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I note down Gerald’s name and then, before she can tell me who’s next to call, I ask, “Who do I know in Boston commercial real estate?”

It’s a rhetorical question. I just need to think about it for a minute. Patti, as my assistant, tries to write down as much as possible that comes out of my brain. At first she did it because she said her memory wasn’t what mine was, and she couldn’t keep up with all the interconnections, but actually it’s been pretty helpful. She’s basically built a database of everyone I know and everything I know about them. A database that’s only in hard copy and is in a safe at the end of the day.

“Let me check,” she says, as I think about who might be useful in helping me to help Avril. Maybe it would just be easier if I agree to help her with her Boston hotel and then we could all move on with our lives.

Except my business isn’t like that. Memories are long. It’s one of the reasons why I never mix business with pleasure. If I work with you, your name might pop up a month from now or a decade from now as someone I worked with. And I happen to know that no one ever has anything but nice things to say about me. I’ve made sure of it. But with someone I’ve slept with? It makes my crystal-clear waters very muddy. Which is why I never do it.

But Avril is determined to have me help her, and in so many ways, I want to help her. Part of me thinks the water is muddy now anyway. What have I got to lose? And maybe I wouldn’t know anyone who might be able to help.

I glance up from my notepaper to Patti, who’s giving me a quizzical look. “You want me to check the database?”

“Can you get someone to check out this address?” I scribble down the name of the building in Boston that Avril’s interested in.

“Sure,” Patti says, and I appreciate she doesn’t ask any questions.

“I want to know who owns it and anything else that might be relevant.” I’m being deliberately vague. It’s not because I don’t trust my team—I absolutely do. It’s more because I’m not sure what I want to know at this point. I’m not even sure I should have asked Patti to get the address checked out.

Avril Huntington is making me unsure of everything.

SIXTEEN

Avril

Is it weird that I’ve been missing Ben this evening? I already knew that we weren’t going to see each other tonight, that’s why I have to stay next weekend, but I just didn’t expect to wish he were here.

Am I crazy?

But after this week is up and he’s helped me with the Boston hotel, maybe…we could go to dinner or something?

No, he probably has a rule about that too. Things have got to stay completely professional. Forever. Which is absolutely fine. Not a problem.

It’s eleven when I hear Ben come back.

I should be in bed. There’s no reason for me to be up, on the sofa reading my Kindle. No reason at all, except that I suspect Ben might be in a tux tonight and…well, I’m a woman. And human. Ben in a tux is just too big a temptation to resist.

“Hey,” I say as he walks into the living area. He’s very definitely wearing a tux. And it looks…incredible on him. The suit fits him like a glove, framing his broad shoulders perfectly, making him look like James Bond but hotter. His bowtie is untied and hangs either side of his shirt collar, the top button undone. But he looks tired. “You okay?”

He sighs. “I didn’t expect you to be up.”

I hold up my Kindle. “I’m at a crucial moment in the book. I can’t put it down.”

He raises his eyebrows slightly, like he’s trying to be interested, but he can’t manage it.

“Can I get you some food? A glass of water? Wine?” Even to my own ears, I sound pathetic. I’m so desperate for a few moments with him that I’m happy to become his unpaid maid for a little while.

He forces a smile. “Thanks. I just need a shower and…” He glances over to the kitchen. “I might get some food after.”

I give him a small smile, and he heads into the bedroom.

I leap to my feet and head to the kitchen. The man likes an omelet, right? And I’m just being a good roommate by making him a snack. I’m up and awake. It’s not like it’s a big deal.

His kitchen is easy to navigate, and helpfully, I’ve watched him make an omelet before, so I find everything easily. As I work, twinges of memories come back from the first night I was in this kitchen. I’d been so frustrated at Ben’s focus on the food over me, I’d almost left. I thought at one point that he might have some kind of erectile dysfunction that he didn’t want discovered and making eggs was a way of diverting my attention away from the sex we were supposed to be having.

But I needn’t have worried. Ben very definitely doesn’t have erectile dysfunction. The omelet had been foreplay. Or if not foreplay, Ben’s way of teasing me, of making me wait.

Or maybe the guy had just been hungry.

The omelet doesn’t take long. I take a look in the fridge to see if there’s anything I can add—a salad or some asparagus or something. But I don’t want to look like I’ve gone to too much effort. He might think I’ve turned into some kind of crazy trad wife or something.