he reviews some notes he brought back from the executive floor. He’s been studying iBots, an app company based in Los Angeles that’s in Callan’s razor eye for his next takeover.

I’m engrossed with all the details as I type up Lincoln’s corrections when the phone rings. I absently lift the receiver and recite the usual greeting. “Carma Inc. Henry Lincoln’s office.”

“Miss Olivia Roth? This is Ivonne Miller, Mr. Carmichael’s assistant. Mr. Carmichael would like to see you in his office right away.”

I almost choke on my own saliva.

I gulp out a “yes” and then try to plead for the floor to swallow me whole before I need to go upstairs.

It doesn’t.

I tap on Mr. Lincoln’s door. “Mr. Lincoln, Mr. Carmichael asked to see me, but if there’s anything you need, anything at all, I’d be happy to let his assistant know—”

“Callan?” His head jerks away from his computer screen. “Absolutely, go. Nothing here worth declining this . . . unexpected interest. Go right on, missy! Shoo.” He waves me off, laughing when I start to flush because obviously I don’t want to go.

“Livvy.” He stops me at the door. “He’s not as bad as they say he is.”

I gulp. “That doesn’t give me any relief, sir.” I nod, but turn around and head to the elevators.

My knees feel wobbly as I step inside the elevator and look at my reflection.

Is it wrong that I worry about how I look?

I’m wearing the black-and-white uniform. Black skirt, a short white jacket. Black pumps. My hair in a braid down my back. I look as if I fit here, even though every hour of the day—hell, since I got here—I wonder if I do.

Everyone here has a big ego. As if working for Carmichael makes them superior to the rest of humanity. Except I don’t get to feel that way because I’m only here thanks to . . . well, Tahoe. I can’t kid myself about that.

The doors open on the top floor, right below the building terrace. A desk greets me, and a beautiful middle-aged woman with a dark bun stands and calls my name. “Miss Roth?”