The sound of a second male voice makes me turn in my seat. "It's good to see you, Gram."

The man with the deep southern drawl walks over to Mrs. Jenkins and leans over to give her a peck on the cheek. In theory, he looks like Alex with dark hair and dark eyes, but on him, the features look a bit smarmy. I think it's the angle of his mouth, like he's perpetually smirking.

"Dear, this is my other grandson, Beau. Since I was stopping by here at headquarters, I thought I'd invite Beau to attend so I could speak with both of my favorite grandsons."

So, this was Alex's rival. "Oh, hi. I'm Evie Cooper."

He extends his hand and I almost think he's going to kiss my fingers, but instead, he shakes them like I'm a child. "A pleasure."

"What are you doing here?" Mrs. Jenkins asks him.

"Dad told me you were here, so I thought I'd pop in. Where's the big guy?"

"He's making us cocktails." She gestures toward the door leading to the small room, where Alex is. I'm acutely aware that the office smells like coffee, the stuff I spilled.

"Let me go say hey." Beau strides across the room and disappears behind the door.

I glance at Mrs. Jenkins, who chortles. "My grandsons are two years apart."

"How nice," I say blandly.

"Beau's the older of the two, and he's married. His wife is pregnant."

"Very nice." This all seems so odd, this family gathering on a random Thursday evening at the office.

She lets out a sigh. "I wish Alex would settle down like Beau."

"Mmm." I test the pen on the pad of paper. It barely works, and I scrawl a second, then a third, circle. All I want is for this night to be over, and to burrow into my bed with a book

I smile patiently at Mrs. Jenkins, who chortles as she says something about Alex's prior girlfriends. Good lord, how many women has he dated?

"You're far prettier." She looks me up and down, as if she's appraising a piece of furniture. "Even prettier than Rose."

Who's Rose? My curiosity is instantly piqued. "Thanks?" I say, then focus on the legal pad, where I write the date in careful block letters.

I keep an eye on Mrs. Jenkins, though, because I get the feeling she's unpredictable, like a wild horse. She's wearing some sort of gold lamé dress and tall black boots, which seems odd for a business meeting. Or the opera. Her lips are pink, her hair is black, and everything about her sparkles. Not in a bad way, but in a rich-lady-bling kind of way.

This evening grows stranger by the second. I swallow a lump of discomfort at how I'd challenged Alex for extra overtime. Probably a bad move, but something about him made me want to act a little more bold than usual. As if he wanted me to stand up to him. Weird.

And the way we stared at each other before his grandmother walked in made my body feel like it was on fire from the inside out. My heart still hasn't recovered. I scratch my wrist and press my fingers to the underside, where the vein is. As I thought: my blood is racing.

Asking for overtime pay was out of character. But I have the distinct feeling that he thought I should stay and pretend to be his secretary for free, and that irks me. He has all the money in the world and wanted to take advantage of my time. Lately I've been thinking about how some people have so much, while the rest of us spend our precious time catering to the people with everything.

Time I don't have. I could be hanging out with my sister before she goes away to camp, then to college. If losing Mom and Dad taught me anything, it's that life is short and that we should spend as many moments as possible with the people we love. The fact that Sabrina's leaving soon makes me proud of her, and a little despondent that I won't have her hilarious—and sometimes annoying—self in my daily life.

Chewing on a thumbnail, I worry about whether Sabrina is burning our apartment down while making pizza or having friends over and cracking open a case of beer. Panic begins to set in, and I lower my hand, knowing that gnawing on my digit is rude and gross.

"Humid night for June, isn't it?" I ask Mrs. Jenkins. Might as well make small talk.

"A real bitch out there." She says this so cheerfully and casually that I laugh. I like this woman already.

She leans toward me. "I know you're not his secretary. He always hires ugly ones. You don't have to pretend or sneak around. I know all about my grandson and why you're here."

"Why am I here?" I feel a little unsteady, like I'd fallen down some existential rabbit hole.

"Probably to shag him."

I press a hand to my chest. "I am not!"

She snickers. "I wasn't born yesterday, missy. And that's why I'm not going to give him what he wants. At least not yet."

I rub my lips together, both curious and mortified. "Okay . . . why won't you give it to him?"

"Hasn't he told you? No, he probably hasn't. Alex doesn't share details of the family with anyone. He's so private, like his father." She waves her hand dismissively in the air. "His father wants my position as chair, and wants to move Alex into the CEO job. I don't want to give in to them until Alex has demonstrated that he's grown up a bit and that his father is going to make the right choices for this company. They can't get everything they want because they're men and snap their fingers. That goes for my grandson Beau, as well. But he has his faults, too, though. Quite a decision between the two."

She shakes her head and purses her lips, and I'm left wondering about the Jenkins family tree.

Maybe this is how rich people do things. I hadn't grown up with money; my parents were solidly middle class in a small town an hour outside of Atlanta. We were the perfect American family—at least until they died. Then Sabrina and I were plunged into poverty. The struggles of Alex and his family's succession plans are about as foreign to me as flying a spaceship to Mars, and about as appealing.

Mrs. Jenkins pats my knee with her bright-pink nails that are the same color as her mouth. She's got to be at least eighty. This is a woman who has no fucks left to give.

"Now, you seem like a nice girl. A huge improvement on those other tramps he's been with. They want him for his money. You seem a lot nicer." She winks. "If he was serious about a girl like you, about settling down and not going to clubs every night, I might change my mind about him taking everything over."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

Mrs. Jenkins cackles like a Disney villain. It makes me giggle, and we lock eyes, as if we're conspiring against Alex. Wait. Why would I do that? Still, it's hilarious, and part of me is sad that my internship is ending soon because this place has suddenly gotten about a thousand times more interesting.

Alex stalks into the room, holding a mug sporting the company logo on the front.

Beau saunters behind him, a tumbler of amber-colored liquid in his hand. I notice that next to Alex, he's a little taller and thinner, and his clothes are a bit baggy. Unlike Alex, he's not wearing a tie.

"Mind if I stay and listen, DJ?" he says to Alex.

"DJ?" I blurt before I can stop myself.

"Beau's childhood nickname for Alex," Mrs. Jenkins says in a helpful tone.

Alex sets the mug in front of his grandmother then slides behind the desk and clicks a pen. A deep scowl crosses his dark brow, and he looks anything but happy.

"That's fine, Beau. You'll probably be a bit bored, though, with all the business talk."

Beau sits on the leather sofa off to the side and spreads his legs. Stretches his free arm across the back of the sofa. "No worries. I'm only here to catch up. And if it's boring, maybe I'll grace the conversation with some of my brilliance."

I can't help but twitch my mouth into a wince. Beau is somehow fuller of himself than Alex.

Mrs. Jenkins snorts softly. "Come on now, boys."

Beau smirks and Alex's scowl deepens. There's a lot of competitive energy in the room, and it's making me uncomfortable. I clear my throat, wondering what Thanksgiving must be like in the Jenkins family.

Alex and his grandmother begin an instant verbal volley about the company's new initiative for recycling tires. She has some strong views that probably won't win her any awards with the Sierra Club. I'm relieved when I hear Alex arguing that recycling and being a more environmentally friendly company is extremely important to him. At least he's got that going for him.

Beau doesn't interject with words, but he chuckles, sighs, and rattles the ice in his glass whenever Alex speaks. Both Alex and Mrs. Jenkins ignore him, so I try to, as well. At one point he gets up and wanders into the other room, returning with a fresh drink in hand. Our eyes meet and he winks before he sits down.

I inhale sharply and glance at Alex, who caught all of that.

"Beau, if you're going to distract my assistant, I'm going to have to ask you to leave," Alex says in the lowest, most menacing voice I've ever heard.

"Boys," Mrs. Jenkins warns again.

A deeply awkward silence fills the room.

"Back to the recycling program," she says in a brittle tone. "How much is it going to cost us?"

I lower my head and focus on scribbling notes.

For the next hour, I try to follow along, all while observing the two of them interact. It's as if I'm watching one of those wildlife documentaries that Sabrina and I loved as kids, and I have to remind myself to keep pen to paper and not gawk. Eventually, I give up and interrupt to ask if I can record the conversation in order to take notes later.

"Great idea," Mrs. Jenkins says, reaching over to tap me on the knee. "This one's sharp."

"Absolutely not," Alex counters. "I don't want our conversation on someone else's phone."

Okay, then.

"If you're paranoid, it doesn't mean they're not after you," Beau quips. Yikes. No one laughs. But him.

I return to the pen and paper. Alex and his grandmother are quite animated, talking about business one minute and his parents the next. She thinks Alex's father wants to travel and "lounge around," and isn't really interested in running the company. She also muses aloud whether Alex or Beau would be better as CEO. It's like watching a tennis match, the two of them.

"I'm not sure now's the right time to discuss this. Dad would want to be part of that conversation." Alex's tone is flat.

"I, for one, would like to discuss this," Beau chimes in from the sofa. Alex sneers in his direction.

Mrs. Jenkins then pivots to the topic of Alex's sister, who apparently had a baby recently.

"Gabriella is the most precious little thing. I can't help but spoil her. I wish Savannah and Dante didn't live in Italy half the year. I'll spoil your children, too, Alex. You need to give me grandbabies before I die. You're already thirty-two."

Beau beams. "Do y'all want to see photos of the ultrasound?"

"No," Alex says brusquely.

Does he hate babies, or what?

"Later," Mrs. Jenkins says, waving her hand dismissively.

"And Gram, I'm thirty," he says, his jaw clenching. "Can we please concentrate on the new initiative? I know you've got somewhere to be, and I have to fly to New York tomorrow."

Must be nice to travel like he does. I'll bet he flies first-class and stays at those hotels like I've seen on TV, the kind with the whirlpool tub and the stocked minibar and the fluffy robes. The nicest hotel I've stayed at was when I went on a class trip to Orlando in my senior year of high school. It smelled like mold, and we saw two cockroaches in the bathroom.

"Gram, I think at your age, it would be best if you enjoyed the rest of your years in retirement. Why do you want to work? Dad and I have this place under control." Mrs. Jenkins purses her pink lips, and I look over, eager to hear her response. Alex continues. "We've been profitable for ten consecutive quarters. Even during a recession. I don't see why you don't trust Dad with the entire company."

Beau clears his throat.

"You want me to wander off into a pasture—in this case, Palm Beach—and die like an old animal. I'm still vital!" she insists.

"Of course you are, Gram. I don't want you to die in a pasture."

They argue more about family and business and, at one point, politics. Just when I suspect Beau has the good sense to be quiet, I sneak a glance at him only to see that he appears to be watching a video on his phone. What a piece of work, this guy.

I struggle to take notes. Am I supposed to write all this down? My head spins. Alex's sister runs an auto-racing team sponsored by Jenkins Tire, and is having a problem with one of the top drivers. Her husband has a thick Italian accent and he can be a little "dramatic," according to Alex. Mrs. Jenkins hates the governor. Alex's mom grew up poor in Alabama and was an exotic dancer when she went to the University of Georgia.

Wait, what? I look up in alarm. Beau laughs, but I'm not sure if he's laughing at the detail about Alex's mom or the video.

"She was not a stripper, Gram," Alex sighs. "She taught dancing lessons to put herself through college."

I look over to see Mrs. Jenkins sniff haughtily. "That's what she claims. Dreadful nonsense. I've never been convinced."

Yikes on bikes.

They turn back to business, and recycling tires, and I scribble faster. The company has fished two hundred thousand tires out of rivers and streams across America. Now they're discussing his sister's difficult childbirth and how she was in labor for a day and a half. Mrs. Jenkins shares something extremely private about the sister's anatomy. I scowl at the notepad. Some of this is entirely too personal, and I'm embarrassed to be here. The business stuff is easy, and I wish they'd keep it to that.

"You're not mature enough," Mrs. Jenkins declares triumphantly in a non sequitur after a five-minute conversation about wildlife habitat at their Savannah vacation home. "If I saw you settled down with a nice girl like this one here, I'd think otherwise. Be more like your cousin Beau."

Beau simpers at Alex, then me.

I almost choke on my own spit, but Alex glares at me and I stifle it with a cough. Settle down with this guy? Is she high?

"You're getting old, Alex. You've sowed your wild oats." She gestures a manicured, veiny hand in my direction. "Look at how well Beau's done with the sporting goods stores. Since settling down, he's been able to focus on his work."

The cords in his neck tense and he stiffens in his chair. "Please. I'm plenty mature. And yeah, Beau's done great. He's like the manager of a Foot Locker in the mall. He has no idea how to run a company as big as this."

"Hey," Beau protests. "Shut up."

Mrs. Jenkins straightens her spine. "Oh, no? He doesn't? The stores' year-over-year profit is up thirty percent. Can you say the same for this company? And he's doing it while starting a family, while you're faffing about." She turns to me. "All he does is faff. Good God. I'm late to the opera. I'd like to at least catch the second act. We've got a balcony box so I can slip in after it starts. I'm going down to the car. Are you coming with me?"

Mrs. Jenkins stands, and so do Beau and Alex. Alex walks around the desk, and she brushes off some invisible pieces of lint from his shirt. "You're finally learning to tie a proper tie. Thank God for that. You're so handsome. Your aunt wanted to stay in the car to watch that game show she loves. What's the name of it?"

Alex heaves a sigh. "Family Feud."

"That's it. Are you coming with us? Beau, are you joining me?"

"No, I've got to get home to the wifey. In fact, I'm headed out." He walks over and kisses Mrs. Jenkins on the cheek.

She warmly bids him goodbye. Beau smirks at Alex, whose face is like a granite mask, stony and emotionless. There's a weird dynamic between them, but I guess that's what happens when two competitive rich guys are both angling for a position that will make them even richer.

Beau saunters out and Alex exhales while rubbing his forehead. The energy molecules in the room seem to have expanded and relaxed the minute Beau left.

"Alex, how about you? Opera? Bring your girl, I mean, your secretary, along."

Me, at the opera? I try to shoot Alex a panicked glance, but he ignores me.

Alex shakes his head. "I have work to finish. Contrary to what you might think, I don't spend every night in clubs with models."

Oh, thank goodness, because I want to get out of here. The whole vibe is weird, weird, weird.

Mrs. Jenkins chuckles. "Sure, sure. You're a good boy. Perhaps someday you'll make a woman very happy. You'll be a pain in the ass to her, but you'll make her happy." She busses his face, then turns to me, wagging her index finger. "It's always the playboys who fall the hardest, you know. He came so close to falling several years ago, but then called the wedding off right at the last minute; couldn't give up his precious bachelorhood."

With that, she winks at me and flutters her fingers a wave. "Evie, a pleasure."

Alex's jaw is clamped together so tight that the muscles in his cheek are bunched into an angry knot.

I stand up quickly, flustered. The notepad tumbles to the floor and I try to pretend it doesn't exist. "Same. Nice to meet you." My cheeks feel hot. Now I want to know about Alex's near marriage. I hadn't heard that through the office grapevine.

He shoots me a glare over his grandmother's head then propels her out of the office. I scramble to scoop up the notepad. I'm certain I screwed up the note-taking. Sinking into the chair, I review the notes. So many spelling errors. Sloppy handwriting. I'd have done so much better had I been able to use a laptop or record everything on my phone.

Alex strides back in, and it's as if he's taking up all the air in the room. It's also as if he ceased to notice me. He's back behind his desk, stacking papers. The look in his eyes is positively murderous.

"Here are the notes. Unless you want me to type them up." I gently slide the pad onto his desk, not wanting to drop, spill, or ruin anything.

He scans the pad. "Your handwriting's pretty good. I'll email you if I can't decipher anything."

"Thanks. I'll see myself out. I'll make sure to look for that extra cash in my paycheck."

He looks up with those intense eyes and I nearly gasp. I'm not sure if I should be scared or turned on, and I guess I'm a bit of both. Why does the most annoying man on the planet also have to be so handsome?

"How much do you know about me, Evie?"

I raise my eyebrows. Oh lord, this night isn't over. Panic rises in my chest when I realize my cell is downstairs and I haven't been reachable for over an hour. What if Sabrina had an emergency?

"What you discussed with your grandmother is the extent of my knowledge," I reply lamely.

"No office gossip?"

I shrug slowly. "I think it's common knowledge you are a-a man about town."

He screws up his face, as if he doesn't understand.

"An eligible bachelor," I offer.

He presses his lips together in a thin line and nods. "How would you like to know more about the company from an insider's perspective? Learn the ropes?"

I lick my dry lips, but I'm wary of what he's about to propose. "That would be wonderful, but I really don't think I'm cut out to be an assistant. I'm really much better at marketing and proofreading—"

"I was thinking about something different. Very lucrative, and very educational." A feral grin spreads across his face and my jaw drops. A real job?

"Wh-what do you have in mind?"

He chuckles a little. "I need to think about it first. Perhaps run it by my lawyer."

With that, he tilts his head down and begins writing something in a black notebook. He looks up, expectant. He's obviously finished with me, which is okay because being near him makes me feel squirmy inside. "Thank you for your last-minute help tonight. I really appreciate it. I'll make sure your sweater is cleaned and returned to you by tomorrow afternoon."

"Am I free to go?"

He nods and I turn my heel. When my hand is on the doorknob, his voice rumbles through my body and stops me in my tracks. "Wait. I'll call security so you don't have to walk to the parking lot in the dark."

"It's no problem, I take the train." I gesture to where I think the rail system is in relation to his office.

"The train?" He stares at me as if he's unaware that Atlanta has a commuter rail.

"Yes, you know, MARTA? I live pretty close to a stop."

"You don't have a car?"

I shake my head and take a step toward the door.

"Let me call a car to take you home. Please don't be stubborn. You shouldn't be on the train this late by yourself."

This late? What is he, a grandpa? It's only nine thirty at night. "I don't want to be a bother. I take the train all the time."

He shuts his eyes for a few seconds, as if he's trying not to get pissed. Then he stands, grabs the notepad I'd written on, and shoves it into a black leather briefcase. It's not an old-fashioned businessman briefcase; it's more like something you'd see in a men's fashion magazine. A bag that's minimalist and sleek. It's practically a work of art.

Like him.

I pull open the door, hoping to slink out. Being around him is too distracting, too nerve-racking. He's too handsome, and I feel awkward, like a voyeur, now that I've sat in on his private conversation with his grandmother. It's like I got an intimate peek at his life, and that makes me uncomfortable for some reason.

Slowly, I turn my body and take a step through the elevator door. Then I feel someone close behind.

"Evie, wait, I'll drive you home."