I gather most of the pertinent information quickly enough, because, thank you, I’m not completely useless even though everyone in my life seems to think I am. TJ is a partner at our Los Angeles office. Apparently, he’s helping Hudson on a pharmaceutical merger.

  After only a few minutes of them chatting on the phone, I clue in to their pending problem. They’re both concerned about how the regulatory requirements set by the HSR Act will affect the merger and the closing timeline. I know both parties in a merger have to file an HSR review with the Federal Trade Commission and the Department of Justice. This was already done, I gather from their conversation. Unfortunately, that preliminary review proved that further investigation is needed.

  This is bad news for everyone.

  “I’ve never had a clearance process take this long. A few days, sure. A week or two, okay. But it’s been over two months now,” TJ complains. “Why doesn’t the FTC just take it over and get the ball rolling?”

  “Because I think they’re drawing this out so they can put together a task force with a group of FTC and DOJ staff. I mean who knows how far they’ll take it. They could pull in the attorney general, academics, other experts—the sky’s the limit.”

  TJ groans. “You’re kidding me.”

  Hudson’s apparently not one to sit during phone calls. He’s been pacing behind his desk, walking a few short feet and then abruptly turning back, all the while fidgeting with a stress ball. Now, he sets the ball down and starts clicking and un-clicking a pen. “I had it happen to me two years ago. It was hell to slog through, let me just say that. Our client was extremely unhappy about how long the process took, and I had to hear about it daily. Both companies threatened to walk away a few times before closing.”

  Hudson stops behind his desk and leans over on his hands, letting his head hang suspended. I’m in a relationship and also not looking and also this is my boss’s boss or something like that, so this doesn’t count—but say I were any other person in any other setting…let’s just get one thing straight: Hudson is so, so sexy it’s almost unbearable to be in this office alone with him right now.

  First of all: the suit. We need a moment of silence to honor the tailor who poured this man into this particular cut and style. And navy wool…chef’s kiss.

  Beyond that: it’s the body. Formidable height, wide shoulders, tapered waist. Every last thing about him is noteworthy from his tanned hands splayed powerfully against his desk to that thick dark hair—short on the sides, longer up top. It’s just begging to be tousled by a set of hands THAT AREN’T MINE.

  I realize I’m completely and shamelessly ogling him, and I chastise myself.

  “So how do we smooth things over?” TJ asks.

  “We don’t.”

  “We could fail to comply.”

  I balk, and Hudson shoots me a death glare. Oh right, I’m meant to be an invisible fly on the wall.

  “I’m going to assume you were kidding just now.”

  “What?” TJ adds incredulously. “There are certain loopholes. We could take the naive approach, say we were unaware this merger met the HSR Act thresholds and beg for forgiveness afterward. They’ll slap us with civil penalties—”

  “You’re talking about two of the biggest pharmaceutical companies in the country playing dumb about an antitrust act put in place to prevent a market monopoly? Tell me that’s not your bright idea.”

  Hudson is absolutely in the right here. TJ’s suggestion was just plain stupid. There’s no begging for forgiveness from the FTC.

  “Since 2009, the FTC has challenged nine consummated mergers,” I say, to myself, but Hudson still hears it.

  “And I refuse to be number ten.” He turns back to the phone. “Think of something else.”

  Then he picks up the receiver and sets it down, ending the call.

  God, that was…exhilarating.

  My entire body is buzzing.

  I feel like I just had really great sex.

  Hudson looks over and studies me, likely aware of how much I just enjoyed that phone call. I have no doubt there’s an excited sheen in my eyes, rosy color on my cheeks. Oh god, am I breathing hard?

  “What are the current HSR thresholds?” he asks, obviously wanting the answers quickly.

  “They change annually.”

  His dark taunting brow says, Humor me. “What are the current thresholds?”

  “There’s the size-of-traction test that’s met if the value of the equity or assets to be acquired exceeds $90 million.”

  “And…”

  “Size-of-person test, which only applies if the transaction is valued between $90 million and $359.9 million.”

  He nods like he’s proud.

  “However, there are variations to these tests,” I go on. “Depending on whether the parties are engaged in manufacturing. Also, at least one party must be operating in the United States for either test to apply.”

  He nods. “Good, now go.”

  I deflate in my chair.

  Go? We were just getting started!

  “Surely there’s more. We could brainstorm ways to work around the HSR filing delay. Maybe call the FTC or DOJ and—”

  “Get back to your own work now, Scarlett.”

  He’s already refocused his attention on a document on his desk.

  “Will you tell me what you two figure out?”

  “Go.”

  “That’s not fair. You can’t bring me in on this and not let me see it through. That’s painful.”

  He chuckles under his breath and shakes his head, still not looking at me.

  “Should I have Lucy come escort you out? She might not look tough, but she has a little muscle on her.”

  I scowl at him, wishing I could do more.

  “So what was the point of this then?”

  He flips a paper over. “To learn. That’s all. I would have begged to sit in on a phone call with two partners when I was in your position.”

  “So you want me to beg?”

  His head snaps up and he flays me with those brown eyes. “So help me, Scarlett…get out of my office.”

  Even now, even as worked up as he is, I just can’t seem to fear him the way I ought to. Maybe I should see a therapist. Maybe there’s a screw loose in my head. This is Hudson Rhodes! The worst of the worst, and I can’t seem to feel truly threatened by him, only slightly annoyed. It’s like he’s an itch I can’t scratch.

  I gather my things and start to head toward the door. I’m in no rush to get back to that office with Kendra. She hasn’t said a single word to me all day.

  Hudson has gone back to reviewing that document, but he still has a few departing words for me. “You could try to change their opinion about you.”

  I pause, but I don’t turn back toward him. I know he’s referring to my fellow first-year associates. He saw me sitting alone at lunch. What he doesn’t know is that all of them came by my office to pick up Kendra on their way down to the food court, and every last one of them ignored me sitting there at my desk.

  I even looked up and tried. I smiled and waved to see if we couldn’t get something going, but they must all have been under strict orders to pay me no attention because there were no returned smiles or waves, no acknowledgment of any kind.

  “Did you see her cake yesterday?” Ramona asked on the way out.

  “Daddy’s little girl!” Makayla replied with the same bitchy tone.

  My stomach squeezes tight with the painful memory, but I shake myself free of it as quickly as I can. There will always be difficult people. I don’t have to let them hurt me, or worse, stoop to their level.

  “I don’t really care what they think about me.”

  “Right. Well if it becomes a real problem, you could always tell your dad, or HR.”

  I don’t respond right away. Hudson is suggesting I go talk to my dad in a totally different way than Jasper suggested it last night. This feels more like a test, like Hudson wants to know where my head is at, wants to figure out what kind of person I really am. Am I the type to fold or the type to fight?

  “No,” I finally say with tenacious resolve, turning to look back at him.

  He’s the embodiment of power, standing there behind his desk with the cityscape framed at his back. He’s the fiercest enemy you could ever meet. I hope I seem even a quarter as capable as he does. Maybe I should ask where he gets his suits, if there’s a lady’s version of that silver watch on his wrist. Maybe I could ask him to teach me how to furrow my eyebrows in that subtle way that’s both handsome and terrifying.

  “Well that leaves your third and final option,” he says with resolute determination. “The one I would choose myself. You can ignore them and get to work. You can define yourself on your own terms rather than by the opinions of others. Outwork them all, Scarlett.”

  I lift my chin and leave his office.

  Don’t worry. I will.

  It’s after 8:00 p.m. by the time I leave. Kendra left at 6:45 to get drinks with Ramona and Makayla. I wasn’t invited, obviously, so I stayed behind and I worked. I had to cancel my usual post-dinner workout with my kickboxing trainer, and I suppose I could drag myself down to my apartment’s state-of-the-art gym after I scrounge together something to eat, but I just don’t have it in me today.

  When I get home, I push open my apartment door with an armful of packages I just picked up from the mail room downstairs. Don’t ask me what any of it is. Late at night, I have no self-control. When those targeted ads reveal to me some revolutionary water bottle or a never-before-invented bra, I’m such a sucker.

  My cat Moira (aka Moira Rose) sits on the windowsill in the living room with her long white tail dangling off the edge, waving back and forth with fluid, lazy motions. She makes no move to greet me, not that I expect her to. On any given day, I’m barely allowed within a few feet of her. If she had it her way, I wouldn’t enter the apartment at all. I’d shove a can of extremely expensive, putrid-smelling cat food through a slot in the door and leave her the hell alone.

  My dad gave her to me as a law school graduation present. “She’s a British Shorthair. I read all about the breed. They’re friendly and smart, supposed to make great family pets.”

  I’m not sure if he read the wrong Wikipedia page or if my British Shorthair is just defective, but if I had to list adjectives to describe Moira, “family friendly” wouldn’t make the cut. She’s sassy, arrogant, and mean. Smart, yes—too smart for her own good. More than once, she’s figured out how to slide the deadbolt on the front door so I couldn’t get into my apartment until the building’s super could come down and disassemble my lock.

  She’s the queen of this dwelling, and she’d like me to never forget it.

  “Did you miss me today?” I ask cheekily.

  I swear she rolls her eyes. Her bored expression tells me she was hoping I was flattened by a trash truck on my way home, but alas, since I’m here, I might as well feed her.

  I set down my packages, wincing when I see the one from La Perla. I remember the lacy black lingerie set I ordered last week on a whim. Now, in the light of day, it just seems cheesy as hell. Who am I going to wear that for? Jasper?

  He’d choke.

  We don’t do any of that. I mean, I don’t think he’s against it or anything, but he’s never been open in that way. He’s a traditional guy when it comes to most things. Even discussing sex makes him blush, like it’s some weird shameful thing. The lingerie will get sent back or, more likely, because I have zero extra time for running errands at the moment, stuffed into the farthest recesses of my panty drawer.

  Moira jumps off her window perch and screeches like, Open your crap on your own time. I’m hungry. Inside the cupboard beside my refrigerator, I grab her food—all seventy-five different things I have to mix together twice a day to prolong her crabby little life according to the fancy vet I take her to.

  “You know some cats live in the streets and eat garbage.”

  She’s not listening; she’s licking her butt.

  Once I set down her bowl on the hardwood, she nudges it over to where she prefers it: smack dab in the center of the kitchen runner I splurged on when I moved into my apartment a few months back.

  “No, please, try to get as much of that smelly fish ground down into the rug. Thank you.”

  I sigh and look to the mountain of packages and junk mail on the counter. Then I decide to forgo opening any of it in lieu of opening the freezer. Dinner tonight will be the finest Ben & Jerry’s ice cream purchased from the finest dingy corner store down the block. I crack the lid to find I have less than half a pint left, which is disappointing, but I’m certainly not hauling my ass back out into the world to get more, and ordering it on a delivery app is out of the question. With all their weird fees and tips, another pint would cost more than that ridiculously priced La Perla set.

  I work my bra off through the sleeve of my shirt and grab my laptop and phone from my work bag before finding the section of the couch that allows me to burrow deepest between the center cushions. Once my fuzzy throw blanket is covering my legs and my favorite candle is lit—oh baby, it’s on. Short of nuclear war, I will not be getting up from this spot for the remainder of the night.

  I’m a little reluctant to check my phone. I’ve been ignoring Jasper’s text messages all day. We don’t talk all that often during the week; we’re both busy. He’s in and out of court, and I never know when I’ll be able to reach him. I don’t want to accidentally call him if he’s in the middle of something important, so we usually reserve communication for the end of the day, or really, every other day. Or on the weekends, actually. My friends from law school think our entire setup is weird, but it’s not weird. We’re adults. We don’t need to send each other cutesy text messages and memes every five seconds.

  I think their argument is that we don’t spend enough time together in general. When I graduated from Columbia and moved back to Chicago, everyone expected me to move in with Jasper, but I was not interested in that at all. I made some excuse like, “Oh ha ha, not until there’s a ring!”

  But in truth, I just…am in no rush to shack up with him. I like my mean cat and my girly scented candles and my all-white bedding. Why would I want to have to accommodate a stinky man?

  Not that Jasper is stinky. Just…I don’t want to live with him yet.

  Hudson suddenly comes to mind, completely unbidden. The thought of him here in my apartment. His scent masking my floral candle. His suit jacket slung over a dining room chair.

  My tummy flips and I refocus my attention on excavating a morsel of fudge from the bottom of my ice cream pint like I’m a highly trained archaeologist. Once it’s melting on my tongue, I check my phone. I have 29 unread text messages. Most are from my group text with my law school friends, a group of four girls I lived with in the city last year. Since graduation, we’ve all moved on to our big girl jobs and big girl lives, though not everyone has started work yet. Big law firms have varying start dates through September and into October. Two of my friends don’t start in their positions for another two weeks, so they’re living it up in Mexico, happily spending their advances at an all-inclusive resort. They’ve sent photos of the beach and the sunset, and I don’t want to rain on their parade with details of my last two days, so I respond to their lives instead, asking about the resort and demanding a running tally of their poolside piña coladas.

  Then I reluctantly open the texts from Jasper that I’ve been ignoring all day.

  Jasper: Have things cooled off at all at the office? If not…talk to your dad. You shouldn’t have to work in a hostile environment.

  * * *

  Jasper: I just called Barrett to talk to him about it, but he didn’t answer.

  Then, a few hours later:

  Jasper: My parents want to have us over for dinner on Friday.

  Oh great. The last thing I want to do after my first week of work is spend my Friday night with Jasper’s parents. Don’t get me wrong, the Beringers are nice, but they’re completely overbearing. Their house is extremely formal, and their idea of a casual dinner at home includes a hired chef and multiple uniformed staff. It’s all for show. They’re no more well off than my own family and yet you’d think they were British aristocracy or something with the way they flaunt their fancy lifestyle.

  A casual dinner at my house consists of my mom making appetizers while my dad whips something up on the grill. He loves making steak or hamburgers, and sometimes he’ll grill salmon—my favorite. Barrett and Nyles usually volunteer for dessert duty, and when the weather’s nice, we eat outside on the back patio, barefoot and happy with a few uncorked bottles of wine.

  I obviously can’t refuse Jasper, though. We don’t see his parents all that often, and I don’t want to make it difficult for him.

  Scarlett: Friday sounds good.

  Then I toss my phone aside and open my laptop. I check my email first to confirm if anything has come in from work since I left the office. There’s a new meeting request from Sophie that I add to my calendar, but otherwise, I’m still caught up with everything I wanted to complete today.

  With nothing else to do and because I’ve been desperately wanting to do it since I left his office this afternoon, I spend the rest of my night educating myself on Hudson’s pharmaceutical merger. I happened to know the answers to his questions today, but if he invites me in on another phone call tomorrow, I want to be sure I know my stuff.

  Chapter Eight

  Scarlett

  I think, though I can’t be certain, that Kendra has shifted my desk so it’s pressed farther into the corner of the office. I don’t remember hitting my head on this plant yesterday, but now every time I swivel in my chair, the fronds tickle my hair.