Breaking All Her Rules

Doug held his hand up. “It’s not perception when it’s a client, Grace. It’s fact. If a client is alienated, all that matters is their truth.”

Grace felt her eyes go wide completely of their own accord. She worked to keep the rest of her face frozen, her hands clasped firmly in her lap. “Of course,” she said, her lips barely moving.

“And since you were late meeting the client who was in your office...”

Because of the other client. And the taxi debacle.

Grace bit the inside of her cheek.

“I have moved her to another consultant. Consider this a warning. I like you, Grace.” Grace snorted internally. As if liking had anything to do with anything in this office. She hated Doug. If her keeping the job was about liking him, she’d have lit his desk on fire and said adios sometime back when he’d had her play the elf at the company Christmas party for Secret Santa because she was “so cute and petite.”

He continued. “I’d hate to let you go. You’re a sweet girl.”

She was going to blow a blood vessel in her eye. But she wouldn’t say anything. She couldn’t. The inaction all but reached in and paralyzed her, freezing her. Because if she opened her mouth she could lose this job, this great job she’d worked so hard at. It could be a mistake. A failure. And she couldn’t afford either.

“Thank you, Doug,” she said, her words coming out quiet, measured. If only because she was choking on her rage. She stood. “I guess I better go organize a new client. Since I probably have two less—” she forced out the most tortured laugh in the history of mankind “—than I did before I walked in here.”

“Great job, Grace. Use this to get motivated.”

“Ha! Yes. Yeah.” She gave him a thumbs-up, since raising her preferred fingers in his direction would likely be grounds for termination. “Go Team Grace! Population me. I’m gonna...my office.” She pointed broadly and went back out into the hallway.

What good was perfection doing her now? Getting reamed by her boss for daring to stand up to some self-important doorknob was not...it was not the way things were supposed to go. She’d worked too hard. Had done her best to please everyone and...and...ugh.

Her heart was thundering hard, and she reached into her purse, fumbling for her phone, to check her email. Except then she pulled it out and there were two hundred unread messages and none of them were hers.

She needed a paper bag to breathe into, stat.

No, more than that, she needed her office. And her damn phone.

She opened the door and shut it, then threw ice bitch out the window and did a full-flail scurry to her desk, jiggling her mouse at high speed to wake her computer up before typing her log-in as quickly as possible.

She clicked into her mail client and read the two—only two—emails she’d gotten since she’d last checked, fired off two speedy replies and then breathed a sigh of relief when it was back at zero.

And now, she needed to get her phone back.

She typed in the web address she used with her tracking app and clicked on Grace’s iPhone. The little circle went around for a while before loading a map. And there it was. She zoomed in, and frowned.

It looked like her phone was at the Mandarin Oriental. Which was several shades fancier than she’d given the man in the Stetson credit for.

But whatever, if her phone was there, she was going to be there, too. She had no more appointments, thanks to Doug.

So she was on a mission to retrieve her phone.

Chapter Three

Zack stepped out of the shower and ran a towel over his chest, then down lower, before wrapping it around his hips and walking out into the living area of the hotel room.

He thought it was a little bit stupid that the studio was putting him up in a place like this, considering he was trying to raise money for a charity. But if everything went well, the proceeds would go above and beyond his hotel-room bill.

“The bar tab is another story,” he said out loud.

No. He didn’t drink like that anymore. Rock bottom had been a few years back.

Still, he eyed the minibar with no small amount of interest. Then his thoughts shot back to his shared cab ride.

Grace Song.

Hell, he hadn’t flirted like that in more than a decade. It had been...well, it had been great. She’d been so damn pretty. So uptight. And he’d wanted to uncoil all that glossy black hair and see just how long it was. How it would feel sifting through his fingers.

That was a Grade-A fantasy considering he’d been too burned out to have one in the past six years. Mainly he’d just let porn supply the visual while his right hand took it from there.

Which was kind of empty and hollow, really. But hey, he had to get off sometimes, and he genuinely lacked the energy to do it another way.

Though tonight, he could easily imagine which image he might...

He cleared his throat. Slightly creepy. That was slightly creepy. But if no one knew...

He pressed his hand against the front of his towel, against his hardening member. Who the hell cared if it was creepy?

His phone rang, the sharp sound making him jump as pulled his hand away from his dick like a guilty thirteen-year-old.

He walked over the phone and swore. If it was Marsha again he was going to growl at her. Because he’d left his phone sitting in the other room on the bed for a reason. He didn’t want to deal with people until he absolutely had to.

He didn’t want to go “take in a show” or have sushi, or get a manicure or whatever the hell else Marsha might think he needed to do to fully enjoy his time in New York. He would deal with that crap when he had to. Tonight, all he wanted to do was stay in his room, order dinner in and jack off. It didn’t seem like a major ask.

He picked up the handset.

“Hello,” he said, growling already.

“Yes, Mr. Camden. There’s a visitor here for you. Grace Song. She’d like permission to come up.”

It was as if all of his penis’s hopes and dreams had come true.

Down, boy, she’s not here for that.

Well, why the hell else would she be here? Unless she was looking for Fox in the City Part Deux after she’d discovered his identity.

Maybe she’d used Google to find him. Though, he had no idea why she would. He was some random guy she’d shared a cab with, who’d done a rather terrible sketch on a card for her.

“Yeah,” Zack said. “Send her up.” He paused.

He looked down at where his hand still gripped the towel. Well, that would have to be taken care of.

He dropped it and left a pool of snow-white terry cloth on the floor before going back into his bedroom and opening up his suitcase.

He ought to get his suit out. If it was wrinkled Marsha would probably have his ass on a platter. Apparently “hobo chic” as she had once called it, was not a thing.

He tugged out a pair of jeans and shrugged them on, pulling them up and stuffing all relevant parts down in there carefully before doing the zipper with even more care. He did not need a zipper incident.