Lori

The first meeting…

With an envelope in my hand and a garment bag to change clothes, I hurry inside the high—rise luxury building of Cat Summer. Cat being the pen behind the popular "Cat Does Crime" column as well as a New York Times Best Selling true crime writer that I've not only become part—time research assistant to, but who has turned out to be an amazing friend. Rushing through the luxurious lobby, I pass the security guard, who now knows me by name, and wave. A short elevator ride up and I'm at her door, knocking.

She opens the door in jeans and a T—shirt with her blonde hair piled on top of her head. I hand her the envelope. "That's all the information you needed on that shady PI that was working for the prosecutor in the Milton case you're writing about." I motion to my bag. "I need to change and get to my day job. I'm running late."

"Of course," she says, hurrying back inside to allow me room to enter. "Come in and my God, Lori. I can't believe you finished this research already."

"I knew it had to get done," I call out, hurrying down the shiny hardwood floor and turning right before entering the bathroom to the right of the stairwell.

I quickly toe—off my Keds, peel away my jeans and T—shirt, pull on a black pencil skirt, a black silk blouse, and a black jacket, before loosening my chestnut hair from its clip. I grab a chunk before I brush it and confirm that yes, thanks to my two hours behind the bar of a coffee shop, I indeed smell like the essence of coffee yet again this morning. I brush out my hair, spray it, apply lipstick and then finish off with a few pumps of jasmine perfume that seems to be the only scent that dilutes the coffee smell.

"Was the door for me?" I hear Reese, Cat's hot, hunky husband call out, apparently home rather than at work. But then, he works at home often I've found, because he's working on his second co—written book with Cat.

"It's Lori," Cat calls out.

Once I'm done, I zip my bag back up, and now I'm ready for my research job at a law firm that at least gives me case work that is interesting. I exit to the hallway and Cat calls out, "In the kitchen."

I cut left and enter their stunning open living room wrapped in windows and turn right into the combined kitchen. "This is incredible work," Cat says, from behind the gray granite island. "I want to talk about you doing more for me and about Stanford."

"I would love to do more work for you, but Stanford has to wait."

"You were top of your law class with six months to go when your mother had her stroke. She's recovered. She's gone back to work."

And we have a hundred thousand in bills, living in a crappy apartment our bills forced us into, but I don't say that. It's the one thing I haven't shared with her as we've bonded these past six months over chocolate, popcorn, and long nights working. "I really have to get to work, but I love you. You know I do and I'm excited for how this project will turn out."

"Can you come by tonight?" she asks. "I really want to talk to you. Reese is having merger meetings here at the house, so we'll have to go to the bar, but they have great coffee and cinnamon rolls."

"Reese is merging his company?"

"An old school friend of his moved to Texas to take over his father's massive firm. He's in town and between the two of them, they're plotting world domination. They're meeting alone this morning, and then having advisors here tonight."

"Considering your husband is one of the top criminal attorneys in the country, that's huge. And yes, I'd love to. My mother is working tonight, so I don't have to worry about waking her up."

"Sounds like I'm not the only one trying to get you a life again."

"I'm going to work," I say, picking up her cup of coffee and taking a sip, because nowadays it takes me about three cups in the morning to get to noon. "That's good. You could be the coffee queen behind the counter," I tease, before heading toward the door.

"We're going to talk about the coffee shop tonight!" she calls after me, but I don't reply. She's going to delve into my finances, and I can't go there. I don't want to be her charity case. I might work for her, but we're also friends, and I want to stay friends.

I head out of the apartment and it's not long before I'm in the lobby, preparing for the short three—block walk to my daytime office. I exit to the busy street, and round the corner when I smack right into a hard chest. In any city other than New York City, a hard chest might sound pleasant, but here, hard could be dangerous, dirty, or just plain mean. With the impact, I jostle and drop my garment bag, and while I intend to pick it up before it's trampled by the glut of morning walkers, I do not. Instead, I suck in air with the realization that there is a big hand on the waist of my skirt, and my palms are planted on a chest, on either side of a blue Burberry tie.

"Are you okay?" he asks, probably because I'm leaning into him, like I can't stand, not away from him as he's obviously a stranger.

"Yes," I reply, when I should move, but instead, I blink into intense pale blue eyes framed by slightly wavy, finger—tousled, dark brown hair. "I'm fine," I add, which is an understatement considering he smells like sandalwood, musk, and man, and I'm having the most sexual experience of the past two years of my life, on the street with a stranger. Oh God. What am I doing?

"I'm okay," I say again, shoving away from him, aware now that he's not only tall, broad, and in an expensive suit, he's handsome, cheeks chiseled, eyes not just beautiful but intelligent. Like half the men I went to law school with, but somehow, unlike any of them, which I can't explain in my mind at this moment, so I don't try.

Seeking the safety of my bag, and senses, I squat down to grab it, only to have my morning destiny stranger do the same. He stares at me and I don't move. I just squat there, in the middle of a New York City sidewalk, which could be dangerous, not to mention dirty, but I'm rattled and I don't get rattled. Cat was right. I was top of my law school; back then I wasn't a coffee queen, but rather the queen of taking down men just like him and yet I'm still not moving. Move, Lori! I scream in my head. "I need to get to work," I say, reaching for my bag, but it's too late.

He grabs it and when I begin to stand, he catches my arm to help me to my feet, heat darting up my arm, and Lord help me, across my chest. I actually think my nipples tighten. Okay I don't think, they do tighten. I don't have time to recover before I find myself captured by his probing, compelling stare once more. "Let me buy you a cup of coffee," he says, in what is more a command really than a question. "I did run into you," he adds. "It's the least I can do."

"I'm pretty sure we ran into each other," I say, and he's still holding my bag and me. Why am I letting him touch me? "You don't owe me anything and I have to get to work."

I go for my bag. He holds onto it. "How can I reach you?"

"I run into people at this very corner a few mornings a week," I say, with an awkward laugh that is also not like me at all. "See you tomorrow?" Wind blows my long brown hair into my face, and to my horror, among other, more intimate physical reactions, he brushes it from my face.

"I'm out of town tomorrow," he says, his full, arrogant, sexy lips curving while his blue eyes spark with amusement. "How about tonight?"