It’s how I live. Unfussy, with no baubles and knick-knacks. I prefer function and form, with everything having a reason for being here, along with a place where it stays. Which is why I strip by the hamper before putting away my heels in their slot in my closet.

  Once nude, I head for the shower. I might have washed, sort of, at Daniel’s place, but I need a good scrub after lying with the dogs all day, so I take my time, using a loofah and some body wash to really get the rest of last night’s drunk sweat funk and the dog hair off my body.

  Actually, it’s a little disgusting watching my drain for a few minutes as the various colored hairs pile up. Surely, those white ones are Miss Havisham’s and not mine? But just in case, I look up, attacking my face with a microfiber towel to get the old makeup and dog spit off, scrubbing hard until it feels like I’ve given myself a total exfoliation. I then rinse in lava-temperature water before stepping out.

  Once dry and dressed in my own jeans and a soft, cozy cashmere sweater from my organized closet, I wash Daniel’s clothes. He was so nice to lend me one of his T-shirts, and I have to admit the only thing keeping me from sniffing it like a weirdo is that I know it smells like dogs, not him.

  I consider sitting down on the couch and watching reruns of Friends that I’ve already seen dozens of times, but I’m too mentally amped up, even if my body feels drained.

  Last night was such a mess.

  Once upon a time, I would’ve thrived in that sort of thing, taking advantage of the unexpected drunkenness to dance the night away. I had a strong wild and crazy streak, and Elle and I got up to all sorts of ridiculous antics. Never anything dangerous or stupid, but definitely fun.

  But I left that behind ages ago. Honestly, I’m pretty boring these days. Without Elle to add a little spice to my life, I tend to work and go home, and that’s it. I deleted the dating apps off my phone after a particularly horrible experience with one guy, where he tried to impress me with his beamer, both his car and his dick.

  On the first date. In the first fifteen minutes.

  Neither were impressive, despite his reassurances that both offered a smooth ride. So, most nights, I sit here unless I’m hanging out with Ace and Harper.

  But tonight . . . I can’t.

  With a sigh, I order another Uber to take me back to work to get my car. I’m about to get in when Mac, our main onsite security guard, comes screeching to a stop next to me in his all-terrain golf cart.

  “Hey, Tiffany! Fancy seeing you here on a Saturday night,” he says jovially. I think he might be thrilled to have some action, even if it’s just me getting my car.

  Mac is a retired police officer whose wife told him to get out of her kitchen and leave her be, which is how he ended up at Fox Industries.

  I support his wife because, judging by Mac’s waistline, she’s been feeding him just fine and doesn’t need his input on recipes she’s been making for decades. That and Mac’s a genuinely good guy.

  “Hi, Mac! I took the team out for drinks last night—don’t ask—and so I’m coming back to get my car for the weekend,” I explain. “Safety first and all.”

  He grins when I hold my palm up in warning about not asking, and I know it’s on the tip of his tongue to ask anyway. But he refrains with a chuckle.

  “All right, I won’t ask. I’ll find out on Monday, anyway.”

  He gives me a sly look, and I know he’s right. Mac and I are part of the background of Fox, the people who keep things moving and running smoothly but are largely invisible.

  That means we see a lot, do a lot, and know a lot more than people give us credit for. I have no doubt that Mac has casual ‘drive-by’ friendly chats with people all over the building when he sees them and has a library of information about everyone and everything.

  But I lift a wry brow, miming zipping my lips and throwing away the key. He’s not getting anything out of me today.

  “Humph,” he says with a disappointed snort. But he lets it go, musing, “Only people I usually see here on Saturday night are the scuds like me and the Bossman.”

  Bossman? Does he mean Daniel? He wouldn’t be here on a Saturday night. He’s probably working out or on a date, or at least working from home. But I glance up to the fifth floor anyway, and sure enough, I can barely see it on the backside of the building, but the corner office light is on.

  Mac keeps talking, but I can’t put that light out of my mind. I might as well get this embarrassment over with and go apologize for this morning.

  And last night.

  And his car. I hope the detailer was able to get it clean.

  “Hey, Mac, I need to go inside,” I tell him. “I think I left my phone charger in my desk, and it’s one of those weird ones that needs a special plug. If I don’t get it plugged in soon, I’m going to be on a dead battery by the time I get home.”

  Mac rolls his eyes, probably holding back a comment about my generation and our cell phone addictions, and waves me on. “Sure thing, Miss Tiffany. You have a good weekend.” He dismisses me, but then he thinks better of it. “No peeling out of the lot when you leave, either. I ain’t seen tire marks on my asphalt in a while, and I’m not gonna see it tonight.”

  The warning is mostly an order and a statement of fact I’d best remember.

  “Of course, Mac. You know that wasn’t me,” I say with complete innocence. That’s the truth. It was Elle. I was only sitting in the passenger seat while she did it.

  He rolls his eyes and points a gnarled finger at me, his face harder than normal. “We had a saying in the department, ‘guilt by association’. If you’re there when the crime occurs, and ain’t doing a thing to stop it, you’re equally guilty.”

  I don’t argue because he’s spot-on. I never stopped Elle. Hell, usually, I was cheering her on.

  “You won’t even hear Cammie start up. And you definitely won’t hear any peeling out.”

  “Mmhmm.” With that decided, he pulls away in the golf cart, going a bit too fast himself, but the top speed of that cart is little more than a fast jog. He’s not leaving any streaks anytime soon.

  With all my procrastination options exhausted, I fortify myself and head inside. The elevator ride upstairs has never seemed so short or so deathly quiet.

  Chapter 5

  Daniel

  The office is nearly silent all around me. I can hear the soft whir of the air conditioning system, set on eco mode right now since the building’s supposed to be empty. Dimly, on the far side of the floor, I can hear the quiet beep of the security panel by the elevator, measuring off the minutes like a guardian metronome.

  Closer to me, I can hear the whir of my computer, the small fans making sure the laptop continues to process information at speeds faster than I can type.

  I don’t even have music playing, letting my mind stay focused. The quiet and lack of outside stimulation or interruptions allow me to get more done in a few hours than I can in a few days of the Monday to Friday grind. Especially with no meetings, no phone calls, and no contracts needing my signature. I can actually . . . work.

  That it’s Saturday night doesn’t matter.

  It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do. I don’t have a social life, and my daughter and grandchild live on another continent.

  So where else would I be on a Saturday night?

  A date? Rarely. It’s not for me. At home? I’d only be working there, and with more distractions since I’d be tempted to turn on a game or pull up a movie.

  This is basically where I am and what I do all the time. Fox Industries is the major portion of my life.

  People think being the boss means living in the lap of luxury and taking a day off anytime you want. But the last time I went on a vacation was a combo trip to London to see Elle, Colton, and Neve and to check in on our Fox Industries location there.

  Does it count as a vacation if I was discussing business even while having a tea party?

  Oh, I’m sure there are those who are able to leave it all behind for a bit and truly take a break, but I’m not one of those.

  Which is, again, why I’m forty-seven pages into a proposal on a potential corporate takeover we’re considering on a Saturday night. It’s dry data, with lots of facts and figures for my brain to toss and turn over for examination. The analysis is my favorite part of the process, the phase where I’m on the edge of a decision, metaphorically rocking back and forth as I choose whether to leap or step away.

  Morally, it’s a good pickup. I’m not the kind of person who likes to be a ‘vulture capitalist’, taking over companies only to strip them of the good parts and screw the rest. This potential takeover company would be a full subsidiary, creating a synergistic market advantage for multiple Fox companies.

  On the other hand, if that synergy doesn’t happen, we’re going to be bogged down with extra ‘friction’ in our corporate chain. Not exactly disastrous. Every company over a certain size has friction. But it would certainly limit our options in terms of future expansion for the foreseeable future.

  Either choice is a gamble, one for a potential win or a potential loss.

  And the final choice ultimately rests on my shoulders. I might not wear a crown, but heavy is the head that bears the ultimate responsibility for a multi-billion-dollar corporation.

  This should be an easy call based on the numbers, but something in my gut is hesitant to pull the trigger, so I give the chart in front of me another look, trying to figure it out.

  Distantly, I hear the elevator ding, but I ignore it, assuming it’s Mac doing security rounds. He doesn’t come in often, but sometimes when he sees my light on, he’ll come by to talk, more than likely because he’ll then help himself to a coffee from the executive lounge down the hallway. A small price to pay for a good guard who does his job well.

  There’s a polite knock on my door, so quiet that the drumming of my fingers on the desk almost drowns it out. “Come in,” I say, not bothering to look up. “Everything okay, Mac?”

  A throat clears, one that is definitely not Mac’s robust voice. It’s one hundred percent female.

  “Uh . . . Daniel? Mr. Stryker? Uh . . . sir?”

  That gets my attention, and my eyes snap up to find Tiffany standing in my doorway. She’s wearing dark denim jeans that hug her hips, an ivory sweater that looks downright pet-able, and a shy uncertainty in her dark eyes. I realize that it’s a look I’m not used to seeing on her.

  With Elle, Tiffany was always the responsible one with a fair dose of ballsy confidence to get them out of any tough spots. Not a stick in the mud, but definitely a solid foundation to keep Elle from spinning off too hard.

  Since Elle left, I don’t guess I’ve paid much attention to Tiffany at the office, but she’s been a constant when I come in each day—always professional, always doing whatever needs done.

  “Hi, Tiffany,” I say, aiming for casual in the hopes that we can ignore the awkwardness of this morning. Hell, of the whole evening. “Please, call me Daniel. Are you feeling better?”

  A faint blush colors her cheeks, and her lashes drop down as she closes her eyes. I swear she’s muttering a prayer that the floor will open up and swallow her whole. I get it, I’m a little embarrassed as well at the memories of what happened. So perhaps the best idea is to just play it off. We all have embarrassing stories we’d like to forget, and a joke is often the easiest way to do that.

  “Is that a yes or a no?” I ask with a grin.

  She opens one eye halfway, sees me, and then sighs. “Damn, I was hoping the whole thing was a bad dream, but I guess not.”

  Her smile is hesitant. She must really, really be worried.

  “It’s fine,” I say.

  At the same time, her words layer over mine as she apologizes, “I’m sorry.”

  We both freeze, any further words lost as we look at each other.

  Slowly, a smile lifts my lips, and in return, she smiles too.

  “I did want to apologize,” she starts again.

  I stay quiet, sensing that she needs this to save face a bit, though I’m not judging her for getting carried away. I’m simply glad that she was smart enough to do the right thing about it.

  “I called you late on a Friday night, bothering you, and then . . . ugh, your car, your bathroom.” She swallows thickly. “This morning.”

  I get up and come around my desk, striding purposefully toward her. “No apology needed. And I’m sorry if I embarrassed you or made you feel uncomfortable in any way. I mean, I get it. I’m your boss but Elle’s dad, too. It was awkward at times. I’m sorry.”

  I bend down, forcing her to meet my eyes. “Especially after you tried to have my car detailed.”

  “Ricky told you?” she asks, and I nod. “I’ll pay for it.”

  “Forget it. Seriously, it’s cleaner than it’s been in ages. Inside and out. It needed it long before last night.”

  That’s not true. I get it cleaned routinely, but it was nice of her to try and go that extra mile. And I’m carefully side-stepping any conversation about this morning. Except . . . “Did you get to wherever you were rushing to?”

  She relaxes instantly, becoming softer and less proper. More real. I like it infinitely better than the stiff, nervous version of her.

  “Oh, I did! Only a few minutes late, but everyone was understanding,” she explains, though I still have no idea where she went or what she was doing.

  Why do I suddenly care? It’s not like she has to check in with me or isn’t allowed to have interests outside of Fox Industries. Truth is, I have no idea what she does on Saturdays, have never given it a thought, but I find myself curious about what sent her from lazy hangover to instant panic in a single heartbeat.

  “Everyone?”

  “Long story . . . with an even longer backstory,” Tiffany says airily, waving her hand. “Happy ending, though.”

  I look at her sharply, and she recoils. “No! Not like that, not that kind of happy ending.” Then she mutters, shaking her head as she stares at the ceiling. “Why, Tiffany? You could’ve said it all worked out fine, and then it would’ve been okay. But nooo—”

  “Why don’t you fill me in? Maybe over dinner? I’ve been here all afternoon and could use a step away from number crunching for this damn contract.”

  I gesture toward my desk, strewn with several stacks of paper. Tiffany’s eyes widen in surprise, and I realize that what I just said sounds dangerously like asking my daughter’s best friend out on a date.

  And also, an underling at my office. Neither is particularly acceptable behavior.

  But . . .

  “Not anything questionable. Just two people eating a meal. We can go to Frankie’s.” I only eat at Frankie’s with Elle, a tradition we began when she was a small girl. So taking Tiffany there makes it seem fatherly somehow. Definitely more . . . appropriate.

  “Uhm, okay?” she answers, not sounding sure at all. But I am acutely curious about what she did this morning. And about a thousand other things, things that the inner voices in my head are whispering about but I dare not let join my active thoughts.

  They’re too dangerous otherwise.

  Thirty minutes later, Tiffany and I are sitting at the outdoor picnic tables at Frankie’s Burger Hut, waiting for our food. It’s totally unpretentious, the sort of place where you can expect to get good food at good prices. But only if you’re willing to walk up to the window in the side of the brick building that looks more abandoned than inhabited, with a faded-out painting of a fox and some fresh graffiti, which we did.

  I ordered my Stryker special, a black bean burger lettuce wrap, and somehow expected Tiffany to order something similar to Elle’s usual, a gut-busting mess of a burger. But she surprised me again when she also ordered a black bean lettuce wrap. I ordered a beer to drink, but Tiffany had crinkled her cute little nose and said she’d stick with water.

  And now we wait for Frankie to call our number.

  I fold my hands on the table. “So . . . this morning?”

  “Okay,” Tiffany says, pursing her lips for a second as she forms her thoughts. “Okay. You know my brother Ace, right?”

  “Know of him,” I admit. “At least I used to. Elle used to talk about him sometimes.”

  “Hopefully, it wasn’t too bad. He was all kinds of messed up for a little bit. Rightfully so,” Tiffany says honestly, “but in the past few years, he got his act together. And he met a woman, which shocked the hell out of me, but she’s been so good for him.”

  I nod, not knowing the feeling but glad for him.

  “Well, the way Ace got his stuff together was with dogs,” Tiffany explains. “He’s got his own place, The Bone Zone. It’s a doggie daycare, but he also does grooming, walking, all that stuff. But he wanted to take Harper somewhere special this weekend, and who am I to deny him a chance at romancing his girl?”

  I grin at her phrasing. “I’m sure you wouldn’t dream of telling him no.”

  Tiffany snaps her fingers. “Exactly! Anyway, trying to be a good sister, I agreed to cover for him today. Ace made sure there wasn’t anything crazy on the books, no cuts or pedicures—”

  “Wait. Dogs get pedicures?” I ask, shocked. “Uhm, with nail polish and everything?”

  “Actually, they get pawdicures, and yes, sometimes with polish. But not today,” Tiffany says with a laugh. “I just had daycare, a little bit of playing, stuff like that. But this morning, I’d promised Ace, and I knew the doggos were there waiting for me, so I had to go, even if I felt like something they’d turn their nose up at. Side note, what bubble bath was that? I had dogs licking my legs all day. I’m not sure if I want to never use it again or if it just became my new favorite.”

  I laugh aloud at her teasing. “It’s almond honey, so maybe it was the honey attracting the dogs?” She grins in answer. “It sounds like you were being very responsible. I’m sure it’s a big deal for Ace to trust you that way.”

  Tiffany rolls her eyes, sighing happily. “Yeah, real responsible and mature, getting dragged across the floor by an undersized plow horse pretending to be a bluetick hound. Oh, then there was Daisy. She . . . sings.”