 
# ZERO DAY  
EXPLOIT

COLE McCADE

BAYOU'S END #1.5
Copyright © 2015 by Cole McCade

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher / author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author at the address below.

Cole McCade / Xen Sanders

blackmagic@blackmagicblues.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

Louis Vuitton, Orion, Coke / Coca-Cola, Bic, Facebook, Mini Cooper, Fringe, Stargate Universe, Jolly Green Giant, Keds, Magic Marker, Lisa Frank, Lockheed Martin, Boeing, SAIC, CERN, Devil's Cut, Bluetooth, NYU, the New York Times, Barbie, Jimmy Choo, Tylenol, Visa, The Wizard of Oz, Les Miserables, Punk'd, Manic Panic, NASA, Virgin Airlines, Casablanca, Namenda, Donepezil, HTC, Xanax, Google, Amazon.com, Spiderwoman, Wikipedia, J.C. Penney, Swype, Bookscan, Star Wars, Firefly, Snuggie, Gmail, Thales, Airbus, Dassault, Jip's Cafe, Samsung, Expedia, The Twilight Zone, Trapper Keeper, Day-Glo, LinkedIn, Skittles, Sharpie, Hello Kitty, Carmen Sandiego, Polo, Crown Royal, 7-Up, Invader Zim, Starbucks, The Nightmare Before Christmas, Up in the Air, Smirnoff Ice, Bratz, My Little Pony, Franklin-Covey, Pitch Perfect, Rihanna, Twitter, Peter Gabriel, Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man, Night of the Living Dead, Sanrio, The Walking Dead, George Romero, James Bond, Styrofoam, Dungeons and Dragons, The X-Files, The Phantom of the Opera.

## TABLE OF CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

About the Author

The Crow City Series

Other Books by Cole McCade

Writing as Xen Sanders

## CHAPTER ONE

MAYBE, ZERO THOUGHT, LICKING SUGAR from the rim of her lemon drop, she should just quit her job.

Yeah. Right. And maybe she could pay her rent with butterflies and unicorn farts.

She couldn't believe Rick had stolen her promotion. _Rick_. That slack-jawed idiot wouldn't know an exploit from a botnet if a zombie computer bit him in the ass. He'd taken credit for _her_ find. She'd uncovered a potential exploit in the company's flagship software, the kind of backdoor security vulnerability that could wreck a business, and Rick had gone running to executive management to claim credit. Credit that got him a raise, a new title, and an office away from the cube farm.

A raise, title, and office that should have been hers.

And she hadn't said a word about it, refusing to tattle on Rick like a five-year-old. She was better than that, she'd told herself. She didn't need handouts, she'd told herself.

But what good was integrity if it left her stuck on the bottom rung for the rest of her career?

She was as good as doomed anyway. The IT firm she worked for had sent out a memo that afternoon; major crackdown on dress codes and employee behavior. No more jeans in the office. No more Goth Hello Kitty hoodie. The red tips in her hair had to go, and the rows of piercings in her ears. Everything that made her herself was going in the trash, to leave a faceless drone.

Sometimes, growing up really sucked.

So did the reprimand she'd found on her desk this morning, signed by none other than _Rick_. She already had a mark on her permanent employee record over a policy she hadn't known she was violating because _no one had been told yet_. Not until lunch and a long, catered meeting about "the vision of a new globalized, harmonized future."

_We are Zero of Borg_. _Resistance is futile_.

She ran her finger around the rim of her glass and listened to the music thumping through the crowded bar. Some kind of awful electronica; this wasn't her usual after-work spot, but she hadn't wanted anyone on her team to catch her sulking into her lemon drops at _Tapas_. They'd either make things worse by sulking with her, or tell her to get over it—and they'd be right. Changing her work M.O. wouldn't be that bad. Other people did it all the time. She thrived best in a creative environment, just like the rest of her team, but as a junior programmer she didn't get to call the shots. She could put her time in. Put on a frumpy pants suit. Wear—shudder— _heels_.

What she wasn't sure she could do was endure a week-long, company-wide motivational "performance management" seminar.

_Performance management. Motivational_. Corporate code for veiled threats masked as chipper crap about empowering her workflows and carpe-ing her goddamned diem all the way into working overtime for half the pay just to catch up to jerks like _Rick_.

She'd need a lot more to drink by the time this week was over.

She tossed her drink back, enjoying the sweet heat of it sliding down her throat, then signaled the bartender for another. She hardly paid attention to the warmth of another human body sliding onto the stool at her side, denim hissing on vinyl, until a deep, gritty voice washed over her.

"That's your fourth in the last hour. Bad day at work?"

Low words, casual with a slight Creole drawl, familiar from the few years she'd spent in Louisiana after her parents' Roma wanderlust had turned her childhood into an episode of Carmen Sandiego, dragging Zero and her older brother and sister to a new city every few years. Probably a down-home mouth-breather in a Polo shirt with a popped collar. Not what she needed to deal with tonight.

"Bad enough to want to drink alone." She fished out her wallet.

"Want to talk about it?"

Zero slid a ten across the bar, flashed the bartender a smile, then turned to face her would-be suitor. "Look, I'm sure you're a nice g—"

The hinges on her tongue rusted. Pale green eyes studied her, reflective as jade ice, stark against the swarthy tan of sharply angular features—a forbidding face like an unfinished sculpture, edges left rough and hard-chiseled, accented by the dark crop of his close-shaven hair and tightly-trimmed beard. He slouched with casual ease against the bar, wearing frayed don't-give-a-fuck jeans and a battered brown leather jacket. Not a popped-collar mouth-breather. Not what she was expecting at all.

He arched a brow. A lazy, amused smile softened the harsh planes of his face. "Something wrong?"

"No." She found her voice—barely—and turned away, curling both hands around the stem of her martini glass. Her face felt molten, her ears burning. "Um. No."

"That's interesting," he drawled softly. "You were ready to brush me off. But one look, and suddenly you're blushing. So if I was plainer, I wouldn't have had a chance."

Her head came up sharply; she glared at him. "Are you calling me shallow?" So he'd caught her off guard. Didn't mean she was suddenly interested just because he was too hot for a slummy New York corner bar. "And who said you have a chance?"

His gaze lingered on her cheeks. "That blush."

"You're an asshole."

"That may be." He chuckled, deep and rolling off his tongue like liquid chocolate. "You're still blushing. So either you're shallow and you like my pretty face, or you need someone to talk to more than you want to admit. Which is it?"

"Which answer will get you to go away?"

"Neither." He signaled the bartender. "But I get it. Sometimes a girl just wants to drink alone. Just tell me to get lost."

She eyed him sidelong. "Who wants to listen to a girl bitch about a bad day?"

"Me."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "The longer I keep you talking, the more time you have to sober up."

"I'm not driving."

"Because being drunk and alone on a New York subway is so much better?"

He leaned against the bar to request a Crown and Seven, slipping a few folded bills to the bartender with a subtlety that made him look like he was handling a drug deal. Or maybe she was projecting, since he'd already pissed her off. Presumptuous asshole, strutting over here like he had any right to police how much she drank. Next he'd be telling her to _smil_ e _, you'd be so much prettier if you smile_ just like every other jerk out there. Or he'd try to reverse-psychology her into opening her legs.

"Who are you, my nanny?" she muttered against the rim of her drink.

He returned his gaze to her, studying her for long moments. "No. Just a guy who doesn't like to be the drunken decision you regret in the morning."

She stared at him. Why that overconfident, arrogant—"If that's your way of asking if I'll sleep with you," she bit off, "you're out of your mind."

"It's my way of saying I'm interested." Once the bartender set his drink down, he lifted it to his lips, watching her over the rim with a steady gaze. "But we can just talk, too."

Zero covered her glass with one hand and edged away. "...do I need to watch my drink around you?"

A deep, rolling laugh suddenly lit his face, transforming severe brows and chilling eyes into inviting warmth; faint lines creased the corners of his eyes. He ran a hand over the soft burr of hair clinging to his scalp. "Do I really give off that kind of vibe? Man, I need to work on my game."

"Yeah, you do." But the sound of his laughter relaxed her shoulders from where they'd bunched around her ears, and she offered a half-smile. "The suave thing really isn't working for you."

"Maybe not. How about dorky yet charming?" He extended a hand—broad, weathered, fingers square and angular. Definitely a down-home Southern boy's hand. "Evan James."

She hesitated, but he _had_ distracted her from her little funk. After a moment, she slid her hand into his. "Zero Blackwell."

His fingers folded around hers, hot and coarse. Just a brief squeeze, but it was long enough for the pad of his thumb to graze the back of her hand, a shiver of friction that left her face too warm again. "Zero?" he asked.

"Short for Zoraya." She reclaimed her hand and pushed the sleeve of her hoodie back to bare the tattoo encircling her wrist. A bracelet of binary code, ones and zeros looped around, black against her tanned skin. "Code monkey. It's a thing. You know—binary, Zero."

"Ah." He peered at her wrist. "I have no idea what that says other than one zero one one zero..."

"It's okay. Most people don't." She pulled her sleeve down and took a sip of her drink. "So is that what you do? Just dive in face-first like every other neckbeard out there and hope you don't get slapped?"

"Who says I don't want to get slapped?"

Biting back a laugh, she gave him a flat look. " _Evan_."

He grinned and idly swirled his glass. Ice cubes clinked against the sides, soft underscore to the tinny bass from the speakers. "I go where instinct takes me. Instinct told me you'd had a rotten day, and you could use an ear."

"So you decided to act like an overconfident, skeevy creep?"

He snorted. "I'm not overconfident."

"But you won't deny skeevy creep?"

"Own what you are, I always say. I think I wear my creep crown quite handsomely."

"That's awful." She chuckled, shaking her head. "You're weird, you know. Watching me for an hour. Counting my drinks."

Evan leaned on the bar and tilted his head back thoughtfully. "I'm not that much of a stalker. The drinks were a lucky guess. The rest was just working up the nerve to talk to you."

"So you're trying to tell me you're shy now?"

"Would you believe me?"

Zero shook her head with a quick burst of laughter. Who was he fooling? The man had _arrogant_ written all over him. "Not in the slightest."

"Made you laugh," he pointed out, a slow, contemplative smile curling his lips. He really had the most distracting mouth, full and lush and desperately in need of biting. "It's like low, quiet bells when you laugh. I like it."

Clearing her throat, Zero jerked her gaze from his lips. "Bells?"

"I'm bad at witty compliments."

"Extremely."

"You're still smiling."

"Okay," she groaned, then laughed and held both hands up. " _Okay_. I'm in a shitty mood, and your weirdness might just be cheering me up."

"Now we're getting somewhere." He grinned. "You going to tell me why you're sucking down lemon drops like it's the zombie apocalypse and you're out of chainsaws?"

She couldn't help laughing again, before trailing into a sigh. "It's bullshit, really. The company I work for used to be great. Huge, creative team culture. It wasn't polished, but we got shit _done_. But there was a huge IPO, and then a merger. Now it's all about corporate policy. People get screwed." _I got screwed_. "Everything gets buried in corporate bureaucracy until we're hopelessly behind the competition. Plus? I got written up for a dress code violation this morning by my underqualified jerk of a team lead."

His gaze dipped to her half-zipped hoodie, and the plunging V neck of the t-shirt underneath. "Was that the shirt you were wearing?"

"Yeah." She glanced down. Invader Zim looked back up at her, middle finger in the air.

He hid a smile behind his tumbler. "I can see how it would be distracting."

"If you want to cheer me up, you're not supposed to take their side," she muttered. "Rules didn't roll out until this afternoon. Writing me up was bullshit. Plus we all have to go to a mandatory seminar with a motivational speaker, or we're fired."

"Sounds pretty rough," he said mildly.

"Shut up, smartass." She groaned and dragged a hand through her hair, then pulled a lock forward. Black faded down to a deep, bloody red. She should pick up some black dye in the morning. "I know—I know it's not much. I just...don't do well in corporate environments. Maybe I'm being childish."

"Maybe." He looked into his tumbler. "Some people are just too independent to work under someone else's thumb. Human nature is different for everyone. That's what it means to _be_ human."

"Yeah. Guess so. But in this economy, I'm lucky to have a job. So..." She raised her drink in a toast. "Ugly pants suits, here I come."

"Hear hear." He clinked his drink against hers, before they both tossed theirs back. Zero was tempted to order another, but four was enough. She still had to work in the morning—and bizarrely entertaining as he might be, she was too smart to get wasted in a bar with a strange guy.

The bartender swung by, and she raised her hand. "Coffee, please? Mocha, no cream, two sugars."

"Same for me, no sugar," Evan said.

The bartender stalked away, muttering _this isn't a fucking Starbucks_. Zero glanced up to find Evan watching her, his pale green eyes shrewd.

"Ever thought of striking out on your own?" he asked. "You're a programmer, right? I've heard every corporate programmer is the legacy of a failed dot-com."

"I think about it every day, but I have rent to pay. Ideas don't pay rent." She shrugged. "Never had a dot-com. Just finished grad school two years ago. Wasn't even in the market when the bubble burst."

"And that would make you...how old?"

"Twenty-six."

He whistled softly with a wicked smile. "Barely legal."

"You say that like it's a selling point. How old are you?"

"Thirty-four."

"Perv," she teased. "Creeping on barely-legal girls in bars." Thirty-four shouldn't look so damned good, but she liked it on him. Made him look more settled than most of the twenty-something recovering frat boys who usually hit on her, or the metro-geek guys who were sweet enough until they called her a bitch for friend-zoning them.

"You don't have to be in your thirties to be sexy and smart." A lingering gaze swept over her. "Both of which I'd say you are."

A slow smile crept across her lips. "More selling points?"

"Definitely," he murmured, holding her eyes, his own dark and heated. Something about the way he looked at her—the confidence in it, the promise, the easy, casual certainty in himself—made her shiver. Definitely not her usual. And if he kept looking at her that way, she'd probably do something reckless she'd definitely never tell her friends about. She didn't need to listen to pointless slut-shaming over a little harmless fun.

...she wasn't actually considering this, was she?

Thank God, the bartender was back with her coffee. She didn't need to be thinking about making those kinds of mistakes with some overconfident weirdo she'd barely met.

She turned away from him and toyed with the handle of her coffee mug; its warmth soaked into her fingers. "You," she said, "are definitely doing a better job of distracting me."

"How about flirting?" he asked. His jeans rasped against the barstool's cracked vinyl as he shifted closer. The scent of his leather jacket blended with a crisp hint of aftershave and a certain primal male musk. "How am I doing at that?"

Deep breaths. "I'll let you know after you buy me my next coffee."

"So flattery and a mocha latte are the way to a woman's heart."

"Not necessarily my heart, but you're talking your way into my good graces."

He laughed, picked up his mug, and slid off the stool. "C'mon." He tossed his head toward a booth. "I don't know about you, but these barstools are chapping my ass."

Zero rolled her eyes, but rose and followed him to the booth. Still an asshole, she thought. He draped his coat over the back of the seat; she tucked her hoodie and messenger bag into the booth and slid in across from him. "So what do you do, hm?"

"The usual. Suit and tie. I'm more interested in honing my flirting skills than talking about work."

"Great. Now I'm practice." She snorted, trailing into a laugh.

She was still laughing hours later, when she glanced down at her watch. Her stomach dropped out. She couldn't believe how late it had gotten; Evan had completely distracted her. She'd thought he'd stop being funny once the lemon drops were out of her system, but three hours and five coffees later, here she was. He'd teased. She'd rebuffed. He'd flirted. She'd avoided. But she kept finding her gaze returning to that sinful mouth, her thoughts drifting until he dragged them back with another question or smartass comment.

But smartass comments wouldn't keep her going in the morning. She slid to her feet and into her hoodie. "It's midnight. I should be in bed. I still have to go listen to that douchenozzle tomorrow."

"Douchenozzle? Creative." He rose with her, shrugging broad, powerful shoulders into his leather jacket. "Come on. I'll walk you home." At her skeptical look, he laughed. "Seriously, I just want to make sure you get home safe."

"I stopped being tipsy four coffees ago."

"I know. But it's after midnight, and this is New York."

"For all you know, I live a two-hour train ride away."

"Then we'd better find something to talk about," he said, and gestured toward the door with a bow. "After you."

Zero eyed him, then groaned, shouldered her bag, and headed for the door. "You're not getting off the train with me," she said.

"Of course not."

He got off the train with her.

They took the twenty-minute ride in easy silence, pressed close on the narrow subway seats, the hard heat of his thigh sandwiched against hers, their bodies brushing together each time the train jolted. God, he smelled good. She was way too sober for what she was thinking right now. Especially when every time he caught her eye—caught her _watching_ him—he gave her that slow, sensuous smile that said he knew exactly what was on her mind.

When the train let off at her stop he rose with her, but stopped at the door of the subway car, looking down at her. She had fifteen seconds to make up her mind before the train whisked him off and she never saw him again. She looked up into pale green eyes, dark with the question he wouldn't ask.

She took a deep breath. To hell with it. Not like she hadn't done the walk of shame before.

"Walk me to my door?" she asked, and he smiled with those sinful damned lips that made something so simple look so dirty.

"Of course," he said, and stepped off the train. The door whooshed shut behind him. "I'd hate for anything to happen to you."

_In the twenty steps from the transit exit to my front door_ , she thought, but said nothing.

They stepped out into the crunch of snow on the sidewalk, breaths tasting of the crisp, clean scent of fresh snowfall on each cold bright inhalation, pluming into smoke as they rushed out. Street lights gleamed golden, stars bottled in glass, lighting their way as she led him up the sidewalk to her building, their arms brushing with every step. She dug out her keys, then glanced at him, biting her lip.

"This is me."

"I had guessed." He reached up to coil a lock of her hair around his finger, then brushed its tip against her cheek in a ticklish trail as he stepped closer. Deliciously close, oppressively close, the tall bulk of him caging her against the door of the building. "I won't ask, Zero. It's your choice."

"Okay," she said with a shaky breath. "Okay. Well you can come up if you want. Or not."

"You have to unlock the door first."

"That too."

Somehow she fumbled her key into the lock, and nearly ran up the stairs. He was a dark shadow on her heels, stalking her to the front door of her third-floor shoebox studio. She felt hunted, and a delicious shiver went through her when, as she unlocked her door, his hands curled against her waist, burning hot and rough through her hoodie and shirt. He leaned into her, his body hard against her back, and dipped his head. His lips hovered over her throat, and with a husky sound he simply _inhaled_.

"You smell like green apples," he whispered, and caught her earlobe between his teeth. The sharp pleasurable sting of a bite bolted straight to every pleasure point in her body before he soothed it with the soft tracery of his tongue. She trembled, and made herself pull away long enough to step inside and drag him through the door.

He backed her up against the wall just past the entryway, trapping her against the hard brick. She wasn't that short—five foot five—but he towered over her, until he nearly enveloped her. His knuckles grazed down her throat, rough callused texture teasing her skin into prickles as he traced a path down to the zipper of her hoodie.

"Changing your mind?" he breathed, eyes simmering hot as he slowly dragged the zipper down, teeth popping apart with a loud rasp.

"No," she whispered, and swallowed hard. "But let's get one thing straight. You are definitely the mistake I'll regret in the morning. You won't call me, I won't call you."

"I can deal with that," he said, then drew her close and kissed her.

## CHAPTER TWO

DIZZY HEAT CRASHED OVER ZERO, leaving her gasping. Evan laid claim to her mouth with a wildness that bordered on madness, scouring her lips with his heat, shocking her senses with every titillating flick of his tongue. He delved deep, invading her intimately and inescapably. He tasted like wildfire, a flashfire burn that consumed everything in his path—including her. She'd never have thought, from his lazy smiles and lingering glances, that this slept under his skin.

She should tell him to slow down. She should do...something. Something other than clinging to him as he stripped her raw with a searing kiss, mating his tongue to hers until every liquid stroke turned her blood to molten gold.

Fuck. _Fuck_. He destroyed her ability to think; the hard heat of his body caged her, the heavy weight of massive hands stroking over her hips, the heady flavors of coffee still clinging to his lips and mingling with that flashburn taste until she could spend hours drinking in every drop of him.

He tore his mouth from hers and looked down at her, heat paling his eyes to a crackling green-white lightning strike that blazed right through her. "Fuck, Zoraya," he breathed, the needy growl in his voice shivering down her spine to pool in a hot little knot just below the pit of her stomach. He released her hips to slide long, rough fingers up her arms to her shoulders, then drifted down once more to the zipper of her hoodie.

Her mouth went dry as he dragged the zipper's tongue all the way down, one agonizing inch at a time. Thick knuckles brushed the underside of her breast, just enough to tease with a grazing touch that made her suck in her breath. As the hoodie parted he slid his hands inside, framing her waist. His fingers encircled her almost fully, scorching. He dragged her close, tight against him, until the hard ridge of his need pressed between them.

She swallowed roughly, fingering his shirt. She wasn't used to this. To the silent intensity of his regard, to the way he went for what he wanted with single-minded focus. She was more accustomed to the mouth-breathers of the world, smarmy assholes who thought sensuality was about lame one-liners and saying _you like this, baby? Yeah, you like it_ while smacking her ass.

Still he said nothing, only watching her with simmering question in his eyes, demanding an answer. Giving her a chance to say no. A chance to not do something reckless and pointless just because she'd had a bad day and wanted to take it out on him. A chance to put him out on her front doorstep and forget about him. Even as he leaned into her, his breath harsh and heavy between them...he was giving her a choice. Asking if she wanted to be horribly, wonderfully, painfully carefree for one delicious moment, and just let this happen.

She curled her fingers against his neck, stroking the strong, tanned slope of muscle, and dragged his mouth down to hers.

They crashed together, his mouth slanting hard against hers, the rough scrape of his beard teasing her skin to tingling sensitivity. She pushed his jacket down his shoulders and tore at the hem of his t-shirt, dragging it up. She needed the hard play of muscle under her hands, the fire of taut skin stretching over the sleek, toned muscle of a titan. The sound of skin to skin as she explored him made her shudder, mixing with the cadence of their rushed breaths in a whispered symphony of desire. The low growl building in his chest thrummed under her hands, trembled against her mouth, tore a gasp from her as she bit at the succulent firmness of his lower lip.

He pulled back with a low snarl, licking his reddened lips and fixing her with a searing, fierce look—then descended on her like a ravenous beast, hot and wild as he blazed a path of nipping, stinging kisses down her jaw, her throat, stubble teasing and dragging, heightening each point of sweet pain to delicious agony. She let her head fall back against the wall, struggling for breath, her thoughts so clouded she could think of nothing but the fire nudging against her belly, the subtle movements of his hips that said he wanted her with a need he couldn't restrain.

His fingers found the button of her jeans and nearly tore it off. She arched into him as his palm spanned her stomach, imprinting its shape against her skin in electro-erotic outline, taunting her as he brushed the line of her panties yet moved no further. Back and forth, he traced that line between skin and lace with a fingertip as rough as raw leather.

She dug her nails into his neck and hissed. "Bastard."

His only answer was a dark, rumbling chuckle, shivering against her ear. Then his hand slid inside her jeans, found her sex...and took complete control of her body.

Tight denim crushed his palm against her. He traced the soft folds of her, circling with a shockingly delicate touch, gathering the slick bursts of her wetness until he nearly glided against her as his fingertip stroked the center of her pleasure. She clamped her thighs shut, trapping his hand against her as she squirmed against the wall, trembling with every sharp burst of desire, each sluggish wash of heat that soaked into her in gut-deep pulses. He taunted her. Tormented her. She could hardly hear her own breath over her thundering pulse, and she clawed at his shoulders, demanding more.

And he gave—with two thick fingers thrusting into her, slick with her own wetness, curving inside to explore in intimate, plunging strokes that sought deeper and deeper. Her body clenched around him in shuddering spasms, needing, craving every touch, aching for him to reach just a little farther, find that one perfect caress that would break her. But he only continued to tease, delving faster, rougher, the heel of his palm rubbing against her clit until she ground herself into him with utter abandon, searching for anything to end the tight, delicious pain swelling inside her.

Until he withdrew his touch, leaving her cold. She opened her eyes to find him watching her with that damnable arrogant smile that made her want to scratch his fucking eyes out.

" _Asshole_ ," she hissed. That smile only widened as he brought his fingers to his lips and traced his tongue over the tip of one, licking away the wet sheen.

"You keep saying that," he rumbled. "But I don't think you really mean it."

"Fuck you."

"If you insist."

His lips crushed down on hers once more, kissing her until her mouth swelled to tender, luscious fullness and she tasted nothing but the savage rush entwined between them. She was hardly aware of kicking her boots off, dimly conscious of helping him rip her jeans away, of him fumbling a condom from his back pocket. Then there was only the indomitable wall of his body, the powerful flow of sinew under her hands, the sweetly metallic taste of bruised flesh as she punished his delectable mouth with suckling bites. His fingers grazed between her thighs once more, tugging the damp crotch of her panties aside. He lifted her up, hitched her against him, fitted their bodies together for a trembling second of sweet anticipation.

He looked down at her as if her name was the curse that damned him, a hell he couldn't resist. Then he arched his hips, and surged to fill her. Her eyes slammed closed. Her breath seized. Her body tightened—and she gave herself over with a throaty, gasping cry.

He took her with the crazed frenzy of a man possessed, parting the softest, deepest crevices of her body to flow into those sweetly intimate places where every caress of friction was a luscious violation. The shape of him imprinted on her from within, caressing her on every rough, swift, steady stroke. His hands curved against her ass, dug in with strong fingers, lifted her up until he sank deeper on every thrust, until she thought she would break each time he withdrew and left her clenching inside, yearning for that slick stroke and stretching pulse again, lifting herself up to meet him until her hips slammed flush with his and her thighs gripped his waist and she couldn't hold back her rising, desperate cries.

Her fingers curled over his scalp, stroking the tight-cropped burr of his hair, and he let out a melting groan and bent to take her nipple into his mouth. He suckled; he nibbled; he licked; he teased, wetting the cloth of her shirt and bra until the damp texture became a heated, maddening friction that shot sweet pulses through her veins. She couldn't take it anymore—the hard brick scraping at her back, the claiming grasp of his hands, the savage rhythm mounting between them in a crescendo that could only end with her shattered and senseless. He roused her over and over until she was swollen and full with him, until she hurt with a need that racked her body to its limits. She couldn't stand it. He was unbearable, overwhelming, destroying her.

And as she arched against the wall, as she twisted her hips until he fit into that perfect spot, she gasped out his name as that sweet paralysis gripped her and she locked around him in tight whiplash spasms. Each racking pulse concentrated her tension to a single bursting point, until her body prickled with wet fire and she couldn't breathe and everything inside her dissolved into a liquid rush of molten sparks.

Through her haze, she remained dimly aware of him. Of how he moved against her, growling through gritted teeth, fighting the tight clutch of her flesh. Of how he gripped her tighter as his body went stone-still under her lax fingers, until a shudder went through him and with a choked sound, barely a breath, the hard throb of him swelled inside her. Then silence. Silence, and the glorious soreness and sensitivity of a body used beyond satiation and into lassitude. The mingled scents of their sweat and sex mixed with the lingering scent of green apple incense that always permeated her apartment. The hot weight of him trapped her against the wall, her thighs forced wide to span his breadth, deliciously sore.

She hadn't had sex like that in...fucking _ever_. All heat and passion and primitive need, urgent and raw. Zero opened her eyes lazily and found piercing green eyes watching her, hazed and still so very hungry.

"Well," she managed breathlessly, her throat raw from crying out, the words cracking. "That was unexpected."

*     *     *

Evan blinked at Zoraya, then burst into laughter. His chest ached from panting, but he couldn't stop until his laughter had bled itself out into a chuckle, then a sighing breath. Shoulders shaking, he curled himself around her, gathering her close and burying his face against her throat. He didn't want to move yet, not when he was still cradled in the soft heat of her. She was saturated in that beautiful scent of woman and sex, and that hint of green apples he'd caught before.

With a contented sound she rubbed her cheek against his, little minx that she was. She'd caught his eye the moment she'd walked into the bar, with her wild hair and vivid blue eyes so bright against her soft, tawny skin. Even when so clearly despondent, she'd held her delicate sweet face turned up, chin lifted. Proud. He liked proud women.

He liked her, he thought. She was different; irreverent and cynical and independent, not trying too hard to be the kind of duck-lipped sex kitten he usually ran into when he took a night off to cruise the town. Feinting words with her had been refreshing, and she hadn't hesitated in the slightest to put him in his place and knock him down a peg. Most people fell for the fake psychobabble _I-know-what-you-want-better-than-you-do_ act without questioning, but she'd seen right through it. He wouldn't mind getting to know her better—and he wondered if he could change her mind about that _you won't call me; I won't call you_.

Especially when she found out he hadn't been wholly honest with her.

He drew back enough to look at her. Her eyes were glazed and dilated, dark with satiation; her lips bruised to a soft, inviting crimson fullness that made him want to do it all over again. A strand of her hair clung to her cheek, damp with sweat, sooty black fading to a blood-red tip that clung to the corner of her mouth.

"Regretting that impulse decision a little less now?" he asked softly.

With a tiredly amused sound, she closed her eyes. "Ask me when I can feel my legs again." She pushed at his chest lightly. "Off."

"So brusque," he mocked. "I'd almost think you were only using me for sex."

"You think?"

"I'm getting an inkling."

With a laugh, he braced one hand against the wall and separated their bodies with a faint wince of friction against oversensitive flesh. She hissed through her teeth as she settled her feet on the floor and rearranged her panties, then bent to pick up her jeans. He tried not to be obvious about taking in the length of surprisingly long legs for someone so small, slim and shapely below lushly curving hips and a high waist.

"So do I get to stay until morning?" he asked as he tucked himself away.

"I need to sleep, Evan."

"You can sleep through the seminar tomorrow." He leaned his shoulder against the wall. "What did you call the guy? A douchebucket?"

"Something like that." She stepped into her jeans and straightened, tossing her hair from her eyes with a rueful smile. "Look, Evan, it was fun. It's not the kind of thing I normally do, but...you were right. I needed a pick-me-up tonight, and you were it. But we both got what we wanted, so it's time to go home."

"I can respect that."

But he leaned down to brush his fingers under her chin, tilting her head up. Her lips parted for him as he kissed her again, tasting the swollen fullness of her mouth for a moment longer, just one more kiss to make this night a fond memory he'd look back on in the coming months. When he drew back, she looked up at him dazedly. She was so responsive, he thought. He wondered if she'd looked at every man who'd ever touched her that way, or if she was only responding like this because it was _him_.

Sure. The random guy who'd picked her up in a bar and proceeded to make a complete ass of himself. He'd wanted a chance to talk. To get to know her, and see if she was as interesting as she'd seemed from across the room. Instead he'd tried to be something he wasn't, turning on his work persona, and backed himself into being good for only one thing before she didn't want anything else to do with him.

That was the way life happened, sometimes. But still he thought of how she'd sounded when she'd cried out and clutched at him. He didn't think she realized she'd said his name. Over and over again, whispering _Evan—Evan—Evan_ until it filled him with its wild chant, consumed him, made him want to do whatever it took so that she never stopped that blissful cry.

Her lower lip crept between her teeth, and she looked away from him with a touch of crimson in her cheeks and a small smile curving her mouth. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"It's been a good night. Best night I've had in a while." He brushed her hair back from her brow. "Just wanted another moment to remember it by."

"You're trying to tell me your life's so terrible that this is the highlight?"

"No." He chuckled. "But I travel a lot. I don't get very much time to just... _be_ with people. To stop putting on the performance and just be myself. Bad sense of humor and all. So these few minutes, here and now...they're refreshing."

She tilted her head quizzically. "What do you do other than 'suit and tie,' that it's such a performance?"

"I didn't tell you?" Of course he hadn't. If he'd told her, she'd have walked away from him. He shrugged. "I'm in sales."

"I could see that." She snorted. "Slick lines. Completely useless. You try to read people and figure out what they want." She glanced toward the door, before her gaze returned to him. "So you're not from New York?"

"No. Though I fly in often enough for work that I have a reserved room at my usual hotel."

"Cozy life." She flitted a glance around her apartment. "Not that mine's much better."

He raised his head to take in the room. Her apartment was a typical New York studio, narrow as a hallway and not much longer, but she'd managed to make it look spacious with minimalist furniture in homey, honey-toned wood—and even turned it into a multi-leveled space with a cleverly repurposed loft bed in one corner. The space underneath the loft platform had been enclosed with varnished wooden walls to create a separate little room with the bed tucked cozily inside and light streaming in from the window, while the overhead section had been set up as a second-story work area with a lap desk and a nest of pillows. Terraced cube shelving did double duty both as storage and as steps leading up to the work area. Her sense of décor was as quirky as she was, a mix of warm tones and off-kilter grunge blending surprisingly well, knit together by the glow of string lights painting motes of light along every wall. He smiled.

"I wouldn't be so quick to knock your life. I can tell you put this apartment together with a lot of love. It doesn't matter that it's small. It's yours."

"I actually like it small. I'm weird like that, I guess." She looked at him, then laughed when he just eyed her. "No, seriously. When I was a kid, I didn't use my bedroom. I used the walk-in closet instead. I left all my clothes on my bed and strung up icicle Christmas lights all along the closet rack, and made shelves out of egg crates and a bed out of every sleeping bag in the house." Her voice softened, fond memory darkening her eyes. "I kept books in there, and a little TV and radio, and my video games—and the weird little mangled stuffed animals I'd make by taking normal toys and giving them a zombie makeover like _The Nightmare Before Christmas_. When I closed the door, it was my own little world. Just me and nobody else." Zero faltered, lowering her eyes. "It made me feel safe, I guess. Like I had a place that was all mine and wouldn't go away. As long as I had a closet in my room, I could make my home all over again."

He studied her—the tense set of her shoulders, the pensive cast to her lips—and wondered why he cared, that this woman he'd just met a few hours ago seemed to be hurting. "Did you lose your home at some point?"

"I was always losing my home. My parents love to travel. They're a little flighty. They blame it on the Roma blood, but...I think it's just who they are. Though it started with my mother, I think. Both my grandparents died in a house fire when I was just a baby, and Mom just couldn't stand to be where it happened anymore." She shrugged. "Always looking for a new haven. Always looking for new horizons, while my brother and sister and I just wished we could keep our friends for more than a few years."

He smiled slightly and shifted to lean against the wall next to her, comfortably arm to arm. "So you know how it feels. Moving from pillar to post, never really having a home."

"Yeah. I guess that's why I decided to pick one place and stick with it. My brother did, too. Ion. He's in Paris. Scheherazade's the only one who likes to travel like Mom and Dad. Drags her kids all over the world, but they seem to love it." She smiled wistfully, then shook herself, those lovely blue eyes clearing as she looked up at him. "Anyway. You have to have a home somewhere, don't you? Even if it's just somewhere to keep your things?"

"I never see it. I'm like George Clooney in _Up in the Air_. One suitcase is all I need."

She frowned, brows knitting. "Oh."

"It's not a bad life," he said. It really wasn't. He'd never needed much else, and he'd never been good at being tied down to commitments. He wondered if that made him sound like her family, and if that was why she was looking at him with such consternation. "I make good money, and get to see new places. I never have a chance to get tired of a place before I'm gone."

"Speaking of gone..." She smiled and glanced at the door again. "I should let you go instead of talking your ear off."

"It's fine." He straightened his clothing and checked to make sure nothing had fallen out of the pockets of his jacket. "I wasn't looking for sex when I approached you, you know."

"Right," she said skeptically, and he laughed.

"Seriously. I would've been happy just to get your number."

Zero's eyes narrowed. After the way they'd crashed into each other, tearing at each other, devouring each other...he didn't blame her for not believing him.

"Really?" she asked.

"Really." He pulled his phone from his pocket and opened the app that would summon a taxi to his GPS location, sent in a request, then glanced up at her. "But you don't want me to call. So I won't ask." Even if it would be so easy, with his phone in his hand. Just give it to her and say _hey, drop your digits, and next time I'm in town_ ...

But he didn't. Instead he stepped closer, savoring how her eyes darkened as he leaned down and claimed her lips one more time. Just a quick taste to remember her by, until time and life and a million daily concerns erased the traces of her from his everyday life. She opened for him with a sighing sweetness and leaned into him when he threaded his fingers into the liquid-cool flow of her hair. The taste of her was heady and lovely and bright, and he lingered for longer than he should before pulling away with a rueful smile.

"Take care, Zero," he murmured, and turned away.

"Sure. Right. Take care." Something in her voice made him want to turn back, but he made himself keep moving when she continued, "'bye, Evan."

He glanced back with one last smile before letting himself out into the hall and heading downstairs to wait for his cab in the foyer, out of the cold. With a heavy sigh, he slumped against the wall next to the door, checked his phone for the cab's location, then closed his eyes. He was an asshole. He should go back up there and tell her, or tomorrow would be one hell of an unpleasant surprise. He should have told her to start with.

Instead he'd kept his mouth shut. And he hadn't said goodbye. Goodbye was too final, when he'd be seeing her again.

He could only hope she didn't murder him when he did.

## CHAPTER THREE

ZERO WOKE UP FEELING LIKE the hangover from hell had dragged her into a back alley, mugged her, then spent a few hours kicking her in the head for good measure.

With a groan, she smacked the alarm clock—and spent a few minutes staring at it without really seeing it. She always set her alarm a few minutes early so she'd have a few moments to pull herself together and wake on her own terms, without the rush of transit times and morning meetings leaving her feeling always on the verge of falling off a cliff. She should get up, make some coffee, and chase the hangover away with a gallon or two of water, but not yet. Maybe belting down drinks on a work night hadn't been such a good idea. She'd been overreacting, anyway. Rick would fail himself out of his promotion in six months or less, and it wouldn't kill her to wear heels.

Though she felt sorry for whomever she stepped on until she remembered how to walk in the damned things.

With a yawn, she rolled onto her back and watched the soft gray dawn come up through the windows, catching on flakes of falling snow and gilding their edges. She stretched with lazy contentment—then winced when the motion pulled a few muscles that weren't particularly happy with her after last night.

Last night. Right. Her drunken mistake she'd regret in the morning. Only she didn't, not really. She smiled and burrowed deeper into her pillows. Evan had been just what she'd needed to get over her little pity party and move on. He'd been cute, in his own stupid trying-too-hard way. She'd liked him better once he'd dropped the smooth lines and just _talked_ to her.

Maybe she should have gotten his number.

"Yeah, right." With a laugh, she hauled herself out of bed and padded to the kitchen. While her coffee brewed she dug in her closet, flicking past her torn, ratty jeans and a million baby-doll tees printed with everything from _All Your Base Are Belong to Us_ to the ghost dog from _Nightmare Before Christmas_. She'd stuffed a pair of slacks in here, she thought. She kept them for job interviews and funerals. They had to be back here somewhere—

"Gotcha." She snagged the slacks off the hanger, along with the matching jacket and shirt. They were frumpy and severe and probably just what the company wanted, but she definitely needed to go shopping tonight. Bargain-bin fashion on an entry-level salary, but spending a little of her hard-earned savings on a few new outfits was better than getting fired for shucking the dress code.

She stole a quick shower, then wriggled into the itchy suit, buttoned the fitted jacket, and tucked her hair into a severe bun to hide the red tips. That was the part that would hurt the most, she thought. She could get away with wearing her hair like this to conceal the dye for a while, but sooner or later HR would insist on a "natural" hair color. She could shuck the stuffy clothes once she was off the clock, but she'd still be stuck with the plain black hair.

She'd get over it.

Coffee in hand, she grabbed a toaster pastry and her messenger bag before clattering down to her train. It took only one flight of stairs to figure out moving too fast was a bad idea; Evan had left her so sore her panties rubbed against her with every step, friction leaving her gasping and flushed enough to beat back the chill bite of a winter morning. She tried to measure her steps, but moving slowly in New York pedestrian traffic was an even worse idea than speed-walking while the drag of her panties punished her for her indiscretions with every step.

_Let's have sex with a strange guy up against a brick wall_. God, she must be getting so many weird looks for walking this way. She hunched into her winter coat, then tugged for the millionth time at the suit coat underneath. It wouldn't _settle_ , and she felt like she'd been stuffed into a three-hundred-pound linebacker's football gear. _What's that? Rough sex? Oh, sure, what could go wrong with that? Not like I've got friction burns on the small of my back from slamming up against the brick. Not like I've got to do the walk of shame around the office all day. Brilliant idea, Zero. Pure genius_.

She made it to the office just in time to follow the stream of people toward the fifth floor; the open, barren space had been left unfinished after some contractor dispute or another, and was the only place large enough to house the entire employee population in a single room. A podium and projection screen had been erected at the front of the room. Uncomfortable-looking metal folding chairs had been arranged in rows. Zero headed for the refreshment table with a snort. Hard, painful chairs and forced inactivity. Yeah, that'd hold everyone's attention for hours.

This was going to be _fun_.

She snagged a fresh cup of coffee and a cruller, then scanned the room for her team. She was one of many low-end developers, working on user interface design for the company's flagship product—but teams tended to stick together, and hers was no different. She almost missed them; Alejandro's crop of bright green hair was nowhere in sight. She looked right over them, then swerved back when she realized the artificially slick black of freshly-dyed hair belonged to none other than the man she'd been looking for. He'd taken his ear gauges out, and slumped in his chair with his shoulders drooping inside his wrinkled button-down shirt, looking completely out of place and miserable.

_It starts_ , she thought dryly, and wove through the blocks of seats toward them. Rick caught her eye from his seat and grinned, cocking his fingers like guns and pointing them at her. She arched a brow. He'd just done that. That had really happened. God, that man was the Peter Principle in action. Not that any of her team were stellar examples of good behavior today; Alejandro's sulk just made her feel that much more childish for her own pouting, even if she sympathized. They'd dodged the necessities of corporate life for so long they'd gotten spoiled. Right now she was trying to look on the bright side: mandatory conformity meant the company was growing. Growth meant more jobs, higher pay...and maybe her own glass-walled office, one day.

"Zoraya." Ravi—the main software quality tester—stood from his aisle seat when he caught sight of her, and gripped her hand for a moment, a familiar gesture he'd started in college and never given up. His slender brown fingers comforted, and she held fast before letting go. "I saved you a seat."

"Thanks, Rav."

She edged past him and sank down into the seat at his side, and deliberately didn't look as he tapped his foot four times, counting under his breath, before he sat again. Everyone had their quirks. Ravi's was counting, and only being able to sit in aisle seats. Zero had learned long ago not to embarrass him by taking note of it, and just did what she could to not mess up his counts.

Once he was done, she asked, "So have you seen the guy yet?"

"Not yet." Ravi's smile was quick, shy, there and gone again, like the shadow of a fleeting cloud. "He's probably hiding from the torches and pitchforks."

She snickered into her coffee and tried to be subtle about slipping her hand into her suit coat to scratch her itching shoulder. "Smart man. How long do we have to be here?"

Alejandro looked over his shoulder from the row ahead. "All day," he said mournfully. "We get one break for lunch. _Catered_ lunch."

Zero grinned. "It won't kill you to miss those nasty taquitos for one day."

"It might. My metabolism is uniquely adapted to the mix of chili peppers and processed meat. They're crucial to my biological development."

"Because you're a mutant."

"I'll let you know when my powers kick in." Alejandro twisted in his seat, eyes narrowing. "You're awful happy. Don't tell me the suit turned you into a pod person."

She hid her grin against her cup. "Nope. Still me. Got both middle fingers to prove it."

"Then why are you in such a good mood?"

"Dunno. Had my tantrum last night. The whole 'woe is me' act got old fast. World's still here this morning. Turns out the dress code wasn't a harbinger of the apocalypse."

"Very funny." His eyes slitted further, before widening. "You got laid!"

Ravi wrinkled his nose. "Don't be so crude, please."

Zero cleared her throat; her ears burned. Was she that damned obvious? "Pretty sure the new employee manual makes this conversation against the rules."

"Fuck the rules."

" _Language_ ," Ravi said, looking pale.

"Rav's got a point. Really, Ale. Such a mouth on you." She grinned at Alejandro's sullen scowl, and nodded toward the podium as the lights dimmed. "You really should pay attention. Looks like the sideshow's about to start."

Alejandro wrinkled his nose, but slumped forward in his chair. Zero pushed herself up so she could see over his wide shoulders. Sometimes being short sucked. She caught a glimpse of someone tall moving toward the podium, and a hint of crisp, dark gray fabric that implied a rather nice, rather expensive suit. Yep. Douchenozzle. He probably had shellacked hair and a Neanderthal jaw and a smarmy, overconfident smile full of too many teeth.

She craned to see past Alejandro's big stupid head, but it was hopeless. Muttering, she sank back down in her seat and nipped her cruller. She'd need the sugar to stay awake, after the way Evan had worn her out last night. She couldn't help a small, secretive smile. She really _should_ have gotten his number. He'd definitely earned a repeat performance.

As she took another sip of coffee, the speaker's voice rang out—and she spat the sip back into her cup as strident words echoed from the microphone to fill the room, washing over her with sickening familiarity and leaving her gut hollowed.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, his voice rolling and rough. The same voice that had snarled _Fuck, Zero_ last night; that had growled and panted over her while she clung and cried out his name. A name she was currently cursing as he continued, "Welcome to the Expanding Horizons seminar."

Evan.

The man responsible for this clusterfuck was none other than Evan mother _fucking_ James.

*     *     *

The moment he saw Zero's face, Evan knew he was a dead man.

So he should really try a little harder not to laugh.

Maybe.

It was hard when, past the rather impressive bulk of one of the other employees, she glared at him with fire snapping in her eyes and her face twisted into a comical mix of shock, horror, fury, and mortification.

He'd been aware of her from the moment she'd walked in, small and sassy yet larger than life—and half asleep, he'd noted with a near-vengeful satisfaction after he'd barely slept for thinking of her, remembering her, struggling _not_ to remember her. For all her grumping about the dress code, she looked good. Albeit uncomfortable, with how she kept tugging at her clothes. She still managed to make the cheap, ratty pants suit look charming and cute.

Or maybe he just found _her_ charming and cute, and it didn't matter what she wore.

He'd been hidden on the sidelines when she'd arrived, behind the A/V rig for the projection display. He preferred to stay out of sight until a presentation started; people paid more attention that way. Mingling beforehand took away the element of surprise, when he walked out and was everything his audience _didn't_ expect. He knew what most people thought a typical motivational speaker looked like, and he wasn't it.

And he worked that to his advantage every chance he could get.

As puzzled murmurs and reluctant greetings rolled through the crowd, he waited, giving them a moment to settle—and trying to keep his eyes off Zero. It wasn't easy, but he had a job to do. The crowd slowly subsided while he scanned them, gauging their mood. Resentful. They usually were. He hadn't been hired to make people happy. He'd been hired to make people money. How management dealt with the fallout of that was their problem.

But he could at least make this a little less miserable while he was here.

Silence fell. He leaned against the podium and let them fidget a little longer before speaking. "I'm guessing you all hate me right now," he said, "and you don't even know my name. It's Evan, by the way. Evan James. I'm not sure if that'll make me more likeable, especially when your asses are already chapping in those hard-ass chairs."

Reluctant laughter. Not much, but it was a start. He grinned his best, most disarming grin. Maybe his routine hadn't worked on Zero, but he'd yet to have it fail on disgruntled office workers.

"I've got a little good news for you, and a little bad," he continued. "The bad news is I'm not going away, and yes, some things around here are going to change. I'm not going to bullshit you on that. Can I say bullshit? I'm saying bullshit. You don't want to hear bullshit and smarmy corporate-speak, so let's just be blunt about what's happening here. The stuffed suits need to cover their asses, you're suffering for it, and I'm the one cracking the whip. I'm what's known as a necessary evil, folks, but I'll try to make this as painless as possible. Rainbows and kittens optional."

More laughter. He knew it was cold and manipulative, what he was doing—playing on people's emotions and working the crowd like a veteran con artist. In a lot of ways, that was what he was. He didn't believe in what he sold. Not one damned word of it. He was selling a lie, but it was a lie people bought, and that was all that mattered.

_That's you_ , Zero's cold, accusatory stare said. She was the only one who'd yet to crack a smile. _A professional liar_.

Doubt flickered in his gut, before he let a call from the audience distract him. "What's the good news?" a guy shouted from the back row. "'cause until I hear something about free beer, I'm not buying it."

"My first heckler." His practiced grin came back; it felt like a mask. He spread his hands. "No free beer, but I do have a standing bet with the CEO. She thinks I can't finish the entire introductory seminar by lunch. I think I can. If I win, everyone gets the rest of the day off. Full pay."

Astonished whispers rippled through the crowd, and a few disbelieving jeers. About what he'd expected. He was playing them. They knew it, but he was buying their compliance anyway. That was what it boiled down to, in the end. Giving people what they wanted.

Everyone had a price, after all.

Except maybe the woman looking at him like she'd gladly push him into rush hour traffic. He might never be able to buy her mercy, but what bothered him most was that he _wanted_ to.

He dragged his attention back to the audience. "So you're with me, then? Let's do this fast and painless. If we make it through, first round's on me. Beer, tequila, your choice."

Cheering. They'd cheer next, he knew—and he barely had to wait a three-count before it started. Whoops and laughter and clapping, while he ducked his head and played his _that's right, I'm one of you, I'm on your side_ act. He had it down to an art, and he smiled like everyone's goddamned best friend as he flicked the controls for the projector and started the presentation.

But Zero still wasn't smiling. He shouldn't give a damn. They'd been a mutual distraction for each other. No strings. No attachments. One night and done. One rather mindblowing night, but it didn't mean anything.

So why did it leave a heavy, sick knot in the center of his chest when she looked at him as if he'd somehow betrayed her?

## CHAPTER FOUR

ZERO THOUGHT SHE JUST MIGHT throw up.

How could he? How could he stand up there like he hadn't done a damned thing, spouting off bullshit about empowerment and presenting a united face to the competition and the value and efficiency of standardization? He'd barely even looked at her. Just one quick glance and a repressed smile that said he was _enjoying_ watching her practically turn purple, before he'd launched into his charming little spiel that was supposed to make everyone like him.

Oh, he was _good_.

And she thought she just might kill him.

"Zoraya?" Ravi whispered, leaning closer. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing that can't be fixed with a flamethrower and a few yards of rope," she ground through her teeth.

God damn it, and she had to sit here and stare at him all day.

Four hours. _Four solid hours_ of rambling about bee colonies and swarm behavior principles and Japanese methods of efficiency, and the benefits they'd realized from a culture of conformity. By the time he wound down from his little sales pitch, she was down to figuring out ways to dispose of the body—her favorite so far involved a wood chipper—and he was _still_ cracking jokes and making everyone laugh. Bastard liked to hear himself talk.

The worst part? He was still so hot he practically gave off smoke trails as he moved about with casual, confident ease. The suit didn't look right on him—not as good as the casual roughneck look, far better for those broad shoulders and rakish smile—but it still outlined the powerful sculpture of his body so well she twinged with a sore, painful reminder of last night, and hated him that much more for it.

She'd thought she'd seen right through him, but he'd taken her in just like he was doing to everyone here. He'd sat there and listened to her rant, knowing damned well she was complaining about him, and hadn't said a word.

Fucker.

The moment he ended his presentation with some smarmy joke about buying everyone a beer, she thrust out of her chair, ignoring Alejandro's confused call of "Hey Zero? Where ya going?" to stalk up the rows of seats. She half expected Evan to make a run for it, but he lounged lazily against the podium, handing out folders and chatting as people stopped by to ask him questions. That lazy smile and utter lack of concern just made her want to punch him even more.

He lifted his head; his smile widened, flashing white teeth. "Zoraya. It's good to see you again."

" _You_ ," she snarled, absolutely _seething_ , barely able to keep her voice down. "You slimy asshole. You're the one making my life a living hell!"

Several of the employees clustered around Evan stared at her. He flashed them a polite smile, then ushered her to the side with a hand against the small of her back. She twisted away from his touch, putting distance between them, edging out of reach and wrapping her arms around herself defensively. She didn't want him to touch her right now. Or ever again.

Evan sighed, studying her with an assessing gaze. "Technically I only made your job a living hell. I'd like to think I made last night a little better."

"There was no last night," she hissed.

"Wasn't there?"

He stepped closer. She flinched back, retreating until her shoulders hit the wall. Not a position she wanted to be in with him again, but she had nowhere else to go—and she hated how her body throbbed with the memory of last night, aching for that wild, primitive madness again, its promise waiting in the hard lines of muscle that the stiff suit barely concealed. "Get away from me."

"Why are you so angry?"

"I'd never have slept with you if I'd known who you were." Her fingers balled into fists, clutching the elbows of her suit jacket. "And you _know_ that. You lied to get laid."

"Or I omitted a few details so I'd have a chance to be myself with you, and not just the face of my job." When she glared at him, he held up both hands. "Okay. I should have told you. Especially after you called me a douchenozzle. Flattering, by the way."

"I'll have it engraved on your tombstone."

"I'd appreciate that." The corners of his mouth twitched. "But this—all of this isn't who I am, Zero. Who I am is who I was last night with you."

"A schmoozing, manipulative liar?"

"An idiot who doesn't know how to talk to a beautiful woman without screwing it up." Pale green eyes lanced into her until her stomach twisted inside out.

No. _No_. He wasn't going to look at her like that and get her to relent. She was _mad_ , damn it—and—and— _mad!_

"Stop it," she said. "I've had enough of your lines, and I don't need to hear any more."

"That's fair."

He inclined his head, then glanced over his shoulder. People were starting to file out, ignoring the catered lunch—soggy sandwiches that smelled like old pickle juice—to head for the elevator. They were probably heading next door to _Tapas_ as usual. Zero was torn between joining them or just _leaving_. Alejandro could distract her with his inappropriate humor while Ravi's quiet, serene warmth comforted—or she could take her paid half-day and go home to her nice, cozy apartment. Spend the rest of the day reading, until she forgot Evan James even existed. Her brother had a new book out anyway, and she hadn't had time to read it yet. Besides—Violet Sparks was a hell of a lot more interesting than some lying asshole.

A lying asshole who'd given her the best sex of her life.

"Listen," Evan said. "I was serious about buying everyone drinks. Helps take the sting out of things. Come on. Safe group environment. I won't try to put the moves on you, you won't try to murder me. Truce?"

"Fuck you, Evan," Zero said, and walked out of the room.

*     *     *

Her triumph over the look on Evan's face lasted just long enough to get Zero out of the building and onto the subway—where she slumped against her seat and groaned, burying her face in her hands. Half her coworkers had probably overheard that. She'd _felt_ Alejandro and Ravi staring, and she didn't want to face their questions tomorrow. Even more, she didn't want to face Evan tomorrow. He'd be around for the rest of the week, shadowing various departments and working with senior management. They'd been told to be on their best behavior while he was in the office.

For Zero, her best behavior would be damned well invisible.

She didn't want to see him. Not when she'd actually _liked_ him. His awkward charm strangely paired with confident arrogance, the patient way he'd teased things out of her, the way he'd smiled at her silly stories about why she liked her tiny apartment instead of scorning it when he could probably afford much better.

Only to find out he'd just been schmoozing her. He'd done a damned good job of it, too.

No regrets. It had just been a night of sex; the fact that he was a lying douchebag didn't change that it had been damned good sex. And that was _all_ it was. Get through the week, move on, and forget about him.

That didn't make the prospect of tomorrow any easier to face.

She stopped at the corner pharmacy-slash-grocery near her apartment and picked up a six-pack of green apple Smirnoff Ice, a paperback of her brother's latest novel, and a bottle of black hair dye. First step toward acceptance, right? Maybe she could wash Evan out of her memory the same way she'd wash the color out of her hair.

While she waited in the checkout lane, her phone trilled in her pocket. She pulled it out and skimmed a text from Alejandro.

where the hell r u zero-gurl? assholes buying drinks like a sugar daddy buying luv

She chuckled to herself and tapped out a quick response. My love's not bought that easily.

don't have 2 luv the guy 2 spend his money. not the same w/o u

Too late. Almost home. Have a drink for me.

u make ale sad, he sent back. u owe me a story

What story?

y u were yelling at him 2day

She didn't know what made her wince more: Alejandro's typing, or the sharp reminder of just why she wouldn't mind being drunk right now. But she'd rather be drunk alone; drinking around Evan just got her in trouble, and she'd had enough of that kind of trouble to last years.

Without answering Alejandro, she pocketed her phone, paid, then walked the last block to her apartment and climbed upstairs to the cozy warmth of her little space, her cheeks and nose burning after being out in the cold. With an irritable mutter, she tugged out of her coat and scarf, then left the pants suit on the floor on her way to the bathroom to run a steaming bath. Just what she needed to relax, she thought as she read the instructions on the box of dye. Soak the day away, and start over tomorrow.

It didn't take her long to comb the dye into her hair. She'd been dyeing her hair since high school. It had started as hero worship toward a senior, a girl with blue hair and a nerd-punk style Zero had loved, but over time she'd made it her own trademark. With practiced movements she smoothed the color in to set, wrapped her hair, then sank into the tub with a drink and her brother's novel. She couldn't help smiling as she traced her fingers over the cover, and his name. _Ion Blackwell_. Their father was _still_ mad at him for not toeing the line, but Zero was proud. He'd done what mattered most to him, and made his dream into a success.

Maybe she could learn a thing or two from her brother.

Her smile lingered as she sank down in the steaming hot water and lost herself in the pages, snickering into her drink as Violet snarked her way from one misadventure to another. She devoured the book in just a little over two hours, hardly noticing when her drink—and the backup she'd brought—was empty, bottles lined along the edge of the tub as she turned page after page. By the time she was done the water had gone cold, and the dye was starting to crust in her hair. She started to close the book, then paused as the author's note at the end caught her eye.

She blinked. Huh. Ion had been busy since she'd last been able to afford a call to Paris—and apparently he was in love. She'd never seen her brother in love; he'd always kept some part of himself walled off, so fierce about his privacy and never quite letting anyone into his space. Stranger things could happen, she supposed, but she couldn't think of any off the top of her head.

_Here's one. How about you sleeping with some random guy who turns out to be the smarmy motivational speaker who's fucking up your job?_

She growled to herself, set the book on the edge of the tub, and dunked underwater to rinse her hair.

The water was dark gray by the time she ran it out, rinsed her skin in the shower, then dried off and dressed in a pair of gym shorts and a t-shirt. She eyed her reflection, solid black hair straggling around her face and darkening the chest and shoulders of her shirt.

"Still me." She smiled at her reflection and toweled her hair. "Just a slightly less colorful me."

A sharp rapping came at her door. Her head jerked up. Who would know she'd be home at this time of the afternoon? Might be her landlord; he'd probably seen her coming in. She draped the towel around her neck, padded to the door, and stood on her toes to peek through the keyhole.

_Evan_.

He'd changed—sinfully ragged, low-riding jeans and a t-shirt so tight it nearly licked his skin, under that leather jacket that made him look like the devil he was instead of a slick corporate bullshit artist. She almost preferred him in the suit. At least then she could see the weasel under the skin.

She hissed through her teeth, stomach tightening into a hot, furious clutch. "Go away," she snarled through the door.

"I'm not leaving until you talk to me," he said.

"The NYPD might have something to say about that."

"You hate me enough to call the cops? That's a new record, even for me."

With a frustrated sound, Zero yanked the door open and glared at him. "What are you doing here?"

"Trying to make amends." He held up a plastic bag. Steam filtered past the edges, reeking of curry and vindaloo. "I brought dinner." He grinned, quirky and one-sided. "Well, late lunch."

She folded her arms over her chest. "I hate Indian food."

"Which is why I also brought sushi." He held up a second bag, dangling from his other hand. "If you hate that too, you're not human."

"Being funny isn't going to help."

"Not even a little?"

"You lied to get in my pants, Evan," she bit off.

"I didn't. I mean, I did omit the truth. But it's not as nefarious as you're making it sound. I'm not this evil plotting mastermind scheming to get laid. I don't even have a decent evil laugh." He sighed, letting the bags drop in a rustle of plastic, his shoulders sagging. "Look, I screwed up. I know I screwed up. And now I'm trying to be an adult, apologize, and make it up to you. Could you be an adult and hear me out?"

She stiffened. "Are you calling me childish?"

"You've been sulking since I met you."

"Your brownie points are dropping by the second, mister."

"I'm just being honest."

She ground her teeth and looked away. She _had_ been sulking since they'd met, but he didn't have to be so blunt about it; especially when she had every right to be angry right now, and there was nothing childish about that. But he was standing there looking so earnest—and annoyingly sexy—and she was hungry. And he owed her an apology.

She could at least let him grovel a bit before she kicked him out.

_Don't let him in_ , she told herself, before sighing and stepping back from the door. "You've got until I finish eating," she warned. "Then you're gone."

"Then I'd better hope you eat slowly." He stepped inside and kicked the door shut in his wake—and as she nearly ran from him, leading him toward the couch, the heat of him washed against her back. Overpowering. Far too close.

God, why the hell had she let him in?

## CHAPTER FIVE

WELL, AT LEAST SHE HADN'T slammed the door in his face.

She'd been tempted; he could tell by the look in those simmering blue eyes. Even if it was hard to keep his eyes on her face when she'd answered the door in nothing but a tight t-shirt and pale green gym shorts so short they were practically panties, hugging curving hips and baring miles and miles of dusky legs. God, she barely came up to his rib cage. How the hell did someone that tiny have legs that long?

"Hey." She flicked her fingers. "Eyes up here."

He dragged his gaze up, making sure not to linger too long on the white t-shirt clinging to her chest, translucent in spots from the water dripping from her hair. Maybe coming here had been a bad idea. He wanted the little minx all over again, right here against the very same wall where he'd made her gasp his name. The throbbing in his gut refused to die, hard and heavy and heated.

"I was just admiring your rug," he said.

"The rug's a few feet below my hips. Maybe you should get your eyes checked."

"I'd say my eyes are just fine."

"Fine, then you could stop lying, how's that?" She flung herself down on her plush, cozy loveseat, deep red patterned in exotic designs in gold brocade, draped in vividly colored afghans. With a needling look, she pointed at the coffee table. "Fork over the food and start talking."

Evan shrugged out of his jacket and sank down next to her, setting the bags on the coffee table—only to double-take when he realized it was a glass door, propped up on legs made of odd twisted metal sculptures. "...is this a door?"

"Yeah. My friend Ravi made it. He likes working with reclaimed materials; the legs are from a fire grate." She spoke reluctantly, but her voice warmed as her gaze flicked over the table.

"Sounds like someone you're close to."

She shrugged stiffly. "We've been friends since college. Not that it's any of your business."

"Not trying to pry. Just observing."

"No more of your psychobabble tricks, okay? Not on me. My brother tries that shit all the time. It doesn't work." She stood, padded across the room to the fridge, and yanked it open to retrieve two bottles of green apple Smirnoff Ice. "I let you in to give you one fair chance to explain yourself. So either start explaining, or get out."

She pried the caps off the drinks, then thunked them down on the table hard enough to make them wobble. As he looked up into her wild eyes, taking in the hot flush of anger and embarrassment in her cheeks, he wondered for the millionth time since he'd gotten in the cab why he was doing this. She was just a one-night stand. He didn't owe her anything.

But he liked her. He hadn't liked anyone in a long time, and he'd already screwed it up. He could at least try to make it right, even if she never spoke to him again.

Even if he wasn't sure why it mattered, when he was leaving at the end of the week.

He laid out little plastic trays and paper-wrapped chopsticks. "I went with ebi nigiri, California rolls, and spicy tuna," he stalled. "Wasn't sure how you'd feel about raw fish, so I played it safe."

"I'll take it, as long as there's edamame."

He set out the tray of soybean pods and a packet of salt, then grinned when she pounced on them. "That's okay, I didn't want any anyway."

"Shut up," she said, muffled as she popped a little green soybean right out of the pod and into her mouth.

"I thought you wanted me to talk."

"You know what I mean."

"I do." He studied her; ripples of damp hair coiled over her shoulders. Black. No more red tips. He reached for the dark locks, unable to help himself. But when she flinched back, her entire body going stiff, he froze with his fingers outstretched.

"Don't touch me," she said, her voice strained.

"Sorry." He let his hand fall, an odd pang tightening his chest. "I liked your hair better the way it was."

"Whose fault is that?"

"Right." Evan exhaled heavily and leaned back, stretching one arm along the back of the couch and propping a tray of California rolls on his thigh. He turned over his thoughts for a few moments more as he stripped the paper from his chopsticks, gaze idly roving the room, lingering on a green cone of half-burnt incense in a tray by the window. He'd bet that's where the scent of green apples came from—the scent that clung to her even now, nearly drugging him with her nearness. He wanted to touch her, wanted to wrap himself in the living warmth of her, but if he so much as reached for her she'd kill him. She didn't need him to be all hands right now. She needed him to be honest.

Not one of his strongest career skills, but he'd try.

"Look," he said, choosing his words carefully, wondering if she'd even believe him. "I'm not good at connecting with people. I'm good at pretending to. I put on this mask and act like I'm this charming, outgoing guy with a slick one-liner for every situation." He shrugged. "And then I escape as soon as I can, because every time I try to be real I screw it up just like I screwed up with you. I can't stay in friendships. I can't stay in relationships. I can't even stay in one place for long. This job suits me, because I get to leave when it's over."

While he'd talked, she'd curled up in the far corner of the couch with her knees tucked up against her chest and a pod of edamame held in both hands like a little bright-eyed squirrel. She watched him over it as she nibbled, her eyes wary. "Why are you like that?"

Evan groaned. "You're really not going to forgive me until I bare it all, are you?"

"Who says I'm going to forgive you?"

"I'm hoping."

"Why?"

He opened his mouth, ready to spool off a slick, easy line, then made himself stop. God, this honesty thing was going to kill him. "Because...because most people take me at face value," he struggled out. "You didn't. That scares me a little, Z." It was almost freeing to say it out loud. To admit it, even if he was confessing to someone who had every reason to scorn him. Something about those big blue eyes just pulled it out of him. Guilt wasn't something he was familiar with, but he felt like he was paying for a lifetime of guilt-free living right now. "You got under my skin. I guess I'm hoping if I debase myself enough you'll take me off that 'do not call' list."

"You don't even know me." She eyed him.

"I'm trying to fix that." He snapped his chopsticks apart a little harder than he meant to. With a deep breath, he made himself relax his grip. "And I'm trying to let you get to know me so you realize I'm not really the devil."

"You could try not avoiding my question."

"It's really annoying to be this transparent to someone I just met." Evan fidgeted with his chopsticks, picking up a maki roll before putting it down again. He couldn't eat when his mouth felt this dry. "Right. Why I'm like this."

He couldn't believe he was doing this. Dredging up things he hadn't thought about in years, psychoanalyzing himself for some slip of a girl he'd hardly known for a day, after four hours of meaningless conversation followed by twenty minutes of equally meaningless sex.

_If it was really that meaningless, would you be here?_

He wasn't drunk enough for this.

He snagged one of the drinks from the table and took a long draught. Too sweet. He'd have preferred a good vodka, even beer, but it'd have to do to loosen his tongue. He made himself swallow it; easier to get that down than to force the words up. But she was still watching him, still waiting, expecting something. He exhaled slowly.

"I wish I had an easy answer for you," he began. "My life is about giving people easy answers that don't really mean anything. Any answer that would matter wouldn't be easy. But I suppose where you kept losing your home throughout your life, I kept losing people." He made himself look at her, at her curious, guarded gaze. Was he wasting his time, when she'd still hate him when it was over? "My mother had four miscarriages after I was born, all before I was ten years old. Four times I kept hoping I'd have a little brother or sister to love, and losing them. The fifth time she carried to term, but after so many miscarriages...she died in childbirth during premature labor."

His voice thickened into a wooden knot lodged in his throat. He hated remembering this. Hated remembering who he'd been, then. Weak and broken and hurting. But he made himself keep speaking, made himself say, "My little sister Lina was born weak, and barely lasted a week. After that it was just me and my father, and he buried himself in his work so he wouldn't have to face his grief." He thought his body would crack from the tension coiling through him, but he forced a shrug, dropping his eyes. "It left me pretty alone. I like to tell myself I didn't feel it when he died in a car accident when I was sixteen. We were already so detached from each other...I didn't want to feel anything. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't."

He didn't want to look at her. Didn't want to see the pity in her eyes. He'd spent his entire life avoiding pity, and refusing to feel sorry for himself. Life only moved forward; there was no going back, no point in looking back on old hurts. He'd made a life that worked for him, and he didn't need complications.

But one very lovely complication was watching him, silent save for the faint shudder of her breath. When he looked up, her eyes glistened, her lips parted. She'd crumbled the edamame to little shreds of green in her fingertips. No pity. He didn't know what emotion glimmered in her eyes, but it wasn't pity. He didn't understand her. He couldn't _read_ her, though it seemed like she could see right through him.

Maybe that was a good thing. Hard to fall into his manipulative habits when he couldn't figure out how to get to her.

He looked away from those wide blue eyes and trembling lashes. With a deep swig of his drink, he finished it off, then set the bottle down. "To me, being close to people means losing them, Zoraya."

"You don't have anyone?" she asked, a subtle tremor in her voice.

"I never needed anyone." He let out a bitter bark of laughter and captured another California roll in his chopsticks. "You're probably thinking this is just some dramatic sob story to get you to sleep with me again."

"The thought crossed my mind." She dragged a hand through her tangled hair, then reached for her drink. "So you're always living a fake life to avoid living a real one. So you can't get hurt if you lose someone else."

Evan inhaled sharply, then forced down the scraping feeling in his throat by filling his mouth with the maki roll, chewing, and swallowing. "Stings when you put it that way."

"Sorry."

"No...it's okay." He shook his head and pushed one of the trays toward her. "I've just never told anyone that before."

She uncurled enough to snag the tray and prop it against her thighs. "Why would you tell me?"

"Because I feel like a massive jerk and it's only fair that I answer your questions."

Her lips twitched, before a slow, reluctant smile broke across her lips; his chest tightened to see it, and he wondered what the _hell_ was wrong with him.

"You are kind of a massive jerk," she said, and he couldn't help but laugh, the hollowness in the pit of his stomach easing.

"Still feels good to make you smile."

"It's only temporary." She grinned and popped a piece of nigiri into her mouth.

Evan leaned back against the couch, letting himself look at her. Letting himself _want_ her for just a moment, even if he doubted he was really off the hook. It was nice to just relax with her, like last night at the bar—even if he still ached in that heavy place just below his ribs, after dredging up things he tried to spend his life forgetting. "So you're really going to hold a grudge forever because I changed the dress code at your job?"

Her smile turned pensive. She looked down at her food, then away, watching the snow fall through the window—where the street lights glowed golden through the glass like candles in sconces.

"It's not about that, not really," she said, then fell silent to take a few more bites of her sushi. He waited her out until she was ready to talk again, her voice quiet and low and thoughtful. "It's about feeling powerless when all I've ever wanted is to stand on my own." She laughed. "I guess that's the curse of the twenty-something. Realizing how powerless you are in the face of the giant profit machine. Probably makes me sound whiny."

"Maybe," he said neutrally, wondering at the sadness that hung over her in a cloud. Wondering what she was wishing for, what she'd reached for and failed to grasp. He lingered over a sip of his drink, then offered, "I'm not powerless."

"No, but you're preying on people who are." She returned her gaze to him, brows knitting. "How can you do it? Going through life just...making everyone miserable."

"It's not about making people miserable," he pointed out. "It's about making people money. Your company makes good money, more chance _you_ make better money. And right now, in this market, there's no money in nurturing special snowflakes in the hopes they'll have a multibillion dollar spark of creativity. That gamble pays out less than the lottery. Right now the money is in shareholders and investors. And to attract those, they need a company that looks professional. Not like someone went emo on a pack of _Bratz_ dolls."

She stared at him, hurt flickering in her eyes, and he cursed himself. He couldn't have said that a bit more tactfully, no. He had to go and be a fucking idiot.

"That's low, Evan." She dumped her sushi tray on the table.

He groaned and dragged a hand over his face. He was in it now; might as well see it through. "Look. I'm doing my job. You're not the only one who has bills to pay. Don't blame me because your company hired me."

"Do you actually believe all the bullshit you spout up there?"

"I don't need to believe it. I just need to sell it."

She sniffed, uncurling her legs and sliding to her feet. "I thought you were trying to convince me you weren't a smarmy asshole."

"Did I say that?" He snorted. "I thought you were trying to convince me you weren't a self-indulgent hipster."

She froze mid-stride. A deadly quiet settled over her, her eyes brimming with a storm. "What's that supposed to mean?" she asked quietly.

"I mean if changing your clothes and dyeing your hair creates this massive identity crisis, you must be pretty insecure about who you are."

" _Excuse_ me?"

God, he hated the way she was looking at him. Hated this sick, guilty feeling welling in his chest. Who was she to make him question his life, and what he did? This was the real world. This was business.

And he never should have mixed business with pleasure.

"I mean," he said, shoving his food onto the table, "you've got a hell of a lot of nerve judging me for what I do when you can't even function in the adult world."

Her lips parted, trembled. Her fists clenched; her breath heaved and shuddered with the force of the tension rippling through her slight frame. He had a passing thought that she was lovely when she was angry, incandescent, before she hissed, "So much for thinking you were growing a conscience. At least I didn't lie."

"No, but you won't let me forget it." With a snarl, he stood. "Grow up, Zoraya."

"I think it's time for you to go."

But he didn't move. He couldn't. Not when everything in him was screaming that this was wrong. He'd come to fix his fuckup, to try to at least make peace with this odd, beautiful woman who made him question himself in ways he couldn't stand. Who made it so easy for him to just _talk_ to her, just so that harsh look in her eyes would soften and she'd stop watching him like she was waiting for the next horrible lie to come out of his mouth.

Not that being honest was much better. Honesty made him cruel and hurtful, enough that he'd only hurt her more because he couldn't keep his stupid mouth shut. He should just go. Go, and stop thinking about pulling her close and kissing her until the angry line of her mouth softened and they found something better to do than fighting.

But she thrust one hand toward the door, pointing, trembling with thinly-restrained fury. " _Get out!_ " she cried, her voice cracking as it rose and peaked.

Evan shrugged into his jacket, rose, and walked out without a word.

*     *     *

Zero slammed the door shut hard enough to shake it in its frame, then sank down on her couch to bury her face in her hands with a low moan. She never should have let him in. She never should have let him get under her skin.

And he had no _right_ to say those things about her. Just because he had eight years on her didn't give him the right to talk to her like she was a little girl who had no idea how the real world worked. She understood business. She understood responsibility. Just because she hated giving up the last of her individuality didn't make her immature.

Condescending prick.

Condescending, _contradictory_ prick, one moment saying he liked her hair the old way, the next calling her an emo _Bratz_ doll, but not before spinning her every which way with that story that made her ache for the loneliness in it, the quiet acceptance that it was his lot in life to lose people, so it was better not to have anyone at all. God, she couldn't get torn up like this over him. The story probably wasn't even true. This was probably just another game to him, jerking her back and forth just to watch her dance like a puppet.

She wasn't letting him do this to her.

She had to deal with him at work for the rest of the week. Four days. Four days of hoping she never crossed his path; of hoping she could keep her detachment if she did. She could be detached. She could be cold, aloof, as proper as any stuffed suit. He wanted to see professional Zero?

He'd fucking get her.

## CHAPTER SIX

AS HE STRAIGHTENED HIS TIE in the mirror of his hotel room, Evan gave very serious thought to the idea of showing up for work drunk.

Another vodka shot might ease the hangover headache—better than the aspirin and enough water to lower the local water table, anyway. He couldn't even remember how much he'd drunk last night, though he could probably figure it out by counting the empty bottles from the mini-bar. He vaguely remembered getting drunk enough that he couldn't stop laughing at himself, laying in his coldly spacious, empty suite that felt sterile and dead compared to Zero's cozy little apartment. This was his life. Hotel rooms without personality, without warmth. That was _him_. No warmth. Every hint of his personality faked.

He saluted himself in the mirror. "Smile, James," he told his reflection. "That fake personality's earned you a very real career."

But suddenly he wondered...what would he do, if he could do something he actually believed in?

Could he ever be like Zero, struggling to hold on to some idea of happiness, struggling to be the one bright spot of color in a featureless corporate world?

Why was he even thinking about this?

Shaking his head at himself, Evan snagged his briefcase and headed out to catch a cab.

He didn't see so much as a glimpse of Zero on his way in, and within moments he'd been swept into the top-floor executive suites for endless meetings and discussions over stacks of personnel files. He frowned as he scanned through Zoraya's. Her aptitude scores were remarkably high, her performance reviews listing her coding ability off the charts. She was extremely talented, but her list of shortfalls was worrying when management was talking about budget cuts and layoffs.

_No initiative. Not committed to personal advancement; not willing to go the extra mile. Not a team player_.

That didn't sound like the Zero he knew.

He stacked a few folders and his tablet in his arms, picked up his briefcase and half-empty mug of coffee, and spared a distracted smile for the CEO and COO. "I think I'll get started on those one-on-one interviews. We'll talk tomorrow about team restructuring."

Trailed by polite murmurs of assent, he headed out and into the elevator, down to the... He scanned her file. Second floor. UI team. He flipped through a few more folders. Alejandro Rojas. Ravi Brahmbhatt. Janelle Corvino. Eric Gladwell. Over two dozen others, so many he wondered how the team got anything done. Mixed into the stack was one recently promoted Rick Sorensky. Evan eyed the blank stare looking up at him from the photo clipped to the file. Rick Sorensky didn't look like someone who, according to the file, had _displayed remarkable personal initiative in seeking new advancements in corporate technology_.

Still frowning, he stepped onto the floor. Just another cubicle farm; he'd have to change that. He made a few notes on his tablet. Closed cube farms promoted an environment of weary drudgery. Open layouts made people feel like they were being constantly watched, and created an unproductive atmosphere of stress and frustration. He'd have to work up a hybrid layout.

He stopped when he realized the entire floor had gone quiet. He looked up. Everyone stared at their screens rigidly, but he knew they were really looking at him.

Except Zero. The line of her shoulders was slim and sharp, her back to him as she sat stiffly in her neat little steel-gray jacket, deep maroon blouse, and matching gray pleated skirt. She typed like she had a grudge against the keyboard, but while everyone else watched him from the corners of their eyes, she kept her attention on her screen with militant focus.

Well. He'd known this wouldn't be easy.

He flashed a quick _don't mind me, I'm harmless_ smile around the room. A half-dozen heads ducked below cubicle walls as he made his way down the aisle. He didn't doubt that before he'd walked in, the conversation had been about him—and it hadn't been charitable. He stopped outside Zero's cube. A... _thing_ , some kind of cross between Cthulhu and My Little Pony, eyed him balefully from atop her desktop screen, next to a Hello Kitty plushie that had been cut apart, stitched back together, dirtied up, and bloodied with zombie spatter paint. Several other mutilated and zombified kids toys lined her desk, a rather oddly charming mixture of the cute and the bizarre.

Kind of like her.

"So you've got a thing for zombies," he said, propping one arm against the low cube wall.

Zero fell still, then turned a chill blue glance over her shoulder. "Mr. James," she said coolly. Her lips—painted a stark shade of fuck-me red that probably wasn't the effect she was going for—pursed.

"I supposed that's appropriate." Evan sighed. Yep. Still mad at him. Freezing him out with the professional mask. All right—if she wanted to play this game, he'd play. "Very well, Miss Blackwell. I need to talk to you."

"I have work to finish."

"You can put it down for a few minutes."

With a scornful sound she began typing again, fingers rapidly rattling across the keyboard, lines of code spooling down the screen like magic. "And ruin your corporate productivity metrics?"

"Pretty sure you've spent more time glaring at the screen than programming."

"You're a disruption. Maybe corporate should consider another consultant."

"Okay, Z. Okay." Evan held up one hand, biting back a laugh. He shouldn't enjoy it so much when she hissed and spat at him, but at least it meant she was _talking_ to him. "White flag. Truce. Come on. Can we talk for five seconds without going for each other's throats?"

"Depends. Can you go five seconds without saying something condescending?"

"I'm not trying to be condescending."

She spun in her chair, folding her arms over her chest and studying him with her lips set in a thin line of disapproval. "Judgmental? How's that one working for you?"

"I'm a little of that. I have no right to be." He let his hand fall. "It's a hazard of the job. See something wrong, say something snarky about it. It gets attention."

"So you're switching tactics to find another way to get my attention?"

"You're talking to me."

Her brows rose, before a fierce scowl darkened her face and she spun her chair away. "Not for long."

"Zero—wait." He caught the back of her chair. "You're going to hate this. You really are. But I have to interview everyone. It's part of the contract."

She opened her mouth, then groaned and closed it, tipping her head back against the chair. The soft, cool twist of her neatly-bound hair brushed his hand, and his stomach clenched. She closed her eyes. "I'm not very happy about being part of 'everyone' right now."

"We'll do your interview over lunch. Your choice, my treat." When she opened one eye to look at him balefully, he grinned. "I'm trying to sweeten the pot here."

"Just so you know?" she said as she levered out of her chair. "I really hate work-Evan."

"Does that mean you like me when I'm off the clock?"

With a disgusted look, she snatched up her graffiti-painted messenger bag and slung it over her shoulder. "Let's just go."

"Of course." He swept a bow, then straightened to tuck his stack of folders into his briefcase. "After you."

*     *     *

Zero felt every eye in the room on her as she walked off the floor.

Her ears burned as the elevator doors closed in their wake, locking her in the small space with Evan. Alone. So much for freezing him out. She'd lasted less than five minutes and now everyone on her team had seen her leave with the man the entire floor called the Terminator: because he was slick and shiny as a robot, and likely going to get them all fired.

"You're blushing," Evan said, sliding his hand into the pocket of his slacks and watching the lights above the door.

"I'm not _blushing_ ," Zero snarled, even as her face grew unbearably hot. God, she could _smell_ him, filling the small space with his heat. His arm brushed hers, and she fought to hold her ground and not flinch from his nearness. She didn't want him. She didn't even _like_ him. Her body was just a damned traitor that didn't have the sense to know what was good for it.

"Of course you're not." His lips twitched, but he had the sense not to smile, at least. She might have slugged him. And she lifted her head high as the door slid open on the first floor and she swept past him, stepping out into the lobby.

And promptly pitching face-forward when the tip of one spike heel wedged in the elevator tracks.

The world rushed past—then jerked to a halt as strong arms wrapped around her from behind. Everything stopped except her racing heart, throbbing and pulsing and squeezing until it felt like it would pop.

"I've got you," Evan murmured, righting her gently, the massive bulk of him too warm against her back. "You okay?"

She was caught by the urge to lean against him. Lean against him and let him envelop her the way he had that night, until her entire world was wrapped up in him and how he made her feel.

That feeling had been a lie, she reminded herself. She pulled away from him quickly, smoothing over her skirt with a forced smile that made her face feel like it was layered in saran wrap.

"Still not used to the heels," she said a touch breathlessly.

He looked down at her with that same mild, almost bland look, but something simmered in his eyes that forced her to look away. "I hear ballet flats are making a comeback."

"They make me look stumpy."

"Heaven forbid."

With an exasperated sigh, Zero turned away, stalking toward the exit and the revolving doors. "You're being condescending again."

"I swear I'm not." He prowled after her like a jungle cat, completely in command of his environment. "If I tell you what I'm being, you'll hate me."

"I hate you already, so it can't get much worse."

His laughter trailed in her wake as she led him from the building out onto the busy, snow-smudged New York sidewalk. She wanted _Tapas_ —best Latin food she'd ever tasted—but everyone else would be taking their lunch break soon, and she didn't want to be seen schmoozing with the Terminator over tequila. Instead she took him to a Mediterranean bar-slash-restaurant a few blocks down, brightly lit white walls and an airy design that made her think of the white cliffs of Santorini—yet another place she'd lived, if only for a few short months, on the whirlwind global tour of her childhood.

She followed the waiter to a seat. He left a basket of _psomi_ bread and menus, with a promise to return soon. Zero plunked down next to a colorful beach fresco, picked up a menu, and completely avoided looking at Evan. "So. Talk. I get a forty-five minute lunch, so make this quick."

"Mm." With a thoughtful rumble Evan settled across from her, set his briefcase down, and thumbed through his own menu with a light clicking flick of the edge of his thumbnail against laminate. "So we're only talking about work, are we?"

"I don't think we have anything else to talk about."

"I think we do."

"No." She slammed her menu down hard enough to make the water glasses jump. "We _don't_." Her breath seized; her stomach lurched. "You have a job to do. I don't want to talk about anything else."

He just looked at her, pale green eyes so very stark. Open. Capturing her in their soft liquid hue, and nearly drowning her in their depths. "Not even if I say I'm sorry?" he asked softly.

"Wh-what?"

"I'm sorry. For what I said. For all of it." He twisted the corner of his napkin into a knot, eyes fixed on his fingers. "I told you I don't open up to people. Doing that, with you...I guess I needed to protect myself from getting hurt. I lashed out. I said cruel things I didn't mean. I belittled you, and that wasn't fair."

Confusion turned her stomach upside down. "You're afraid I'll hurt you?"

"Maybe." He shrugged just a little too diffidently.

"I don't see how _I'm_ the one who could hurt _you_."

Once more pale jade eyes caught her. Held her. Consumed her. "Then you have no idea what an impression you made on me the other night."

She couldn't breathe. Her chest crushed in with the weight of his gaze, and she had to look away before she couldn't stand it anymore. He had no right to look at her that way. Not after what he'd done. She was supposed to be keeping this _professional_.

"It was just sex," she said stiffly.

"Was it?"

Grudgingly, she admitted, "...really good sex."

He laughed. "I'm flattered."

"You're arrogant."

"I'm trying to be serious here." He reached across the table and tucked an errant lock of hair back; the tips of his fingers grazed the curve of her ear, and a thousand pinpricks of fire pattered over her skin. "I shouldn't have said any of the things I said."

With a rough gasp, she jerked back sharply enough to make her chair rock back on its legs. She wasn't going there with him again. He was supposed to be the mistake she'd regret in the morning, not the mistake she regretted for the rest of her career.

The conversation. Right. Focus on the conversation. She swallowed hard. "No...you're right. I need to drop the whole special snowflake thing. This is what having a job and supporting myself is about." With a faint smile, she forced herself to look at him. "We're both kind of screwed up. Have you noticed that?"

"Just a little." He answered her smile with a pensive one of his own, eyes clouding. "You shouldn't have to grow up. Growing up is a miserable thing. It means losing the ability to see a lot of beauty in the world."

How could he say that, when he was so jaded he didn't even believe the lines he sold for a living? Then again, he was probably selling her another line right now.

"Beauty doesn't pay the bills," she said neutrally.

"There's a difference between being responsible and being cynical."

Yeah. Like he would know. "I guess." She trailed off as the waiter arrived to take their orders. She ordered an arugula, feta, and dill frittata, while Evan ordered broiled lamb skewers in lemon vinaigrette. As she handed over her menu, Zero asked, "Truce, then?"

"As much as we can manage." One dark brow rose. "You have to admit, you and I set each other off. We spark each other off in bed—and when you take it out of the bedroom, it turns into this. Challenging each other. Frustrating each other. Pushing each other's buttons."

"Driving each other to homicide."

"That too." He grinned wide. "But I'm only here until the job's done, or until you find a place to hide my body. We'll do our best to get along. Sound good?"

"Define 'get along.'"

"I won't try to get in your pants again." That grin turned downright vulpine. "Unless you want me to."

"Overconfident."

He leaned across the table, voice dropping to an intimate murmur, a secret between them. "Not after the way you whispered my name."

Oh _God_. Zero sucked in a sharp breath, shrinking across the table. Had the restaurant turned up the heater? "I didn't!"

"You did," he growled.

"Oh my God." She buried her face in her hands. He just couldn't quit, could he? "I thought you wanted to talk about my performance," she mumbled against her palms.

"I thought we were."

"Evan!" She gasped—and kicked him under the table, suddenly _quite_ happy to be wearing heels.

"Ow!" Laughing, he leaned down and rubbed his calf, looking far too satisfied with himself. Jerk. "All right. I'll be good, since we're on a countdown." He reached for the basket of psomi and picked up a roll, idly turning it over in his broad, rough fingers before tearing off a bite. "You're not happy with your job," he said, then popped the bite into his mouth.

"No one's happy with their job. If people were happy, it wouldn't be work."

"You have a point. But it's more than that. Management's noticed pretty much everyone's unhappy, and it gets worse the lower down you go."

"Well, that's part of the problem."

"Oh?"

"We're segregated by floor." Zero bit the inside of her cheek and leaned back in her seat; picking up a roll, she eyed it before putting it back down, her appetite gone. "The higher you go, the more important you are. The better your job is. Management hardly ever interacts with the second-floor plebes. It's ivory tower syndrome."

"At least it's not the first floor."

She eyed him. "First floor is the receptionist."

"Who's also not particularly happy with his job." He leaned over and fiddled with the clasps on his briefcase. "So lack of management interaction. What else?"

"I don't know. I don't sit there all day and make itemized lists of everything I hate about my job." She blinked as he took out a tablet and stylus, swiped a few times, then started scribbling with quick, sharp dashes. "Are you writing all this down?"

"Like you said, I have a job to do." He frowned at the screen. "You said it's not the dress code making you so unhappy, Z. So what is it?"

She shrugged. She couldn't tell him about Rick; it wouldn't help. She didn't need someone fixing her problems for her. "It's just a miserable job."

"So find another job."

"Have you seen the economy lately?"

"Good point." With a sigh, he set the stylus down. "Look. You work for a company, you abide by their rules. If you don't like it, either start your own or do something when someone gives you an opportunity to change things. I'm giving you the chance to tell me what you'd like to change." When she said nothing, he spread his hands. "Come on. You're holding out on me."

"I don't know, okay?" She started to rake her hands through her hair—then stopped when she remembered she couldn't. Right. She had to look _nice_ , and couldn't muss her hair. "It's hard to explain. I don't really care if I have to wear a frumpy pants suit and dye the color out of my hair. Just...I feel stuck. I've felt stuck way before you came stomping in like Godzilla. Do you know how many junior programmers are on my team alone?"

"Too many, but I'd like some numbers."

"Nineteen. And thirty-two programmers, twelve senior programmers, six project managers. I keep trying to prove myself, but I get lost in the crowd. I know—" She held up a hand to forestall the inevitable snarky-yet-annoyingly-sensible comment. "I know, two years out of college is too soon to expect a promotion to senior program director or something insane like that. But my team lead can't even remember my name. He takes credit for everything I do. When I can even do anything, because with your implementation plan I now have to get approval from six people before I can even deploy a minor UI fix. I feel locked in place, buried, and as long as I have bills I don't know how I'm going to dig myself out."

"What do you mean, your team lead takes credit for everything?" Pale eyes drilled into her. "You mean Rick?" He dug in his briefcase again, then pulled out a folder with a photo of Rick clipped inside. Dull-eyed, grinning Rick, looking up at her from the pages Evan plopped down in front of her. "This guy. Didn't he just become your team lead last week?"

Zero ground her teeth. She wanted to rip the photo to shreds, but made herself look away. "Maybe."

"It's not a maybe, Z. It's a yes or no."

"Except it's not."

"Why not?"

"Because if I say no, it looks like I'm afraid to stand up for myself," she hissed. "If I say yes then you'll tell management, and suddenly I'm the girl who has to run tattle because she can't play the game."

Understanding dawned in his eyes. He leaned back, lacing his hands together over his stomach. "No one should play the game. Maybe backstabbing and lying are normal in a corporate environment, but they shouldn't be."

"Says the master liar himself."

"You've got me there, but I don't advocate it in the workplace. I'm not here to fuck _everything_ up. Just the fun part. I'm actually trying to make the work environment better."

"I know. I do." She rubbed the bridge of her nose. Her head was starting to throb, and this conversation was only reminding her just how dismal her corporate future was. "I just don't need a white knight, Evan."

"Okay. I'll say you feel there's little opportunity for advancement, and leave it at that."

"Thank you."

He scribbled something else down on his tablet—she caught a glimpse of sharply angled, knifelike handwriting past the light reflected on the screen—then said, "Let's focus on what you do like. Do you enjoy your actual work? You're on...UI design, right? What does that mean?"

"User interface design." She shrugged. "It's okay. It's pretty simplistic. I don't do the actual graphic design part. That's Alejandro. I just program the functionality so it's effortless for the user."

"What would you rather be doing?" He turned the stylus over in his fingers. He seemed to have trouble just being _still_ , as if all the thoughts racing in his calculating mind just shivered through every inch of his body and demanded that he _move_. "I don't just mean here. I want to know what your real passion is."

"Medical device technology," she said without hesitation.

"Oh?" Interest flickered in his eyes, and she smiled.

"Not just things like pacemakers and respirators. I mean cutting-edge software that saves lives. There are all kinds of amazing new advancements coming out in hardware. Stuff like 3D-printed fully-functioning plastic and gel organs. But hardware's nothing without good software." She had to curb herself from saying more; he hadn't asked for a sales pitch. She bit down on her tongue to still its flapping, and continued more neutrally, "The right algorithm interfacing with a 3D printed heart can make the difference between a heart failure and someone's life."

"This means a lot to you," he murmured. "You know someone...?"

"Ravi," she said, a pang sinking in her stomach like stones in deep water. "He was born with a congenital heart failure. Got his first pacemaker at age ten. He's got a completely mechanical heart now, just like Dick Cheney. I was there with him in college when he was scared before surgery and needed someone to hold his hand. But sometimes it really messes with him." She lowered her eyes to the basket of rolls and reached out to pick at the edge of the wicker weave, playing with a loose splinter. "It's scary, thinking it might fail on him at any moment because the technology's faulty. One glitch from a lazy programmer could kill him. Or a virus—I mean, everything's networked now. Even artificial hearts. One zero day exploit and he's dead."

"One what?"

"It's..." She searched for a simple explanation in layman's terms. "It's a kind of virus or malware that looks for a vulnerability in software and exploits it. It basically penetrates a hole in the software's security and takes over. Once it's in, there's almost no way to get it out."

Evan blinked, his lips thinning, laughter gleaming in his eyes. "You have no idea how many inappropriate comments I'm biting back right now."

"You're a model of tact and sensitivity." Zero rolled her eyes.

"Practically a Southern gentleman."

"Is that where the accent's from?"

"Baton Rouge."

"Really? I spent a few years near New Orleans. A little town called Bayou's End."

"Look at that. We have some common ground after all." He flashed her a sly, slow smile, but before she could answer he looked down at the tablet again. "So. Programming medical device technology. You won't get a chance to do that here."

"No, but I can build my resume to the point where I'll have a chance somewhere else. I'm trying to stick it out for just a few more years, maybe get a promotion, then see what I can do with a little career progression."

Evan's brows knitted. "So in other words, I misjudged you."

"How's that?"

"I thought you were some fresh college grad with no plan, wanting to keep partying and rebelling against authority." Tap-tap-tap, stylus to screen. It was starting to drive her crazy. "Turns out you've got a plan. A pretty responsible one. Put your time in, work your way up."

Her face flamed; she fought not to bristle and snap his head off. Had she really come across as such an irresponsible child? No wonder he'd told her to grow up, and thought she was so shallow.

"That's kind of how it goes," she muttered, glaring at the breadbasket. It was better than looking at him.

"Maybe. Or maybe you should take a few risks."

"You know, I kind of feel like I've taken a few too many these last few days," she bit off.

"Take one more." He leaned over, angling until she couldn't help but see him, refusing to let her avoid him. "Come over to my room tonight."

Reluctantly, she met his eyes. He was trouble waiting to happen; she couldn't even trust that this quiet earnestness was real. Not when he changed faces like a skilled kabuki actor, putting on one mask after another. "Evan..."

"Strictly business. A hotel's neutral ground. I won't invade your space again," he promised. "We'll brainstorm."

"We can brainstorm at work."

"I'd hate to cut into your productivity." He glanced over his shoulder, then leaned across the table, voice dropping. "Seriously, Z. They're talking layoffs. And you're not exactly on management's radar as a top performer."

Cold feelers prickled over her skin; her breath stilled. "What?"

Evan just studied her as he leaned back in his seat, gaze knowing. "We'll talk about it tonight." He pushed the bread basket toward her. "For now, enjoy your psomi."

## CHAPTER SEVEN

ZERO BROODED THROUGHOUT LUNCH, SUBDUED and grateful to Evan for leaving her in silence. For all that he pissed her off, he seemed to know just when she needed peace and quiet—and even if she hated to admit it, she appreciated his wordless company while her thoughts spun in crazed circles.

Layoffs. She'd thought this was just some stupid corporate motivational thing, like Franklin-Covey for the brainwashed. Not something that could cost people their jobs. Cost _her_ her job. Not a top performer, her ass. Okay, so maybe she could do with an attitude adjustment lately, but she'd always worked well with her team. Even if the job wasn't perfect, she got things _done_ despite the increasing restrictions that demanded forms signed in triplicate just to push one minor UI form update to the live server.

Who else was on the chopping block? Alejandro? Ravi? It could be anyone. Except Rick. Stupid Rick who now had a glass-walled office on their floor and hardly ever came out of it to talk to anyone, instead shooting emails to people who were sitting five feet away and could see him looking right at them. Coward. He had his job security; she doubted she was the only one he'd stolen credit from. She only wondered what he'd do to make himself look good when there weren't as many people left to screw over.

Evan was a silent shadow when they left the restaurant, trailing in her wake as they walked back to the office and slipped into the elevator. For once she barely noticed the heavy masculine heat of him at her side, just a hint of awareness and an annoying realization that his silence was _still_ comforting. Stupid jerk, not being a jerk.

She supposed everyone had their moments.

But he broke their silence as the elevator doors closed, making her start and pull from her reverie as he said, "So I'll see you tonight?"

"Maybe," she hedged.

He arched a brow, then shrugged. "Seven o'clock."

"I don't even know where you're staying."

"The Doubletree in the Square." A slow smile curved his lips as he hit the buttons for the second and fifteenth floors. "I'll let reception know you're coming up."

She didn't like that smile. It was the same way he'd smiled when she'd told him he wasn't getting off the train with her, only for her to practically drag him up to her apartment by the seat of his pants. She cleared her throat and glowered at the buttons.

"You're being overconfident again."

"Nothing to be overconfident about if you're just coming over to talk about work," he said mildly, and she growled.

"That's the _only_ reason."

He stepped closer. His hand slipped from his pocket, and his fingers drifted up to grip her chin, grasping gently. So rough. God, how did a slick corporate shyster have hands that _rough?_ Nothing about him fit the corporate image. Nothing. Not that devil's smile, not his broad, coarse body, not the wildness of him.

And not the way her stomach dropped out when he brushed his thumb against her lower lip, leaving her mouth aching and hungry as he breathed, "Is it?"

The elevator dinged. Breathing shallowly, Zero stumbled back. The last thing she needed was for her team to see her rubbing elbows—or anything else—with the most despised man in the building. They hated him, and a few drinks wouldn't change that. He couldn't possibly think they actually bought his manipulative act. He couldn't possibly think _she_ was buying any of this. Smug asshole, thinking he could touch her after what he'd done.

The door opened. She thrust away, nearly tripping on the tracks again. "This is my stop," she gasped, taking a few more steps away, putting more distance between them. Evan only watched her, that slow smile lingering, as if she'd stumbled away from him and right into whatever trap he'd laid.

But he only inclined his head, bowing forward slightly. "Of course, Miss Blackwell. Thank you for taking the time to review things with me."

Then the doors closed, letting the air back into the room until she could breathe again without his smothering presence so close.

_Asshole_.

"Hey."

Zero jumped, heart going a mile a minute, and clutched at her blouse. "Gah!"

Alejandro looked down at her warily, thick black brows drawn into a thunderous line. "What's going on with you and the douche?"

Oh shit. How much had he seen when the doors opened? "Nothing," she deflected, and brushed past him to head toward her desk. Alejandro strode after her, a hulking shadow.

"Bullshit. You weren't yelling at him yesterday over nothing."

"It's not your business."

"It is when you're looking pretty chummy," he snarled. "You trying to kiss ass to keep your job?"

"No. You know me better than that."

"Do I? Because I don't see the rest of us taking one-on-one lunch breaks with the Terminator. Maybe you—"

"Maybe I what?" Zero whirled on him, glaring. "Maybe nothing. I slept with him. Okay? You happy?"

It came out before she could stop it, propelled on wings of frustrated, flustered anger—and once it was out, it couldn't be taken back. At his desk, Ravi froze. Several other heads turned toward them. But Alejandro...Alejandro just stared at her, the crease of his mouth bitter and cold, eyes flat and black and unforgiving. She didn't blame him. She knew exactly how this had to look.

"So that's how it is, is it?" he said, almost too quietly.

"No!" She felt sick. How had a simple one-night stand blown up like this? One impulsive choice, and now everyone was looking at her as if she'd betrayed them. As if she was just the kind of manipulative, self-serving person who'd sleep her way to the top. She wasn't like that. She'd thought her team members were her _friends_ , but the disgust and recrimination in Alejandro's gaze said that was about to change. She swallowed hard. "I didn't know who he was, okay?"

"Yeah," he scoffed. "Sure you didn't. If you make it through the layoffs, guess we'll all know why." His upper lip curled and he shook his head, turning away quickly and stalking toward the elevator.

"Alejandro," she pleaded, but he didn't stop—and she wouldn't humiliate herself further by chasing him across the floor.

He fixed her with one more heavy, dark look before the elevator swallowed him up and took him away. She just stared, her stomach a sick and hurting riot, feeling lost—and utterly mortified, as whispers flew between cubicles and dozens of eyes lingered on her, some with contempt, some with smirking malice. Damn it. Everything had gone wrong that night. _Everything_.

And if she wasn't careful, if she didn't play it safe around Evan James, her entire life would fall apart.

Ravi pushed away from his desk and drew closer to her, his fingers brushing her elbow. She looked into his soft, worried eyes, wordlessly pleading with him not to turn on her. "Ravi."

He smiled, pale and quiet. "Just give him time to calm down, Zoraya. He's upset, and speaking hastily."

Before she could response, Rick leaned out of his office and snapped his fingers imperiously.

"Lunch break's over, you two," he said, mustering up what he no doubt thought was a fierce scowl. It made him look like a newborn bulldog puppy. "Back to it. I want that new Agile script on the production server by close of business."

The door closed. Zero wrinkled her nose and eyed Ravi. "Agile script? He does realize that makes no sense, right?"

"He's stressed. Worried." Ravi shrugged, leaning over to brush against her lightly. "We're _all_ worried."

"Yeah," she said, and struggled to ignore the sinking in her gut. "Yeah, me too."

*     *     *

She hid in her cubicle for the rest of the afternoon. With her back to the room and her eyes on her screen, she could pretend people weren't talking about her. Every stifled snicker, every whisper, felt like an incision. Death by a thousand paper cuts—and she didn't even have anyone to talk to about it. Ravi would listen, but Ravi couldn't multitask; not when it threw off his counts and the particular way of thinking that made him such a brilliant quality assurance tester and software debugger. The only communication she had with anyone for the rest of the day was a few terse emails from Alejandro about the current project.

Strictly business. Right.

The moment the clock ticked over to five, the floor vacated like cockroaches fleeing the flick of a light switch. Zero lingered at her desk. No one asked if she was coming. She just stared at her monitor, shoulders so stiff a deep ache settled in down to the bone. If she was meeting Evan, she might as well stay here. Put in a little extra time.

_Why? So Rick can take credit for the extra work again?_

There had to be a better solution than this. Than waiting for layoffs, hoping to survive, knowing that even if she did she'd just be stagnating here waiting for her turn, long after her friends had already been downsized. There had to be something she could do. Anything.

But right now, she was coming up blank.

At quarter to six, she shut down her workstation, shouldered her messenger bag, and headed out into the snow to catch the train to the Square. She felt out of place in the swank hotel lobby, even if no one gave her a second glance in her suit and heels. A quick conversation with the receptionist gave her Evan's room number. Nineteenth floor. Every story the elevator rose just made her stomach sink further, until she was pretty sure she'd left it behind in the lobby. As she stepped off on the nineteenth floor, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Just business. She could do this. Never mind that she'd had yet another rotten day and right now, she wouldn't mind the particular brand of comfort Evan was so very, very good at. She wouldn't have any excuse this time. Not when she knew who he was—and knew exactly what a slimeball he could be.

She stopped in front of his room. Muffled music came from inside. She lifted her hand to knock—but the slightest rap sent the unlatched door swaying open, letting the sound from inside drift out more clearly. That...that wasn't music.

That was Evan.

Singing.

His deep baritone voice pitched and rolled. " _'cause I may be bad but I'm perfectly good at it, sex in the air, yeah baby I love the smell of it_ ..."

She stifled a snicker, pressing her hand over her mouth. She couldn't see him anywhere, but the acoustic echo of his voice paired with the steam coming from the open bathroom door didn't make it hard to find him. Zero crept to the doorway and peeked inside.

And immediately wished she hadn't.

He stood inside the glass-walled shower, glistening slick as polished bronze sculpture, deluged by a pounding shower of water that poured and licked over his skin in coursing rivulets, detailing each chiseled ridge of muscle as if they'd been drawn in ink outlines. His back was to her, powerful arms lifted over his head to swipe his hands over his close-shaved skull, the broad expanse of his shoulders and back rippling. Broad wings in black ink spread over Evan's shoulder blades, thorned and stylized patterns tattooed into his skin and seeming to flex and arch with every movement; the center of the design marked a tapering pattern down the groove of his spine to end in a point just above his tailbone. Heat crept down Zero's throat and up her jaw to linger in her cheeks like the fire of a sunburn. Fuck. She was staring. Fuck fuck fuck—

He turned. Zero yelped, skittering back, and careened into the doorframe before grabbing the door and swinging herself out of the room. Gasping, she flattened herself against the wall in the hallway and listened to the creak of the shower door opening, the squeak of the faucet as the whisper-patter rain of the shower silenced.

"Hello?" Evan called. "Is someone there?"

_Oh, hey, just me, your average peeping Tina_ ...

She kept her mouth shut and closed her eyes—and nearly screamed when his voice rumbled just over her head.

"Hello, Zoraya."

Heart pattering, she squeaked and jumped back, eyes snapping open. He leaned in the doorway with a towel hitched around his hips, one arm propped over his head and an insufferably smug smile quirking his lips.

"Um. Hi," she fumbled out. "Rihanna? Really?"

" _Pitch Perfect_ soundtrack, actually."

"Oh. I...uh...wasn't expecting you to be naked. And singing."

He tugged at the towel on his hips. It fell just a little too dangerously low, and Zero averted her eyes sharply, gulping. "Towel," he pointed out archly.

" _Mostly_ naked."

"Didn't have to look." Both brows rose slowly. "How long _were_ you looking, Zoraya?"

She hunched her shoulders. "I wasn't looking!"

"Mmhm." He pushed off from the doorframe with casual, powerful ease and vanished back into the bathroom. "Let me rinse off and I'll be right with you."

"Sure," she said faintly, then shook herself. God, she'd seen naked men before. She had to stop acting like such a ninny. "Nice tattoo," she called after him.

The squeal of the faucet came as the water turned on again. Nothing else. Thank God. She didn't know how she was supposed to talk to him when he was in there being so...so... _naked_. She liked him better when she didn't know what he looked like naked. Not that she hadn't felt all that caged heat under her fingers, all fire and tawny skin, when she'd raked her hands under his clothes and clutched at him—

_Cut it the fuck out, Z_.

While he showered off, she busied herself glancing around his room. Expensive. Gold fixtures, silks and satins, a bed the size of a small continent. Must be nice to be able to afford things like this. She wondered how it felt to sleep every night on a bed paid for with destroyed careers.

God, that made him sound like a movie villain.

Well, he _looked_ like one, anyway. Sinfully handsome.

And sinfully bad for her.

When the water shut off again and the quiet pad of his bare feet warned he was coming, she risked a glance from the corner of her eye. She wouldn't put it past him to walk out naked and swinging in the wind—but he wore a thick, plush hotel bathrobe, the soft white terrycloth bringing out the freshly-scrubbed glow of his bronzed skin. Steam practically radiated off him as he sauntered past her and toward the work table set up under the window.

"You're early." He sat down, flipping his laptop open.

Zero shrugged. "It was either go home and come back, or stand around the Square for an hour. In the snow."

"Don't like snow?"

"I love it, as long as I'm inside." She smiled faintly, fingering the strap of her messenger bag. "I love watching it fall on shadowed streets at night. I was always happy when my parents moved somewhere with snow."

"Where are they now?"

"You know, I'm not quite sure. Budapest, maybe. This week."

He studied her in silence, the quiet stretching so long between them that she fidgeted, ducking her head, looking anywhere but at him. She hated when he looked at her, sometimes. She could never escape just how well he _knew_ her. He'd been under her clothes, under her skin, and sometimes it felt like he had her figured out better than she ever understood herself.

And it pissed her off.

"Stop staring," she hissed through her teeth.

"Mm. I was just wondering why you're hovering around the door." Evan gestured toward the chair opposite him. "Sit. Let's talk."

Yeah. Sure, that's all it was. Zero rolled her eyes and stalked away from the door—and nearly tripped on her heels again. Cursing, she bent to yank them off, wiggling her toes against the plush pile of the carpet.

When she straightened, Evan was watching her with a broad grin. She pointed a finger at him and plunked herself down in the chair. "Not one word."

"Wouldn't have said a thing," he said, right before adding, "...neon purple toenails?"

"Nothing in the corporate dress code about my feet." She settled back against the chair and gave him a pointed look. "Musicals, hm?"

He scowled. "It's not a musical. It's a film."

"A film where...they spend half their time singing."

" _Not a musical_ ," he growled, and she burst into laughter.

"Oh, just put some clothes on, Mr. Astaire."

"I resent that. I wasn't dancing. And I am dressed. A bathrobe is clothing." He pointed a warning finger at her, then snorted and rattled his fingers over his laptop keys. "If you're done being a brat, let's get through this before you threaten to put one of those heels through my eye."

"I'm listening. Thanks for the idea, by the way. I should've worn the stilettos."

"Always happy to help." He spun the laptop to show her the screen, littered with charts, graphs, business planning documentation. "Here. Start with this."

_This_ turned out to be the company's five-year strategic business plan. Which involved outright cutting twenty percent of the workforce, and outsourcing another thirty percent overseas. Meaning half the company would be losing their jobs, and it looked like the majority of the cuts were hitting the lower tiers first.

Zero groaned, dragging her hands through her hair, tearing its neat twist out. "Tell me this wasn't your idea. Because I will go home, get the stilettos, and come _back_."

"Not my idea, no." Evan watched her gravely. "The Board of Directors pushed this plan through months ago and kept quiet about it until they hired me to find the best way to implement it. They're being underhanded about it. The whole 'motivational speaker' thing is just a smokescreen for testing who kisses ass well enough to stay."

"And you can't do anything about it?"

"I've tried." Rough warmth suddenly captured her hand under the table, his fingers curling around hers, gripping tight, holding her as surely as his gaze held hers. "I'm just doing what I'm paid to do, but I've already told them it's a bad idea. It's going to cut into the company's reputation when performance and customer satisfaction go down, and people will start trusting other brands instead of yours. It's a losing business in the end. Keeping the current workforce as-is and keeping you _happy_ is worth the investment, but they don't want to hear that." He exhaled heavily. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well...we've all got to make a living, I guess." Zero tugged her hand from his and tucked her hair back, avoiding looking at him. She didn't want to believe him, didn't want to believe he was _sincere_ , but when he looked at her that way...

"Z. Hey." He leaned over, trying to catch her eye. "I can put in a good recommendation for you. Make sure you're on the short list for retention."

"No!" She shook her head quickly, staring at him. "I don't need handouts, okay? Do you have any idea how that would look?"

His brows knit. "How what would look? It's just a recommendation based on evaluation of your performance."

"But it's not." Another groan slipped out. "They know, okay?"

"Know what?"

"That..." She had to close her eyes and breathe deep before she could force herself to say it out loud. "That I slept with you. Everyone on my team knows."

"Oh, God." He dragged a hand over his face with a resigned chuckle. "I take it that didn't go over well."

"That's one way to put it," she said. "'Clusterfuck' is another way. I like that way."

He shrugged. "So your reputation takes a hit. So what?"

"So when you have almost zero work experience, your reputation is all you have." She wrinkled her nose. "People in tech talk. Hell, that's half of what we do: invent new ways to talk. Social media. That's all our fault, wanting more creative ways to talk." Her stomach sank. "Ugh. I bet Alejandro's bitching about me all over Twitter right now."

Evan grinned and spun the laptop back to face him, typing rapidly. "Let's check."

She stared at him. "How do you know Alejandro's Twitter handle?"

"Corporate keeps an eye on everyone. Inappropriate tweets get people fired, you know."

"I know. Why do you think I'm not on Twitter?"

"A twenty-something punk princess who's not on Twitter?" He eyed her over the laptop screen. "I was right. You're not human."

"Very funny, gramps."

Evan only snorted, then grimaced at the screen, tilting his head. "Ouch."

"...oh God. How bad is it?"

"Let's just say it starts at 'Jezebel' and goes downhill from there."

"Let me see." Zero slid out of her chair, rounded the table, and peered over his shoulder. That was Alejandro all right, down to the eye-searing heavy metal background. She scanned the first few tweets.

@rojasrockstar: man u think u no sum1

@rojasrockstar: turns out they nuttin but a jezebel

@rojasrockstar: sum people do nething 2 get ahead

@rojasrockstar: even shit all over ur friends

@rojasrockstar: hope the dyck was good jezebel

Every last one had a good dozen replies, probably all her coworkers. She didn't want to know, really. Zero closed her eyes, taking another deep breath and trying to calm the queasy sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Tomorrow would be an interesting day at the office. So much for hoping people trusted her enough to have her back. "Guess no more after-work cocktails at _Tapas_."

"Is he always that crude?"

"Yeah." She smiled faintly. "That's just Alejandro. Fart jokes and gutter humor."

"Sounds more your type."

She glared at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means he sounds honest." He turned his head toward her, and she froze when the tip of his nose brushed hers. "You value honesty, don't you?"

She tried to speak—but her tongue didn't want to move, thick and heavy in her aching, so very heated mouth. He was so close. Close enough that she could pick out every fine grain of dark stubble, rough as sandpaper, along the incisively sharp lines of his cheeks and jaw; close enough to inhale his shower-fresh scent; close enough that his long lashes mingled with hers. Those lashes swept down as his gaze gravitated to her lips. Every breath rang too loud between them, a pull and sigh that drew on her until she could feel nothing but the tingling in her fingertips and the glimmering fire in the pit of her stomach and the warmth rising off him like heat-shimmer waves on asphalt.

"Don't you?" he repeated softly, and she watched every supple twist of his lips as they formed around the words. It would be so easy to just...lean closer and...

_No_. She jerked back with a sharp gasp, pressing a hand over the tightness in her chest and staring at him. She couldn't do this. Not with him. He was a liar, and she couldn't let herself get sucked into his magnetism again.

"Yeah," she managed to say. "I do." She stepped back, putting distance between them. "Though I'm starting to wonder if you're even capable of honesty."

He said nothing as she circled the table and retreated to her chair once more. But his eyes followed her, penetrating, skin-stripping, almost accusatory. She folded her arms over her chest and stared right back at him. He wasn't about to intimidate her with those looks.

"Maybe I don't believe in honesty," he murmured.

"You don't believe in what you sell, you don't believe in getting close to people...so what do you believe in?"

His eyes shuttered and slid away from her, toward the window. "Nothing."

"I don't know how you live like that."

"I don't know how to live any other way." He snapped the lid of his laptop shut with a _click_ so sharp it made her jump. "Will you be all right?"

It took a moment to even remember what he was talking about. Her stomach turned leaden and cold. "...yeah." With a groan, she rubbed her fingers to the bridge of her nose. "Yeah. It's...that's Alejandro. Either he'll get over it or he won't."

"And if he doesn't?"

She shrugged. "I guess we aren't the kind of friends I thought we were."

"What kind of friend is that?" That needling gaze turned back to her. "Do you like him?"

"You don't get to ask me that."

"If honesty's so important to you, tell me honestly."

Between one breath and the next he rounded the table. Rough fingers caught her chin, tipping her face up; her breath seized sharp. He glowered down at her, the forbidding crags of his face dark and ferocious and harsh, pale green eyes sizzling.

"Do. You. Like. Him?" Every word bit off rough and sharp-edged as tumbling gravel.

Zero glared right back at him, her heart hammering, the fury of her blood a wild thunder that tore through her until she saw beyond red and into fucking infrared. "I told you—you don't get to ask me that." She barely managed to keep her voice even as she jerked her head to one side, breaking his grip. "And you sure as hell don't get to manhandle me."

She stood, snatching up her bag and her shoes. She hadn't come here for this. They'd gone over the corporate game plan. They were done, and she had no reason to stay if he was going to act like some kind of fucking gorilla who thought she was his personal stomping grounds to get territorial over. It wouldn't matter if she was so desperately in love with Alejandro she wanted a litter of his babies.

It wasn't Evan's business, and it never would be.

She stalked for the door. He made an odd, almost stammering sound, then hurried to catch up with her, angling to half block her path.

"Let me take you shopping," he blurted.

She froze, just staring at him. "What?"

He looked down at her with his eyes wild and strange, breathing a little too hard. "Ever heard the phrase 'dress for the job you want?'"

"The job I want isn't one that cares more about what I wear than what I do."

"News flash: you have that job." His throat worked in a rough swallow. He curled his fingers, then let them go slack. If she didn't know better, she'd think that slick, too-easy shark's smile was almost apologetic. "Come on. We'll find you something that isn't so frumpy."

Her eyes narrowed. "So now I'm frumpy."

"That's your word." He shrugged. "But if you want that promotion, you need to look good, not just good enough." Pale green eyes raked over her, lingering on her chest. "I'm sure that blouse looks great on your mom."

Why that fucking—"Why did I even stop?" Hissing, she thrust past him and yanked the door open. "You are such a dick."

"You haven't even seen me get started."

"I'm leaving," she tossed over her shoulder.

"Suit yourself," he said—before anything else was cut off as she stalked out and slammed the door behind her.

## CHAPTER EIGHT

THE DOOR WAS STILL VIBRATING with the force of her departure when Evan slumped against it with a groan—and thumped his head against it a few times for good measure. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. God _damn_ it. Why could he never _ever_ shut his mouth around that woman? It was like the second he saw her his brain-to-mouth filter shut off.

Either that, or it was too busy keeping him from blurting out all the things he wanted to do to her to stop him from being a complete and total _asshole_.

Who was he kidding? He was always an asshole. A professional asshole. He signed his checks _A_. _Hole_ , _Esq_. and laughed all the way to the bank.

She was just the first to make him think it might be a problem.

Evan dragged his hand over his scalp and sank down the door, propping his elbows on his knees. God, he was so full of shit. All his lines about not wanting to get close to people, about getting to be himself with her instead of a—what had she called him? A douchenozzle? That sounded about right. Only he'd spent so long being the douchenozzle while telling himself he was something else underneath...that he'd started to believe his own lies.

He raked his fingers over his face. This was not the time for an existential crisis. It just wasn't. His life had been easy. Simple. He made good money, and he found his pleasures where he needed them. He didn't need some kind of self-analytical crap about the man under the mask, or some kind of bullshit about personal fulfillment. He wasn't that kind of guy.

A one-night stand shouldn't change that.

And neither should this nagging sense of guilt.

He pushed himself away from the door and dragged the mini-bar open. Empty. Right. Well. He'd just have to find his comfort somewhere else, tonight.

A pair of jeans and a half-hour later found him prowling the New York bar scene. Flashing lights and loud music and slinky dresses and skinny jeans; tight asses and perky tits and inviting smiles and God, hair he could just bury his fingers in and _pull_ to drag the right girl close for the kind of slow kiss that would end in one hell of a fast night. Any other night he'd have found someone by now. Eye contact across the room, a drink sent to her table, a name he'd forget by the time he was at the next airport gate for his next flight to nowhere.

But tonight every time he looked at smiling, inviting lips, he saw only that sardonic little smile he'd hardly ever managed to earn, and that flash of blue eyes that promised if he came near her again, he'd hurt for it—and it would be worth it. Love like a goddamned bloodsport, and she'd make him fight for it all the way down.

Love. He laughed to himself, bitter and more than a little drunk. He didn't love. He couldn't love. And he sure as hell wasn't falling in love with that acid-spitting little _minx_ after one hard fuck and a few days of fighting.

So why the hell was he out here living the high life...and completely miserable?

"Hey." A woman slid onto the barstool next to him, a tall leggy drink of water with a tumble of hair the color of burnished bronze. Soft voice, softer eyes. Brown. Such a pretty shade of brown, dark and enticing and nothing like Zoraya's snapping midnight blue. Eyes that smiled at him, wanted him—instead of eyes that accused, that asked what the hell he was doing with his life, that made him want to have an answer worth bothering with.

God, he was just staring at this woman like an idiot. He dredged up a smile that felt like it had been chiseled into his face, blocky and stiff. "Hey."

"You look pretty miserable over here alone." She leaned on her arms with a lovely smile that lit up her face. "Like a wet puppy. Thought I'd come over and cheer you up."

Well if this wasn't fucking _irony_. "Do I look like I need cheering up that much?"

"Like you're trying to forget a girl in the bottom of a bottle," she said dryly, then leaned closer with a conspiratorial whisper. "Here's a tip: it doesn't work."

"I'm picking up on that." He lingered on her, on the pout of her lips and the cat's-eye makeup that made those pretty eyes glow. "You got any better suggestions?"

"Time. And distractions. I'd have to say I wouldn't mind distracting you for a while."

Any other time he would have responded with the perfect line. He had thousands, and he knew how to play them to get what he wanted. Or what he thought he wanted. A week ago what he wanted would've been right here, right now, with an easy diversion and lush lips already primed for a kiss.

For some fucking reason—a reason named Zoraya Blackwell—that wasn't what he wanted anymore.

He laughed, harsh and short. Her lips curved in a sulking pout and he raised a hand, shaking his head. "No. I'm not laughing at you. I'm sorry. You're beautiful and any other time, I swear..."

She smiled wryly. "I get it. No, I do. It's okay."

"Thank you." He slid off the seat. "I've gotta go."

"Good luck," she called after him, but he was already gone, spilling out into the street and into the crisp cold scent of winter snow, the night air cutting into his skin like a fine-honed edge of steel.

He just stood there for a moment, his hands hanging at his sides helplessly. Where did he think he was going? It was nearly ten o'clock at night. Was he just going to show up on Zero's doorstep?

_Hey, don't slam the door in my face. I know I'm a dick. I know I'm doing this all wrong. I know I can't figure out how the fuck to talk to you when I'm being myself instead of the slick-talking asshole I pretend to be for a paycheck. But I like you. I like you and I want to know what this can be, if you can ever not hate me, if you can ever forgive me. If you can ever give me enough of a chance to find out what we could be, if I didn't do everything wrong._

_If I didn't do everything I could to run away._

Yeah. Right. Like she'd believe a word that came out of his mouth.

He didn't even realize he was moving until he was halfway down the subway steps to the turnstile, and reaching into his pocket for his transit card. He stopped just short of swiping it, staring down at his hands. What was he doing?

Being a fool, that's what he was doing. Chasing after Zero when she didn't want him. She hated him. And this wasn't like him. Nothing he'd done since he'd met her was anything like him.

Or maybe it wasn't anything like the man he tried to be. A man, he was realizing, he didn't like very much.

With a groan, Evan swiped his card and pushed through the turnstile, toward the tracks. Damned if he did, damned if he didn't. She couldn't possibly hate him more, so he had nothing to lose by taking a risk except his pride.

Because while what he was thinking wasn't quite as bad as standing under her window with a boombox blasting Peter Gabriel...it was pretty damned close.

*     *     *

He hadn't expected her to actually answer the door.

Evan stood in the hallway outside her cozy little apartment, just looking at her framed by the warm golden glow of lamplight—that particular sweet, soft amber luminescence he'd always associated with _home_. He'd come home to that color in his parents' house every night, before everything had fallen apart: the living room all in shades of liquid honey, his mother reading in the easy chair, his father fussing over his coin collection with weathered hands scarred from handling nets from dawn 'til dusk. He hadn't seen that color in over twenty years, save for as faint dots of gold from the safe distance of an airplane window. Yet as he looked at Zero, vivid in her brilliant red tank top against that glowing cinnamon skin, he found himself aching for a place of his own to fill with the golden color of home.

Zero cleared her throat. Evan snapped from his daze, ignoring the odd, tight ache in his chest to look into her eyes. Her lips thinned; one sharp brow rose as she folded her arms over her stomach in a tight, protective shield.

"I'm not talking to you," she said.

Right. He'd come here for a reason. Might as well dive right in. "Too bad. You still need work clothes. Come on." He offered a hand. When she only looked at it, he sighed. "I'm not apologizing again. I can say I'm sorry a thousand times, and you'll still be pissed—and rightfully so. Just get your coat."

She eyed him. "Are you drunk?"

"Sobered up about halfway here."

"And you came anyway?"

"Already spent the fare." He grinned. "Come on. Free clothes. Just look at it as using me. Payback, right?"

"Asshole," she growled, but snagged her hoodie from the hook behind the door.

"You're the only girl I've ever met who's mad at me for buying her clothes."

"Then you probably haven't been paying enough attention."

"You're right." He pushed his hands into his pockets with a shrug, then blinked when she looked at him oddly. "What? You are."

She frowned, brows knitting, and shrugged into her hoodie. "Nothing."

He waited for more. For her to bite his head off, for...something. But she only continued to look at him strangely. He wished he could tell what she was thinking, but he still couldn't read her nearly as easily as she could read him. He shook his head at himself and turned away, heading for the stairs.

"We don't have much time." He stepped out into the foyer and opened the front door for her. "Everything's going to close soon. We'll get locked in a department store or something."

"And it will be your fault."

"I'm getting used to that refrain."

"You can't buy forgiveness."

"I'm not trying to." He followed her out into the street, then fell into step at her side. Snowflakes melted on his cheeks like biting little kisses of cold. "Zero, look. I'm leaving once this job is over. I keep sticking my foot in my mouth with you, then trying to fix it, and then you set my temper off and I go fuck it up all over again." He glanced at her sidelong, but she wasn't looking at him—instead turning her gaze up to the sky, expression strange and remote. It made it easier, somehow. Easier to speak. "You turn me inside out until I don't know what I'm doing. And I keep trying to plan, and failing. So I'm not planning anymore. No more manipulation. I'm just doing what feels right. This feels right."

"Dragging me to a department store in the middle of the night feels right?"

"I never said I had to make sense."

A reluctant smile cracked the withdrawn mask of her face. "You make it sound like you ever did."

"I always thought I was pretty straightforward." With a chuckle, he leaned over to nudge her with his elbow. "Look at it this way. I'm out of your hair soon, but I'm leaving you with nice work clothes that will either make sure you keep your job, or leave you well prepared for the next one."

"Where are you going next?"

"Boise." He shrugged. "I know. Potatoes and industry. But someone out there needs downsizing."

"You don't sound very happy about that."

"Funny how that works." He trailed her down the steps into the subway, and followed after her through the turnstile. "Wouldn't have thought twice about it a week ago."

She settled to lean against a pillar and watched him curiously, peeling him open with her gaze. "What changed?"

"You."

Color crept high in her cheeks. She blinked, then turned her face away, groaning. "Please don't tell me you're having some kind of epiphany."

"Feels more like a midlife crisis." He settled on a bench nearby, propping his elbows on his knees. "It's not your problem, Z. Don't worry. I only brought you here for clothes. Nothing else."

Another of those odd looks. Why did she keep looking at him that way? He supposed it was better than glaring fit to skin him, but it left him at a loss for how to read her. How to guess what she was feeling, when all she said was, "Sure...okay."

Not very encouraging. But she was still here. That was something. He glanced up as the train came grinding into the station, the wind off the tracks slapping across his cheeks. "Then let's shop." He stood, offering his hand with a smile. "C'mon."

*     *     *

The train let them off in SoHo close to ten p.m., with half the shops already darkening their windows for the night and locking their doors—but the streets bustled busily, trendy people with their shopping bags strolling through the snow, draped in designer scarves and practiced laughter. Evan blinked as Zero huddled closer to him, her arm bumping and brushing his. With a frown, he glanced down at her.

"You okay?"

She bit her lip. "This really isn't my kind of place."

"It's SoHo, not Rodeo Drive. Trust me, no one's judging you." He hesitated, then rested his hand gently atop her head, lightly stroking her hair; snowflakes dotted the soft strands, and melted cool and damp against his palm. "You fit right in."

For just a moment, she leaned into him. And for just a moment, the pit of his stomach clenched painfully. He couldn't remember the last time he'd touched someone without _wanting_ something from them. A handshake to seal a deal, to instill confidence with a firm and commanding grip. A clap on the shoulder to say _we're all friends, I'm one of you, not the guy here to rip your job out from under you_. A brush of fingers across a soft cheek, a hand to the small of the back, a graze down a pretty throat—the dance of seduction, all a means to an end. They meant nothing. Just a numbing filter between him and real human contact, emotion.

But this—this one simple touch for Zoraya. This one simple need to offer her a brief respite through companionship, warmth, reassurance. It cut him open, left him bleeding, and left him wanting so much more.

Then she pulled away, stiff and proud. Always so proud, this one. So stubborn. It made him smile, even as the wrench of loss pulled inside him when his hand fell back to his side.

"I'm fine," she said flatly, and strode ahead of him with her head held high. "Let's just find somewhere open and get this over with."

He followed her for a few more steps, then took the lead as they made their way down the sidewalk until they found a shop promising open hours until midnight. More than enough time, as long as she wasn't a choosy shopper. He studied the window displays—crisp smart suits and delicate, gauzy scarves, killer heels and designer handbags. Entirely not Zero, but he wasn't here to make her look like herself.

He held the door open, then ducked inside after her, brushing snow off his shoulders. "Business clothes are this way." He tossed his head toward one section. "You'll need a mix of business casual and business formal. You don't need to dress like a high-powered lawyer taking clients to ten thousand dollar lunches, but you don't want to go down the 'khakis and pocket protector' route, either."

"Like I can tell the difference."

"Which is why I'm here. Just consider me your personal image consultant." He stopped at a rack of smart-looking black jackets and thumbed through them, checking tags. "Anything you want to try first?"

She stared at him, eyes wide, looking more than a little lost. "I...have no idea."

"Then you'll have to trust me. Petite small, right?" He pulled a jacket off the rack, then threaded through the aisles toward a stand of red sateen blouses. "Don't look so scared. I know what I'm doing."

"That's what scares me." She let out a shaky laugh as she trailed in his wake. "How do you know so much about women's clothing?"

"On weekends, I wear skirts. And fishnets. It's a bitch finding heels in my size, though."

"...what?"

Evan burst into laughter. "It worries me a little that you look like you believe that. Not that there's anything wrong with it, but...not that kind of guy. To each their own." He snagged a blouse, draped it over the growing pile on his arm, and went hunting for the skirt to match the jacket, turning sideways to fit through narrow rows that hadn't been planned with him in mind. "I know business, Z. I know what makes a good impression and what doesn't. That goes for everything from your resume to your outfit to your business proposals, performance, and team behavior. It takes more than a good work ethic to succeed. You need the whole package. So I learned what it takes—for men and for women. I've taught more than one person how to play the game. Make their mark. Leave an impression."

"So is that what you're going to teach me? How to play the game?"

"I," he said, "am going to teach you how to fake the game." He winked and added a few more things to the growing pile in his arms. "Wouldn't want to kill that creative spirit."

"I get the distinct feeling you're mocking me."

"I'd never." He dumped the entire pile into her arms—and grinned when she staggered back, struggling to catch it. "Now get into the fitting room, Cinderella. Clock's ticking to midnight."

Zero tossed him a filthy look and stalked off, muttering under her breath the entire way. Laughing to himself, Evan settled on a bench to wait. God, he couldn't believe he was out here doing this—but it felt _good_. Here he was, dragging a woman around a department store, shopping for her, waiting for her to try on her clothes like a good little boy...and he was _happy_.

Instead of pretending to be happy with the life he'd bought for himself at the cost of other people's joy.

_Stop that_. He wasn't considering a career change now. There was nothing else he could do, really. This was what he was good at. He'd never really specialized in any field, and being a jack of all trades and master of none meant one's best skill was telling other people when and where they'd fucked up.

"Evan?" Zero called plaintively through the fitting room door. "I don't like it. I don't want to come out looking like this."

He lifted his head. "I'm sure you're fine. Let me see."

"No."

"Don't make me come in there."

"You're not allowed."

"That wouldn't stop me."

With a disgusted sound, she muttered, "Fine." The fitting room door creaked open a crack, then stopped. One slitted blue eye peered out at him, before with a scowl she shoved the door open and stepped out. "I feel ridiculous."

Evan said nothing. He couldn't, his mind escaping him as his gaze raked over her. She sure as hell didn't look ridiculous. She looked like dynamite wrapped up in a neat little package, all that fire and wildness waiting to explode past the clean-cut edges of her slim little skirt suit. The skirt licked over her curves like oil, sleek and clinging, drawing his eye up over the flow of her hips—and nearly drawing his hands, until he clenched them as if that could still the tingling ache in his palms. He burned for contact. That red blouse drew him like a bull drawn to a flag, a glimpse of blood-bright color past the tightly-closed jacket; the buttons strained over her chest, barely able to close, and suddenly Evan could think of nothing but how the heavy, full weight of her breast had felt in his palm, warm and filling his hand.

Then she turned away to study herself in the full-length mirror and he groaned, closing his eyes against the tempting sight of her lush, curving bottom, cupped so perfectly by the formfitting skirt. If he wasn't careful, he'd do something she'd hate him for. He barely heard the rustle of cloth as she fussed with her clothing, his head pounding with the throb of blood rushing in his veins.

"This feels weird," she said petulantly.

He wasn't quite sure how he struggled the words out, but he managed somehow, voice dry. "Weird how?"

"Stiff. Like I'm not allowed to move in it."

He took a deep breath. Control. Get himself under control. He'd ruined the fragile truce between them enough times that he wasn't going to act like an oversexed ape and do it again. Slowly, he cracked his eyes open. Professional. Detached.

Like he'd been detached since the moment he'd met her.

Fucking _idiot_.

He made himself pull back and study her clinically. She stood in the suit as if she'd been mummified in it, discomfort screaming in every rigid line of her body, in how she fidgeted and fussed at the fabric until it sat all wrong on her and bunched until she looked like a snake trying to molt an ill-fitting second skin. He stood and stepped behind her, for a moment studying their reflections in the mirror. She barely came up to his chest. So small, yet filled with enough fire for a man twice his size.

He tore his attention back to her clothing and only her clothing. Gently he settled his hands on her shoulders, wary of sending her skittering away from his touch. She stiffened, but held still as he coaxed her shoulders to straighten. "It's all about posture," he said. "You have to walk like you're in control of the room."

Her nose wrinkled. "But I'm not."

"No one knows that but you. Here." He let go of her shoulders and slid his fingers into her hair. He loved the way it felt pouring over his hands, cool and soft and luxuriant; he loved even more the catch of her breath as he gathered it gently, pulling it into a messy twist in the back, drawing it away from her face to leave those lovely blue eyes unshielded. Her exposed throat drew him, as if inviting him to touch, to taste—and he couldn't look away from her even as he continued, "Lift your hair off your neck. Raise your chin. Shoulders back. You can't walk into the office as Zero. Zero's a punk, the underdog who has to fight her way up. You have to act like you're already on top. You are Zoraya Blackwell. Confident. Brilliant. Formidable."

Her eyes caught his in the mirror, wide above the flush of color in her cheeks. With unsteady hands, she straightened her coat. Squaring her shoulders, she licked her lips nervously. "I'm not so formidable."

"You terrify me."

A startled laugh burst past her lips. "I do not!"

"Seriously, I wouldn't trust you around sharp objects."

"Evan!" She pulled away from him, her hair tumbling from his hand to spill over her shoulders and back as she turned to shove him, grinning that minx's grin that made her light up so brilliantly. He rocked back dutifully, staggering just a little extra for effect before catching himself with a laugh.

"Maybe I should say I don't trust you with sharp objects around _me_."

"You _shouldn't_." She stuck her tongue out at him. "You're lucky I haven't thrown anything at you yet."

"The mercy of the goddess."

"The common sense to avoid a lawsuit." She tugged at the jacket and blouse. "I feel like it's choking the life out of me."

"You don't have to button up so tight." He couldn't resist any longer. He stepped closer and caught the topmost button of her coat to tug it carefully open, his fingers brushing along the curve of her breast. He told himself he was only showing her, helping her, but he knew it was a lie. He wanted to touch her, in any way she would let him. "You have to be professional," he murmured. "Not a spinster schoolteacher. You can be business-appropriate and still be a woman."

His brain screamed at him to stop there, but his heart wasn't listening. Not when that arresting stillness fell over her, and she looked up at him with her eyes so dark and smoky; not when he could feel the increased rate of her breathing in the repeated brush of the jacket against the backs of his knuckles; not when her body heat seemed to double, reaching out like grasping fingers. He knew the moment he lowered his eyes to the hard-beating throb of her pulse that he had already damned himself.

If he was to be damned, then he would do something to deserve it.

The second button of the jacket popped loose under his touch, and she sucked in an audible breath as it fell open. The soft sateen shirt was already warm from her body heat, soaking her in as he ached to; the buttons kissed cool against his skin as he ran his fingertips up the line of them to her throat. She'd buttoned the blouse much too high for his tastes, all the way up to the collar, hiding the sweet, smooth, dusky skin that made his mouth water for a taste of her.

As he found the top button, his fingers brushed her chin; she tilted her head up with a soft sound, an unspoken question darkening her eyes. When she looked at him that way, he could almost think she wanted him. Almost think she'd forgiven him, when she stood trembling and _let_ him tug the button open to expose the soft dip at the base of her throat. Her eyes lidded with a low exhalation as he brushed the pad of his thumb against the smooth skin and felt its luscious fragility under his touch.

Another button. Another. Until he could see the fine birds-wing crests of her collarbones; until her next heaving breath pushed the V of the shirt open over a scalloped edge of lace and the sweet warmth of the plunging crevice between her breasts. He nearly trembled with the restraint it took not to touch skin to skin. Not to take her flesh into his palm, and let the fiery heat of her burn him.

It struck him like a physical blow when she pulled back, a trembling hand rising to pull the blouse closed. "Don't," she breathed. "Don't do that."

He let his hand fall. "Do what?"

"You know what."

"Enlighten me."

"You're...you're doing that _thing_ again."

With every word her blush stained deeper into her skin, like watching the sun set over dark earth. Her eyes flicked over him, until he felt as if she touched him with every look. His lips. His hands. His throat. Her breath came faster, ringing loud in the stillness between them. Hard peaks stood out against her shirt, thrusting against the sateen, nearly demanding that he sate his hunger by taking her flesh into his mouth until she gasped for him.

She wasn't looking at him as if she hated him. She was looking at him as if she _craved_ him, and if he didn't find some voice of reason soon he was going to do something very, very reckless.

"All I'm doing is standing here," he murmured. "But that seems to be having an effect on you."

"It's not." She shook her head fiercely, sending her hair dancing about her shoulders. "It's not having an effect on me. _You_ don't have an effect on me."

"I don't believe you."

"You'd better."

"Perhaps." He closed the last distance between them with a single step. She backed away until her shoulders hit the outer wall of the changing room and she froze, staring up at him. He caught a lock of her hair and twined it around his fingertip. "But I don't think I'm the one lying this time."

Her breath fluttered swifter, like a captured bird's. She reached up to rest her hands to his chest, and for a moment he thought she would shove him, but she only curled her fingers against his shirt. "Evan..."

He couldn't kiss her. He _couldn't_. Every instinct told him that flicker in her eyes was desire, hot and needy, smoky invitation—but there was that part of him that said it was doubt. Fear. Fear of _him_. And he had to listen to that part, not the raging heat in his body, not the cracked place inside him that needed her to fill the spaces he'd left empty for so very long.

Yet his hands moved of their own volition, curling around her waist, so tiny he thought he would crush her if he gripped too tight. He pulled her against him, the plush softness of her molding against his body, the heat of her melting him. He felt drugged, possessed, unable to stop himself when that little heated sound in her throat beckoned him and his breaths came so ragged they felt like claws scraping down into his lungs.

Control. _Control_. They were in public. He swallowed, wetting his dry mouth, and looked down into those wide eyes that both made him want to be a better man and made him hunger to become the devil. He couldn't fuck this up, couldn't betray her trust again. "I won't do anything without your permission, Z," he said raggedly. "Eyes open this time. No lies. I don't want to be the mistake you regret in the morning. Not again." His pulse thumped so hard he thought he would explode. He forced his fingers to loosen, relaxed his grip, gave her room to slip away. "Tell me no. I'm a horrible man, and I'm only going to hurt you. _Tell me no_."

_Tell me no before I make you hate me even more. Tell me no before I fall too hard, too fast, and break when I hit rock bottom._

She should have pushed him away. He _wanted_ her to push him away, silently prayed she wouldn't—and nearly buckled at the knees when she curled her soft, slender hands against the back of his neck, pulled him down, and kissed him.

Evan groaned, leaning into her and slanting his mouth hard against hers, fitting their mouths together in a perfect lock of heated contact, drinking in her low gasps and those damnable _sounds_ she kept making that made him feel like a very, very bad man for wanting to hear them again. And he did—God did he, struggling to breathe as he nipped and teased and stroked just to savor the way her sensuously full mouth gave against his, just to feel her fire as she bit him back with sweet wild taunts of stinging pain, just to know pure pleasure as she trembled against him and dug her nails in sharp little crescents against the nape of his neck.

This—this was fucking crazy. This was everything he'd told himself he wouldn't do with her again, but she pulled on him something fierce and he couldn't bear to be near her without wanting to touch her, kiss her, _need_ her, show her with his lips and hands and body what she did to him when he failed every time he tried to show her with words.

Holding her was like trying to hold pure fire. They were too wild for this place—too wild for bored-looking mannequins and jacquard dresses and piped-in muzak over tinny department-store speakers—but he couldn't wait. Not when she was willing and fierce in his arms, and kissed him like she needed every taste of him to survive. His lips ached, burning with her ferocity. He leaned into her, guiding her along the wall of the changing room until he found the door and nearly ripped it open. They fell inside, stumbling and slamming up against the wall, holding each other up with grasping hands and tangled bodies. He kicked the door shut, then snared up handfuls of that fucking _jacket_ and dragged it down her arms to fling it away. He'd put her in the clothes, and now he goddamned well wanted her _out_ of them.

The sweet slope of her throat begged to be tasted. Bitten. _Marked_ , as if he could leave his claim and call her his. He closed his mouth over her pulse, and nearly lost his footing as the taste of her, the fragile flicker of her racing heartbeat against his tongue, dug bright needles of desire under his skin and tugged at the strings holding him up.

She keened softly, arching up against him, her fingers skimming over the back of his neck and leaving chills in their wake. "Evan..." She trailed off into a little moan, her eyes drifting closed. "Evan, not in here!"

With a groan, he pulled away from the sweet taste of her skin. "Why not?"

"It's a fitting room!" she hissed, darting a furtive glance toward the door. "There are people outside! They might—"

She broke off with a gasp as he dipped to catch the firm peak of her nipple through her shirt, through her bra. Its hardness thrust against the fabric, roused against his tongue, and he traced its shape through the cloth before pulling the blouse aside hard enough to pop the buttons loose. Her breast spilled into his palm, searing to the touch, heavy. He dragged the lace cup of her bra down and sank his fingers into the soft flesh, shuddering at the delicious sensation of that fullness yielding under his touch. But when he bent his mouth to taste her, when he took her bared nipple past his lips to flick his tongue over it and roll its delectable hardness against his tongue, she gave him what he'd been aching for ever since the first time he'd touched her.

"Evan!" she gasped, breathy and rough, her body twisting against the wall, her lips parted and glistening so enticingly wet.

"I love when you say my name that way." He grazed his thumb against the wet peak of her nipple, savoring the little catch of her breath. "Again."

She shook her head with a desperate little whimper. "I can't..."

" _Again_ ," he growled, and dragged the hem of her skirt up, bunching it over her hips. Pale lace curved over her skin, and he gave in to that desperate, itching need to _touch_ , making his hands burn for lack of contact. He slid his hand over her stomach, over the rumple of the skirt, then cupped her heat in his palm and stroked his middle finger against the warm wetness darkening the panties—sliding deeper on each stroke, _deeper_ , until the fabric creased into soft folds and her warmth enveloped his finger with every slick glide. Velvet flesh gripped, burning hot and lusciously wet. She strained, gasping, lifting herself against him.

"Oh, God!" There was something painfully sexy about watching her struggle not to cry out, caging those little sounds in her throat, rolling her head back against the wall with her caramel skin flushed a lovely rose and her eyes nothing more than glittering, lost slits past the dark fringe of her lashes. "Evan... _Evan!_ "

Why did he need that so much? Why did he care for the sound of his name on her lips? It poured over him until his blood pounded, throbbing so hot and so loud he could hardly hear anything else. He wanted her. He _needed_ her. And he cursed having to pull so much as one finger away from her to dig out the condom he kept in his wallet, nearly fucking dropping it when he tried to rip it open with shaking fingers.

Her eyes slipped open, nearly burning underneath the shadow of her lashes, fixing on him. He'd never seen anything more beautiful than this woman leaning disheveled against the wall, her chest heaving, her hair a wild tumble, her lips swollen from his kiss and her clothing spilled every which way. He'd thought she would stop him. Thought she would come to her senses, God, how could she _not?_ How could she not see how terrible he was for wanting her even now, when he had no right? He didn't have the willpower, where she was concerned. Didn't have the strength to do what was right. He needed her to say _no_ , so he wouldn't hate himself tomorrow.

But he needed even more that soft whisper of "Evan" that spilled past her lips as she curled her fingers in his coat, dragged him close, and kissed him once more.

The world fell away, leaving only the softness of her lips, the heat of her body. His hands moved on auto-pilot, tearing his jeans open, sliding the condom on, only half-aware he was even doing it when the taste of her drowned him. He delved deep, stealing the sounds from her lips, sharing her every breath, until all was quiet between them—this secret moment, stolen in the midst of the bustle and cry of a busy city, a crowded department store. None of that mattered. All that mattered was her arms around his neck, her lips parting for his, her fingers clutching at his back as he tugged her panties aside and fitted himself to her waiting heat.

And the way she arched her hips when he slid into her, driving slow and deep, made him feel as if he could spend his entire life never needing anything else.

Molten heat glided over him one shuddering inch at a time, drawing him deep, so deep. Her lips went slack against his; her head fell back against the wall, and he devoured that lost, blissful expression on her face as he brought them fully together. His breath burned in his chest, his body aching, _hurting_ with the taut-straining pleasure of this. The firestorm of urgency that had filled him slowed and became lava in his blood, deep-burning and patient in its endless heat.

He moved to the rhythm of their breaths, flowed to the surge of her body rolling against his, lost himself in the sweet liquid inferno of her as mad hot friction poured over him with every stroke, until he could _taste_ his pleasure on each rushing exhalation. Over and over he fell into her, consumed with every deep thrust that felt like diving into an endless sea of desire, plunging so far he could drown in this obsession—and yet he never wanted to come up for air. She was all he needed to breathe, and as her voice rose in soft, breathy cries he captured her lips and trapped this secret, this forbidden moment, for them and them alone.

Her soft hands printed themselves on him, leaving her mark on his flesh, on his soul. And when she tensed against him, tightened around him, trembling with the silent intensity of the shudders that had rolled through her in gripping waves...he crumbled. His foundations became dust, everything he had built his life upon eroding, leaving him falling with no way to hold himself up. No way but her—and he forgot how to breathe as he let those deep contractions pull him in and drag him down and take him over. Pleasure found him with biting teeth, with a straining surge, and as everything inside him _snapped_ and unraveled, he whispered her name against her gasping lips.

Whispered her name, and despaired—for how had he fallen this hard, this fast, for a woman who despised everything he stood for?

## CHAPTER NINE

SHE'D DONE IT AGAIN.

Zero leaned against the wall, fighting for breath. Fighting for _sense_. Fighting not to scream when the moment she made a sound louder than a whisper, she'd discover the Wrath of the Perky Retail Clerk.

Maybe if she kept her eyes closed, she could pretend she hadn't been this stupid again. She could pretend it was some other man still buried hot inside her and leaving her throbbing with that wonderful melting soreness she loved to hold on to in the moments after. It spread through her body until she went limp, simmering with a lingering warmth that she didn't want to associate with Evan. He was a _liar_. A liar, a manipulative asshole, a fucking bastard.

And he'd touched her like she was a goddess, and loved her with an angel's reverent heat.

She'd never felt anything like it. She'd expected wildness and brutality and hard rough desperation. Not that slow, searing intensity that had caught her in its coils, squeezed her tight, made her forget where she was. Made her forget everything except the sure grip of his hands, the taste of his kiss, the feeling of something _more_ in the way he touched her, as if he was trying to tell her something he didn't have the words to say. It had left her heart aching and her body weak—and she would be a damned fool to believe any of it.

"Zoraya?" Rough fingers buried in her hair with a touch far too tender for a man so large. For a _liar_ , she reminded herself. This had to all be part of his act.

Didn't it?

"Zoraya," he repeated, and she tried to tell herself she was imagining the concern in his voice. "Are you all right?"

She opened her eyes. Pale green filled her vision, dark with satiation, flicking over her face with sharp little worried glances.

It was a lot harder to hate him when he looked at her that way.

"Get off me." She pushed at him—only to suck in her breath when he shifted inside her, probing at her most sensitive depths, shrill in the wake of what he'd done to her. He closed his eyes, but not before she caught a flicker of hurt.

"Hold still," he said through grit teeth, then gripped her hips and pulled out, smooth and swift and leaving her struggling not to cry out.

Her legs bent like rubber noodles. She propped herself against the wall and dragged her clothing back into place; the tags on the shirt itched against her back as she buttoned up swiftly. Oh God, it wasn't even _her_ clothing. She'd just let him take her in a fitting room in a department store... _wearing clothes with the tags still on them_. She was lucky they hadn't ripped the security clips and ended up covered in ink.

"This didn't happen again." She buried her face in her hands and sank down the wall. "Christ, this didn't happen again. I'm going to get fired, Jesus Christ, this _didn't happen again_."

"It did." Evan settled down next to her, leaning shoulder to shoulder. One rough hand gently covered hers, drew it away from her face, and held it captured. Steady eyes regarded her, calm and worried. "Zero. Damage is already done. They already know you slept with me. Doing it a second time isn't going to sacrifice your integrity any further. How are they going to know? Hack into the store's security footage?"

She stared at him. "That's supposed to make me feel better?"

"Point." He looked down. Still he held their clasped hands, resting on his knee while he stroked his rough thumb along the edge of her palm. "I didn't come out here to seduce you."

"You said that last time."

"It was true then, too." His gaze rose to hers.

"Yeah?" She closed her eyes against that earnest look. She wasn't supposed to find this comforting—the steady warmth of his hand around hers, his bulk leaning against her side, the scent they made together wrapped around her in a hazed cloud. She knew she should pull her hand back, but somehow she couldn't quite bring herself to do it. _Tell me no_ , he'd said, and she'd pulled him close and kissed him anyway. He was like quicksand. One foot in and she was already lost, and all her struggling only sank her deeper.

And she couldn't blame him for this one. He'd been right. Eyes open, no lies, and still she'd made the choice—and she didn't want to regret it. Not after the way he'd made her feel.

God, she couldn't be falling for him—could she?

She cracked one eye open and stole a peek, only to find him watching her as if afraid he'd broken something. Hesitantly, she tightened her grip on his hand with a wan smile. "Still really good sex."

He blinked, both brows shooting up, before a broad grin spread across his lips. "Was it, then?"

"Mm." She tried to fight back a smile, but couldn't help herself when he looked so _delighted_. God, under that asshole façade he really was just a Southern boy—emphasis on the _boy_ , from that doofy grin. With a groan, she looked down and plucked at the blouse. The two top buttons barely dangled by a thread. "I don't think I have a choice about buying this now..."

Evan tilted his head—then reached out with calm deliberation, caught one of the buttons between thumb and forefinger, and methodically snapped it off.

Zero _lost_ it.

She clapped her hand over her mouth and tried to stop, but once the first giggle burst free the flood refused to slow. Evan's rolling baritone joined in low counterpoint to hers, his body shaking against her side as he laughed deeply, helplessly. Zero curled forward, giggling until her ribs ached, clutching her sides—until a polite tap rattled the door.

"Is everything all right in there?" a woman called.

Shit. _Shit_ , it was probably one of the clerks. Zero scrambled to her feet, taking several deep breaths. "Yes—I'm fine! I'm fine, just—um—uh. The shirt's scratchy. I'm ticklish."

Evan caught her eye. _Ticklish?_ he mouthed. _Seriously?_

_Shut up_ , she mouthed back, grinning fit to burst.

"I...see," the clerk said. "Are you not alone in there, Miss?"

Oh _God_. She could probably see Evan's feet under the door—but if he stood, she'd see the top of his oversized fucking head. Zero grabbed his arm and dragged him up. "Get up," she hissed. "Get up on the bench! Stay low!"

She shoved him up onto the bench next to her discarded jeans, then clapped her hands over the top of his head and shoved him down into a crouch. He stared at her but let her push him around...but a wicked flicker in his eyes warned she'd pay for this when it was over.

Zero whirled back to the door. She had to sound calm. Formidable. Evan had said she should be formidable. Right. "I'm alone. I'm fine. I'll be out in a minute."

A woman's pinched, suspicious face appeared under the bottom of the half-door. Zero quickly moved to bar her view of Evan, drawing herself up as best she could. She had the outfit; she could play the offended corporate socialite.

"Excuse me?" she bit off in freezing tones. "This is an invasion of my privacy. Once I've changed, I...I'll want to speak to your manager!" She stomped her foot—and immediately felt about five years old.

But the clerk's face disappeared. Evan grinned like a fiend and flashed a thumbs up, and Zero stuck her tongue out at him.

"I'm sorry, Miss," the clerk stammered. "That was inexcusable. I'll be available if you need any help."

Zero held her breath until she heard the click of the woman's heels moving away, her shadow disappearing from beneath the door. The moment she thought it was safe Zero groaned, deflating and sagging against the wall.

"...I can't believe I just had to do that."

"Smooth. Next you'll be ready for overpaid middle management." Evan remained crouched on the bench, studying his reflection in the mirror. "I look like a demented vulture."

"Isn't that what you do? Pick the bones of the dead?"

"Ouch. That _burned_ ," Evan said—then dissolved into laughter again.

Zero tried to fight it, but it was just as useless as before. "Shut up!" she hissed, snickering against her palm. "She'll hear you!"

He shook his head, swallowing back, trying—only for his body to shake with soundless chuckles, his eyes squeezing shut. He thudded down to sit on the bench. She leaned against his shoulder, struggling to breathe, struggling not to make a sound, little whispering chuckles escaping until her entire body trembled with the effort not to cackle. Her breath wheezed and she sank down on the bench next to him, rubbing at her damp eyes as she tried to slow her panting.

"I don't even know what's so funny," she gasped.

"Maybe you just needed a laugh." A heavy arm settled around her shoulders, pulling her lightly against his warmth. "You've been under a lot of stress lately."

"I wonder why."

He winced, but his grin didn't fade. "You're way too good at making me feel guilty."

"I'm not trying to."

"I know. But that's the downside of growing a conscience."

With a noncommittal sound, Zero leaned against him. They really should do something about escaping the fitting room with their dignity intact—or before the clerk came back to make sure they weren't stealing anything other than a quickie before closing time. But she liked this, she thought. Sitting here with him, quiet, feeling his warmth and breathing in the scent of leather and Evan and a faint sharp whiff of snow that still clung so close. He shouldn't feel so warm. So comfortable. She should be angry with him, but God...she was so tired of being angry and miserable and accusatory, right now. Right now, she wanted to just _be_.

He turned his head. His lips pressed into her hair, and she closed her eyes. "Zero?" he murmured.

"Hm?"

"Let me come home with you tonight."

Something in his voice compelled her to open her eyes. Something heavy and aching. She tilted her head back, looking up at him. At pale and cutting eyes that no longer seemed as sharp as they had before. They were glass, she thought. Clear and reflective and razor-edged, but they'd shatter with one hard hit.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because..." He lowered his eyes. Rough fingers drifted along her cheek, and wove into her hair. "Because I want to sleep somewhere that feels like a home. Not just a cold hotel room."

Zero leaned into his touch, slid her arms around his neck, and pressed her lips to his.

*     *     *

She changed back into her jeans and hoodie before, together, they picked out a few more outfits with a certain wordless synchronicity, as if speaking might shatter the quiet promise she'd made to him with that kiss. She didn't bother trying on the rest of the clothes. If it didn't fit, it didn't fit. She didn't care about her wardrobe right now—though she felt strange letting him pay for the heap of skirts and jackets and blouses and slacks that ended up in shiny department-store garment bags, and she avoided the clerk's eyes. What was the woman thinking, looking at this ratty barely-legal gutterpunk girl letting an older man buy her nice things?

_When did I start caring about things like that?_

She didn't. She shouldn't. And when Evan slung the bags over his shoulder and offered her his hand, she twined her fingers in his and lifted her chin and refused to give it a second thought. She wasn't taking the clothing because he _owed_ her. She was taking it because he was trying to _help_ her, and for once she was just going to stop snarling and accept the gesture with grace, gratitude, and good faith.

Until he pissed her off again.

And she knew—without a doubt—that he _would_.

She smiled to herself as they stepped out into the night. The clerk's voice chased them into the snow, echoing a canned announcement about closing time over the store. Evan bumped her elbow with his.

"What's that smile for, hm?"

"Nothing." She shook her head, tightening her grip on his hand. "Just...this. The quiet of it. Of us."

"I'm surprised you haven't tried to kill me today."

"I've thought about it."

He laughed, brief and rough. "I wouldn't like you so much if you hadn't."

"Funny." With a shrug she lowered her eyes, watching her feet as she kicked up a few fresher clumps of snow, sending them pluming across the sidewalk with every step. "I don't know. Suddenly I'm just...not as angry anymore. I guess I got tired of it." She frowned. "It's like fire, if you think about it."

"What is?"

"Us. What happens when we're around each other." She struggled to find the words for something that was more a feeling than anything else, something vague she couldn't quite grasp. "Fire is what it is. It's not good or bad. It can keep someone warm or destroy everything they own; it can kill you or make the difference in your survival. But it's not the fire's fault if you stick your hand in it, you know?" Her gaze slid to their clasped hands. She shifted her grasp to lace her fingers in his. "That's what it feels like, with us. We stood in each other's fire, and we've been burning each other like hell. But that same fire's what's keeping me so warm right now." With a laugh, she shook her head. "I'm really bad at explaining this. I don't think that made any sense."

"No...I think I get the idea." He pulled his hand from hers—and slid his arm around her shoulders, gathering her against his side until their strides fell in tandem and his heat chased away the wintry midnight chill. "I like that. Being the fire that keeps you warm."

He held her close while they waited for the train; held her close _on_ the train, and damn her willpower but she let him. She wanted to be angry with herself for letting go of her fury after only a few days. For letting go of it at all. But life was too short to stay angry; too short to make herself fume over something that would be over as soon as it started, and would leave no more impact on her life than a memory. In a few days Evan would be just another dot against the blue, an airplane winging overhead. She'd look up at the silver underbellies flashing through the sky and wonder which one was taking him out of her life as if he'd never been there at all, leaving behind nothing but an absence that would quickly be swept away.

Why, then, did the thought leave her so very melancholy, a sick quiet feeling of emptiness building in her chest?

She leaned closer to him as they slipped off the train and out into the street. Amber lamplight fell down on them, speckled with dancing wisps of snow like glowing white-gold sprites, and for a moment she wondered what it would be like if this was every day: coming home with her hand twined in Evan's, while the snow fell down on them with its insulating silence that seemed to blanket the world with dreamlike softness.

Yeah, right.

Upstairs in her apartment, she opened the foldout wardrobe built into one of the supporting walls of the loft area. She didn't want to bunch the new outfits into the closet with all her jeans and ragged t-shirts, as if they'd somehow rub off on the posh new clothes and turn them grungy. As they peeled away the garment bags and hung everything up, she glanced at him sidelong and forced herself to finally break the companionable silence.

"Thank you for this. Seriously." She offered a smile. "I can't afford all this. And...I know I need it. I know. I may not like it, but it's necessary. It—all of this—was really sweet of you. I just wish I could pay you back."

He nudged her with his shoulder. "You've already given enough by letting me stay."

"Trying to buy my affection?"

'It's not like that and you know it."

"I know." She laughed, yet it faded and dried as she studied the rows of blazers and pretty blouses and soft, touchable skirts. "You know a change of clothing won't change who I am, right?" She fingered the polished buttons on the cuff of one jacket. "These kinds of things...my older sister could wear them like a queen. Scheherazade's like...pure grace. It's like she's doing you a favor just by being in the room with her." She shook her head. "I can't do that. I can't _be_ that. I've tried. Every time, I fell on my face."

"You don't have to try to be anyone but yourself." He brushed his knuckles under her chin. "It's just a mask you wear, eight hours a day. Think of it like scuba gear. You can't survive underwater without it, but it doesn't make you a fish."

"No? I'm not a fish?"

His lips quirked. "I think I'd have complained about the smell by now."

She frowned—then puffed out her cheeks, pursed her lips, and widened her eyes. "What ab—" Nope. Couldn't talk like that. She tried sucking her cheeks in instead, then slurred, "What about now?" It came out more _whu abba nu_ , but close enough.

Evan stilled, just staring at her, blinking slowly, his expression blanking. "You—are you seriously—" He barked out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "I don't even. No. I can't. C'mere, you."

Before she could even puff out the breath she was holding, he slung an arm around her waist, scooped her up, and tossed her over his shoulder, still laughing. Zero let out a little scream, swatting at him, snickering helplessly.

"Put me down!"

"No, sorry. Fish don't have legs. I can't leave you to flop on the floor."

"Evan!"

"Really," he said, carting her across the tiny apartment, "it's just chivalry."

He ducked under the loft section and into her enclosed little sleeping area; the top of his head barely cleared the entrance, and her back dragged against the overhang before the world spun by as he flipped her down and deposited her unceremoniously on the bed. Chuckling, she kicked her shoes off and pushed her stocking feet against his chest, shoving him back.

"How did I know you'd gravitate straight toward the bed?"

"We haven't needed a bed yet." He curled one long, square hand around her ankle, idly stroking his thumb over the crest of her foot. "I didn't come here to sleep with you again, Z."

"You say that every time."

"I'll prove it." Gently lowered her legs—then lowered himself, bracing one knee to the edge of the bed and both hands to either side of her. He blocked out the light from the living room, filling the entrance to the alcove with his bulk, his heat, his scent. In the darkness pale green eyes glowed, holding her, as he leaned down to kiss her.

His lips were soft against hers, chaste, brushing so gently her insides knotted up and her fingers clenched into little fists, nails digging into her palms. He shouldn't kiss her this way. Like a few days of fighting and sex and lies actually _meant_ something. Like being able to stay here with her meant something. She didn't want to feel this, this slow quiet warmth stealing through her—but she couldn't help it. He was the fire that burned her...and the hearth that warmed her, soothing away that ache.

Slowly, his mouth parted from hers. He looked down at her without a word—then pulled away with one last sweet brush of lips to lips before he disappeared past the varnished wood walls of the little nook. Whispers of leather on cloth rose.

"Get ready for bed." His voice drifted back. "We've both got an early day tomorrow."

Zero twisted onto her hands and knees to peek out of the alcove, watching as he hung his jacket up, unbuttoned his shirt, and shrugged it down over powerful bare shoulders. Each moment revealed more of that thorned and jagged tattoo that looked like the mark of a fallen angel. Biting her lip, flushed in a fever heat all the way down her throat, she pulled back and wriggled out of her jeans, kicking them off to puddle on the floor outside before slipping her hands under her shirt to unsnap her bra. That was pretty much her idea of getting ready for bed; she usually slept in the shirt and panties she'd worn that day, though she supposed she'd have to start actually putting on _pajamas_ after work now that she had her new identity as a corporate zombie.

_At least I get to be some kind of zombie. Polished on the outside, brain-eater on the inside_.

She laughed to herself and scooted back against the pillows. She was such a dork sometimes. While she waited for him, she flicked on the lights in the alcove. Strings of icicle lights bloomed across the walls in little firefly-sparks of gold, interspersed with the soft amber glow of tiny paper lanterns. She'd painted the ceiling and inner walls of the alcove with trailing branches of drifting green leaves, until the entire room looked like a green-gold faerie glade cupping to nestle her bed in an isolated little pocket of forest.

Evan ducked inside, sliding onto the bed on his hands and knees. He'd stripped down to nothing but a pair of white boxer-briefs turned tawny where they stretched thin over his tan, taut hide. He was too large for the enclosed little nook, oppressively so, filling it until the temperature skyrocketed. Zero watched him with her tongue caught between her teeth as he prowled toward her, knees sinking deep into the thick layers of heaped duvets. A slow, cunning smile spread across his lips as he drew closer. Closer. Practically stalking her like a wild animal, until the caging heat of him pressed her against the headboard. His lips hovered over hers; her breath came short and quick as she looked up into pale eyes that reflected the lights like dancing sun-motes.

"Zoraya," he whispered, lips grazing hers, her name falling from his lips like sinful chocolate drops.

She swallowed the thick lump in her throat. It took everything in her not to lean in close—not to run her fingers over that soft burr of close-cropped hair, curl her fingers against his nape, and kiss him. "Y-yes?"

"I have a question for you."

Oh God. Oh God, he was going to say something awful and she was going to go belly up and end up naked. "Um." She licked her lips. "What?"

His head tilted. His lips parted. His eyes lidded. And he rumbled, "...why the fuck do you have five hundred blankets on your bed?"

She blinked. What? Wait— _what?_ "Oh, you _asshole_."

Bursting into laughter, she shoved him. He toppled over, landing in a floof of the dozen-odd duvets and quilts she kept layered on her bed, laughing as he snared her in his arms and tugged her close. She felt every deep rolling chuckle vibrating into her as she snuggled into the crook of his arm, resting her head to his shoulder.

"Old building," she explained. "Radiator heat craps out in the middle of the night sometimes. You ever tried to sleep through a New York winter with no heat?"

"So you sleep on the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man?"

"I like to be prepared."

He poked his finger into the topmost duvet. It sank in almost to the last knuckle, pillowing around his hand. "I feel like it's eating me."

"It is. Zombie bed wants to eat your flesh."

He snorted and gave her a skeptical look. "What is your thing with zombies? Your desk looks like _Night of the Living Dead_ threw up all over a Sanrio store."

"I don't know. They're fun. It's kind of a thing, you know? Cultural. About how we all fear death, but we fear the unknown after it even more. And we're all afraid of being crushed in the faceless horde of society." She shrugged, grinning. "Plus I get to imagine myself as the lone survivor ahead of the slavering hordes. Inevitably I'm some scrappy antihero with a heart of gold. I may or may not have a son that I repeatedly refer to as 'Caaauuurl.'"

"Do I even want to know what you're talking about?"

Zero groaned. He was hopeless. She walked her fingers up his chest, then tapped the tip of his nose. "You. Me. Netflix. _Walking Dead_ marathon. Tomorrow night."

Evan sprawled on his back, dragging a hand over his face. "I'm too old for this shit."

"You're too old to be in my bed."

"Am I?"

"Mmhm." With a laugh, she crawled up to wriggle under the topmost layer of blankets, nestling herself between and making a Zero sandwich out of the duvets. "Tuck me in, Grandpa."

"Brat."

With a mock-disgusted look, Evan shifted to slide himself under the covers, settling himself against her and trapping their body heat together under a layer of insulation. Zero thought even if the heat went out tonight, she wouldn't need her extra blankets. Not when he radiated warmth. Her fire, she thought, and closed her eyes against the knowledge that he wasn't really hers—and she didn't want him to be. A temporary truce didn't make one bit of difference. She didn't even _like_ him.

Yet she didn't resist when his arm slid under her once more, gathering her into the hard angles of him. "I like this," he murmured, looking up at the lights. "It's like your own little world, all in soft gold." His lips pressed into her hair; a teasing edge softened his voice. "Even if it's a little claustrophobic."

She chuckled and nosed her shoulder, resting her hand to his chest. "It wasn't made for oversized assholes."

"Really? I think I fit here just fine."

He caught the hand against his chest and drew it away. His fingers slid down to encircle her wrist in warmth and carefully controlled strength, nearly swallowing her in the sheer size of his grasp. He held her arm high, studying it, his thumb stroking over the line of zeros and ones tattooed around her wrist, tracing each number one after the other with the very tip of his thumbnail until she shivered, fingers curling.

"I know what this says."

"Since when can you read binary?"

He turned his head to look down at her. "Remember lunch?"

"All those stormy and tumultuous hours ago?"

"Seriously, you are such a brat." He chuckled. "I wasn't just writing down what you said. I wrote down the numbers, then Googled them."

"Cheating. No geek points for you." Still she flushed, something secret inside her brimming with a quiet and sweet pleasure that he'd even bothered. She hid her face against his shoulder, peeking over the hard curve of muscle with a tentative smile. "What does it say, then?"

He only continued to trace that line of numbers in silence. Something strange shuttered his eyes, locking some of his warmth behind protective glass, where she couldn't touch. "It says _love_ ," he said, then let her wrist go.

She pulled her arm against her chest. "Let me guess, you don't believe in love, either."

"Hard to have love when you never even stay anywhere long enough for like."

"And you like it that way, right?"

"Maybe." He reached over to flick the lights off. Darkness plunged over them, all shadows and a faint hint of gold from the single window looking in on the little alcove, street lights still awake when all the world was asleep. Their light was warm as his voice was cold when he said, "We both have to work in the morning."

"Right." Zero rolled over, giving him her back, and tucked herself to curl up against him. "Goodnight, Evan."

He said nothing. But as the heavy warmth of his arm settled over her and his solid bulk fitted against her back, she wondered how she could fall asleep so very close to him—and yet feel so utterly alone.

## CHAPTER TEN

HE WAS GONE BY THE time she woke.

The wrinkles he'd left in the bed had grown cold, but she could still smell the fresh wet scent of the shower and soap left behind not long ago, mingled with the aroma of coffee. Rubbing her eyes, Zero sat up with a yawn, and told herself she didn't give a damn if he wanted to skip out on her. He was still an ass. And he'd only asked to sleep over for the night, not play domestic over breakfast.

But when she crawled out of her little alcove, she found a steaming paper cup of coffee waiting for her in the kitchen nook, next to a wrapped lemon cake square—and a note, written in slanting, daggerlike slasher-flick handwriting.

_Mocha latte. In case you thought I forgot. Still working on those good graces._

_Had to go for a morning meeting. Interviewing Alejandro today, too. Pray I survive. See you at the office. Wear the green top._

_-E_

Fucking idiot. Still a fucking asshole.

But despite herself, Zero smiled.

And, nibbling on her lemon cake, went to dig in her wardrobe for any top _but_ the green one.

She ended up with a sheer pale blue sleeveless top over a black camisole, paired with crisp straight-legged black slacks and a matching fitted half-jacket. And boots. Heeled, trendy little boots, but still boots—so she could get off the elevator without landing on her face. She still felt strange wearing clothing Evan had bought for her. Torn. Pride said she never should have taken it. Common sense said she needed it. But something else—something stupid and emotional and increasingly too susceptible to his backwards, fumbling, assholeish charm—wanted to do something for him in return, even if she couldn't afford more than a fraction of what he'd spent on her.

Yeah. Like he'd want anything from her.

She took a few minutes to transfer her belongings from her messenger bag to the glossy black leather satchel they'd snagged on their way out the store last night. With the stiff thing hanging from her shoulder, she didn't feel like herself. She didn't _look_ like herself, when she studied her reflection in the mirror: hair lifted off her neck save a few trailing tendrils, makeup subtle and chic, tattoo half-covered by a little gold tennis bracelet. She looked like someone who could walk into a room and dominate it. A shark just like Evan. There was a certain appeal in that, she thought. Looking powerful made her _feel_ powerful.

There might be something to his bullshit after all.

She pulled on her thick, warm new town coat and headed out to catch her train—and managed to only trip on her boots once on her way to the office. The front desk receptionist did a double-take as she breezed past, and she couldn't help a secret smile as she chirped "Good morning, Jake!" before stepping into the crowded elevator.

But her smile faded as she found herself crushed up against Alejandro—who stood rigid in a wrinkled, half-tucked white button-down and khakis just an inch or two too short. He looked so uncomfortable, and she almost felt sorry for him...until he looked down at her with his upper lip curled in a sneer.

"Nice outfit."

Zero's heart sank. So much for hoping he would cool off and let it go. She ground her teeth and lifted her chin, looking up at the numbers flicking by. "Thanks for noticing," she said, then swept off the elevator with her head held high.

She felt like the click of her boots drew every eye to her. The Jezebel. The underhanded little girl who slept around to keep her job. Were they tallying her price tag? Could they see his touch all over the clothing he'd bought for her, like she'd tattooed the credit card receipt on her forehead?

It didn't matter. She knew the truth. And friends who wanted to judge her based on their nasty little assumptions weren't friends worth keeping.

At her desk, she peeled the George Romero posters from her cube walls and rolled them up, then carefully tucked her plushies away inside her satchel. Alejandro leaned over the top of her cubicle, lips still curled in that damnable sneer.

"You're seriously going through with it?'

"It's part of the job." She shrugged and tucked Zombie Hello Kitty safely in a corner pocket. "Just doing what I have to do."

"Sell-out."

Zero closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Don't let it get to her. She couldn't. "Grow up, Ale," she said. "Just...grow up."

With a derisive sound, he turned and walked away.

Groaning, Zero sank into her chair. She just...had to let this blow over. And until then, she had work to do—and didn't have time to think about infuriating men. _Either_ of them.

She managed to avoid thinking about Evan for a good four hours, while she plowed through a backlog of bug reports and code fixes. There was something immensely satisfying about whipping a program into shape, finding all those little problems no one else could ferret out and coming up with just the right solution, the perfect elegant little line of code to make everything fall into place. It was enough to make her forget Evan, forget Alejandro's nastiness, forget the whispers around her, forget even the itchy slacks trying to crawl up her ass while she lost herself in her work.

Until a new email notification dinged in her taskbar, flashing New Message from evanevenstevens@­gmail.com. She paused, the sound of keyboard gunfire silencing, and arched a brow. Evan Even Stevens? He had to be fucking kidding her. She fought back a smile as she pulled up Outlook and clicked the message.

Hey, beautiful, he wrote. Sneak out through the back way and meet me in the alley on your break. We'll go for lunch.

Zero tilted her head, then fired back an answering email. There is no "back way." I don't think there's even an alley.

She'd barely closed her email before another notification popped up. Okay, well just meet me at that little skewers cart down the street. Try not to be seen. Cloak and dagger.

Okay, Mr. Bond.

James, he sent back. Evan James.

She bit back a laugh, then rattled off, Stop emailing me. I'm trying to work.

And not two seconds later... Yes, ma'am.

...that's still emailing me.

_Stop replying_.

You stop replying!

Nothing. Dead silence; empty inbox. She glanced over her shoulder, but he was nowhere in sight. Must be on the top floor with the C-level hotshots. Shaking her head, she pulled up the code compiler window again—only for another notification to flash.

... _I stopped_.

Go home, Evan. You're drunk.

I'm laughing like an idiot, and your CEO is giving me crazy looks.

With an amused, exasperated sigh, Zero sent back one last email. Goodbye, Evan. I'll see you at lunch.

That's my girl, came back, and she froze, heart twisting tight.

When the hell had she become _his_ girl?

She pushed the thought out of her head. It was just a figure of speech. And she wasn't fucking _going_ there, because she would hate herself forever if she had to admit out loud that he was starting to get under her skin. There was something bizarrely endearing about a guy willing to keep making an ass out of himself however many times it took to make amends, even if she couldn't figure out _why_.

She dove back into work, but spent the next half-hour watching the clock instead of her screen. She wasn't that eager to see him again. She couldn't be. And she wasn't in the slightest hurry when she locked her workstation, slung her bag over her shoulder, and headed for the elevator. As she followed the sidewalk flow down the street toward the skewers cart, she straightened her coat. Calm. Cool. Composed.

So why did her heart start bouncing on her stomach like a trampoline when she saw him lounging on the sidewalk near the cart, standing head and shoulders above the crowd?

His slow, cunning smile spread across his lips when he caught sight of her; he raised a hand as she drew closer. "Hey."

Rough fingers curled against her waist and drew her in. In his other hand he balanced two Styrofoam trays. Without so much as an if-you-please, he pressed warm lips to her cheek, lingering with a familiarity that made her ache, as if he had any right to kiss her in public. As if he had some claim on her. And she closed her eyes and _let_ him, sinking into the heated sensation of contact, the momentary roughness of his beard against her skin, the crispness of his suit brushing against her, saturated in his scent. God, what the hell had she stumbled into?

Taking a sharp breath, she pulled back from him and forced a smile. "What'd you get?"

"Lemongrass tuna skewers in peanut sauce."

He passed her one of the trays, and she opened it to peek inside. The savory scent of grilled tuna cubes speared on bamboo skewers hit her like an assault on her hungry, roiling stomach. As they cut across the current of the crowd to a sidewalk bench, she fished one out and took a nibble. The rich peanut sauce nearly exploded on her tongue. "I feel like we should be eating at the Ritz, dressed like this. Not a sidewalk food cart."

He laughed and sank down onto the bench, prying his tray open. "Tomorrow it'll be gyros in the park. We have a stereotype to defy."

"Dumbass." She pointed her skewer at him and settled on the bench at his side. The concrete seat nearly froze her bottom, icy cold soaking up through her coat and slacks, but he was more than warm enough to drive the chill away. They sat arm to arm, and she had to stop herself from leaning into him. "You really are. I can't believe you, emailing me when I'm trying to work."

"Would you rather I showed up and dragged you off in front of everyone?"

"Point taken." She savored a few more bites. "Evan Even Stevens, though? Seriously? That's such a dorky email address."

"You haven't heard the saying? You know, Even Stevens. Being fair, objective, and impartial about things."

"But your last name isn't even Stevens."

"That's not the _point_." He glanced down, gaze raking over her. "I thought I told you to wear the green."

"Which is exactly why I'm not."

"Would you believe me if I said I knew you'd do that?"

She rolled her eyes and elbowed him. "Nice try, Machiavelli. Stop talking and eat. I'm ravenous."

But his gaze lingered on her, his smile melting away, his eyes scorching. He traced a precise path over her with lingering looks, as if marking a roadmap he had every intention of following. Her lips. Her throat. The curve of her body, the length of her thighs—until by the time his gaze rose to hers she could almost feel his mouth, his touch, branding her with a ghostly manifestation of his desire. "So am I," he rumbled, every soft sound pulling on her strings and tugging at something deep and hot inside her.

She lowered her eyes, forcing her attention back to her food and away from the way he fucking _smoldered_ like he'd melt the snow from the streets. She wasn't letting those looks get under her skin, damn it. And she told herself for the millionth time: he _wasn't_ coming home with her again.

*     *     *

He came home with her again.

She wasn't even sure how it happened. One moment he was lurking to kidnap her outside the office building and drag her to a little Thai restaurant tucked in a back alley. The next he was crushing her against the wall of the alley while she kissed the taste of red curry coconut sauce from his lips, the spice and fire of it burning her mouth, the wild hot headiness of him burning _her_. His hands slid under her camisole, imprinting his granite-rough touch on her skin, and she gasped "Yes" before he even had to ask.

Secret, teasing kisses on the subway turned into a hot, urgent crash of mouth to mouth in the foyer of her apartment building; into grasping hands dragging each other up the stairs; into clothing torn away and left in a trail on her floor, and then into the warm soft plushness of the bed yielding under their weight as he tumbled her down and enveloped her in the heat of his body. He was like magma, this simmering, explosive, molten inferno caged inside stone skin, and he dragged her into his heat until she breathed sparks and bled fire.

Over and over he took her, filling the safe private space of her little apartment with the sounds of them, with the quiet swift rush of their breaths and the mingled rhythm of their voices that blended into counterpoint until she couldn't hear herself without hearing him. Winter's chill fled from their mounting heat, and sweat rolled over their skin in trickling, licking tongues, slicked under her touch as she clutched at him and tangled her legs with his and pulled him deeper, deeper, ever deeper. He pushed her limits. He pushed _her_ , took her where she'd never go on her own, challenged her and met her every challenge in return until they drove each other to a wild and precarious edge.

And when she fell...when she fell, as her vision misted strange and a tempest poured through her...she wondered how she'd let him get in so deep, so fast, as if the harsh scrape of her anger had sanded away all their rough edges to let him fit into the quiet spaces of her life, filling them up as if he'd been made for them.

Spaces he would only leave empty when he packed up and moved on.

And as he sank against her, as their heavy breaths began to settle in lazy tandem, as he gathered her close in his arms and pressed his lips into her hair...Zero told herself it didn't matter.

_Who's the liar this time?_ A nasty little voice mocked.

She closed her eyes and held him tight, and when he whispered her name in the dark she couldn't say anything at all.

*     *     *

He was gone again when she woke the next morning. And the next, when she somehow found herself bringing him home again. They'd curled up on the couch with Chinese takeout and talked about the office and watched _The Walking Dead_ , with her head on his shoulder and his arm around her waist. He couldn't watch the zombies and eat at the same time, couldn't even stand to look at the screen, and she laughed and hugged his arm and told herself it shouldn't be this easy. This fun. This comfortable. This sweet, until it wasn't sweet at all when he lifted her into his lap and parted her thighs around his hips and drew her down on him until she rode the swell and rush and sigh of need with a sensuality that felt as if it would eat her alive, sweeping over her in a firestorm and reducing her to nothing but cinders.

"I feel like I tripped and fell down the rabbit hole," she murmured as she tucked her head under his jaw and let herself melt into the slow, deep burn she loved to savor, with their bodies still locked together and that deep sore pull warming her from the inside. The silver-flicker light of the television flashed over them, strobing in the darkened living room. "One minute I'm screaming at you and telling you to go to hell, the next you're just...here, and I'm okay with that."

"Life just happens that way sometimes." His voice rumbled in her ear, intimate and close. He smoothed his hands over her back, firm and slow, as if his touch could hold her together. "We've done everything else backwards. Is it really so surprising we'd get all our fighting out of the way before anything else?"

Zero closed her eyes. She didn't understand the hot hard hurting feeling digging into her chest. "Out of the way of what?" she whispered, but he said nothing. "Of _what_ , Evan?"

"I don't know," he said, voice thick, and gathered her into his arms to carry her to bed.

*     *     *

It is what it is, Zero told herself over a morning mocha latte that was already starting to feel like a routine. For the third morning in a row he'd left a latte, a lemon bar, and another note.

_You're lucky it wasn't noodles in red sauce. Never watching TV with you again._

_See you at work. Try not to be so distractingly sexy._

_-E_

Why was he so stupid? And when had it started to be so cute? Zero smiled to herself and tucked the note atop the stack of the previous two days' notes. This would probably be the last one. He'd walked into her life on Monday, and somehow she'd tumbled right through a tumultuous week straight into Friday. He hadn't said when his flight was leaving, but management had been pretty clear. Best behavior for a week. He was gone from the office after today, and she wasn't sure she wanted to ask if he was sticking around for the weekend. Like she'd said before...it was what it was. She'd remember him for a few nights after, miss the sex, and then they'd both go on with their lives, doing whatever it was they were meant to do with or without each other.

_Yep. This is me being practical. Adult. Not acting like a special snowflake teenager who falls for the first guy to act like a dick and then kiss her until the world turns sideways._

Maybe _she_ was the stupid one here.

She breathed in the steam rising from her coffee, and doggedly ignored the pang below her ribs. She should get dressed. Go to work. And pretend she didn't notice when he cruised past, lethal and arrogant and handsome in those suits that still looked so very _wrong_ on him, when every night he reminded her what an animal he was. But as she glanced over the apartment, over her little space that had started to pick up traces of him—from the notes on the kitchen counter to the leather jacket on the hook and the boxer-briefs draped over the hamper—her gaze fell on the plushies lined up on the windowsill, nestled among the candles where she'd left them after rescuing them from exile in the bottom of her bag. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and tilted her head, frowning, before her frown melted into a smile.

Maybe she could afford to be a _few_ minutes late.

## CHAPTER ELEVEN

EVAN LINGERED OUTSIDE THE OFFICE, watching the snow fall in the deepening night and asking himself what the hell he thought he was doing. Zero had texted him telling him she'd be working a little late. He should have gone back to his hotel. Hell, even gone back to her place and waited for her there.

Instead here he was, hanging on like a little lost puppy, just waiting to lick her hand and beg for another scrap of the affection that had become his drug from the first time she'd smiled at him like she might actually, honestly be able to like him.

He would be the first to admit he'd royally fucked himself. After the past few days he didn't know how he'd go back to jetting from city to city, contract to contract, living life out of empty hotel rooms and salving the ache with equally empty flings. The very idea left him restless and homesick for a place that wasn't even home.

God, if he kept going like this he was going to end up playing sleepy suburbanite desk jockey. With a _minivan_.

The glass doors of the building slid open and Zero stepped out, her pretty heeled knee-high boots clattering softly, her town coat bundled over a soft knit turtleneck, clinging skirt, and tights. She looked so different from the scruffy little punk he'd seen that night in the bar. Still beautiful, still that same wild light and wicked intelligence in those dark blue eyes, but he found himself missing her colors and her brightness.

"Hey," she said, tugging on her gloves and looking up at him with a smile. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose pinkened rapidly in the deepening evening cold. "Sorry I took so long."

"Putting in overtime?"

"Making up for coming in late."

"What was that about? I thought you were doing the apple-polisher thing."

She shrugged. "Had something else to do this morning. One sec."

With a quick smile she dug into her satchel, rummaging around inside until she extracted something small and pale: a stitched cotton doll, no larger than his palm. A soft felt plush with pale green skin, wearing a suit made of ragged, torn scraps of dark blue fabric. The doll had green button eyes and a painted-on skullcap of hair the same dark brown as its crooked beard. Stitched Xs made up a smile—a smile smeared in red paint. Little red splotches of painted-on blood and bruises and dirt dotted the doll, along with tiny cross-hatched scar marks. Evan stared at the macabre, bizarrely cute little thing.

"What is this? Is this...?"

"Zombie Evan." Zero grinned sheepishly and wiggled it a bit, hopping it around in a little dance and chirping in a high, squeaky falsetto. "' _I'm thinkin' 'bout her, thinkin' bout me, thinkin' 'bout us, what we gonna be_ ...'" Her grin widened, bright with pure devilry, as she offered him the doll. "See? He sings. Your favorite musical."

"It's a _movie_ ," he growled. His brows knit as he turned the little thing over. Had she _made_ this? "Is this your way of reminding me you're still thinking about killing me?"

"No. Well, maybe." She bit her lip and fidgeted with her gloves, tugging the fingertips. "Look, I can't afford to buy you nice things or take you out to fancy dinners or anything like that. But you gave me something nice. And I don't just mean the clothes, okay? So..." Her mouth twisted up as she looked fixedly at the wall. "I wanted to give you something back."

"So you gave me a toy."

Her shoulders went rigid. "Look, throw it away if it's that stupid."

"It's not. It's not stupid at all."

Evan shook his head and caught her hand, pulling her closer. He couldn't stand having her so far away, stiff and waiting for him to hurt her again when all he wanted was to hold her. God, she was the quirkiest, strangest little thing, yet he wouldn't have her any other way. He could picture her sitting on the barstool at her counter, bent over the little doll with a paintbrush, making herself late for work just because she'd wanted to make him smile. Heat flushed down his neck, as if trying to crawl its way down to meet with the ache in his gut.

"This is the difference between you and me," he said. "When I want to fix something or give something to someone, I throw money at them. Cold, impersonal money. You—you put yourself into it. You make it real. Warm. Personal. And maybe a little weird." With a smile, he tapped the doll to the tip of her nose. "It's like you bring that feeling of home wherever you touch."

She stared up at him, her eyes wide and confused. "Home?"

"Yeah." Words caught in his throat, but he made himself say them. He'd likely never have another chance, after tomorrow. "Every time I come back to you, you make me feel like home. Even when you're ready to claw my eyes out." Chuckling, he looked down at the grisly little toy in his hand. "I'll just have to take Zombie Evan with me everywhere. Take photos with it like people do with those garden gnomes. Just to give those hotel rooms that personal touch of home."

With a shy little laugh, she pushed him gently. "And that stylish hint of the undead."

"Yeah," he said softly, when it wasn't really what he wanted to say. Not when a thousand other words built up inside him, and even if he'd never have the chance to say them again he couldn't bring himself to do it. Couldn't bring himself to tell her that he didn't want the damned doll for his constant companion. He wanted her. He wanted to take photos with her and drag her around the country just so they could come back to the quiet relief and comfort of home—her home, her cozy little wood-toned apartment that always smelled of the smoke of green apple incense and always seemed just large enough for the two of them. Together.

But he couldn't say that. He couldn't _do_ that, and Zombie Evan was just another reminder that he'd be leaving tomorrow, with nothing to remember her by but this little scrap of cloth and the taste of her kiss.

Zero looked down, scuffing the toe of her boot against the sidewalk. "You're staring at me."

"Was I?" Evan shook himself, smiled, and tucked the plushie into the pocket of his coat for safekeeping. "Dress code check. You passed."

"Funny."

"I try." He offered his arm. "You want to go catch a movie or something?"

"Sure." She slid her hand into the crook of his arm. "Zombie flick?"

"Not on your life."

She laughed and leaned against him. And when he closed his eyes...when he closed his eyes he could almost pretend that this was his life, this moment just another captured from millions just like it, instead of a single cutaway scene in an endless film reel of days empty of warmth, of meaning, of her.

*     *     *

A dozen holiday family films, an award-winning cop drama, more romantic comedies than he could shake a stick at, and he'd let her talk him into a horror movie. A _gory_ horror movie. Evan was starting to wonder if he'd ever eat anything red again.

He was also starting to wonder if he should sleep with one eye open, and check her apartment for anything larger than a penknife.

They strolled down the sidewalk toward the transit center, hand in hand, quiet amidst the bustle and flow of the city street. New York never ceased to amaze him: lit up bright even near midnight, restless life awake and moving, swift and unstoppable. He'd been to a hundred cities and never seen anything like it.

Which only made this moment of stillness all the more rare and precious, that he could find such comfortable silence with her in the midst of this riot of noise.

Zero drifted to a halt and tilted her head back, looking up at the sky. Snowflakes swirled down to speckle on her lashes; she half-closed her eyes. "It's snowing again."

He bumped her arm with his. "Tends to happen in winter."

"Smartass." She chuckled, leaning into him in that way that made his heart skip and tightened the pit of his stomach with that unsettling longing he couldn't seem to shake. "I like the first few moments when it snows. Here you never get to see just clean white snow piled up for long. People walk all over it and get it dirty and grind it into slush. The street sweepers shove it aside and salt it. But for a few minutes when it first starts, it's just white and clean and quiet."

"And cold."

Bright laughter lit her face. "And cold," she said, then gave him a little push, heading down the street again.

Once more silence fell between them. Yet it was a silence he could not endure, for it only made the thing inside him that much louder. The words he wanted to say, but couldn't. What was the point? What could he possibly hope to offer her, except a few cold and sterile nights when work happened to bring him to the New York area? He couldn't even ask her to wait for him, when he didn't know what he'd be asking her to wait _for_.

He licked his lips and glanced at her, then away, then back again. God damn it, when had he turned into such a chickenshit?

"You're staring at me again," she murmured, a sly little smile tugging at her lips.

"Was I? Damn. Caught me again." He let out a nervous little laugh, then cleared his throat when his voice cracked. "Um. I guess I was just thinking."

"About...?"

"Uh..." _Spit it out, man_. "Well, uh. These past few days have been fun."

She didn't look up. Her smile didn't fade. Her stride didn't falter. But a subtle tension went through her nonetheless, a stiffness as if she was hardening herself in anticipation of a blow. "But it's over, right?"

"Not until tomorrow." He drew to a halt, looking down at her. "We have one more night, Z."

"I know." The soft sound of her boots slushing through the snow stopped. She looked down, staring at the sidewalk. Her fingers crushed so tight on his it almost hurt, but when she finally raised her gaze to his she only smiled, wistful and sweet. "Listen, it is what it is. We had our little enemies-to-lovers story and like you said, you don't stick around."

"Would you want me to stick around?" The words felt like they pulled everything inside him up to clog in his throat, fishhooks digging into him and pulling everything out of place. Those hooks only dug deeper when she remained silent, looking up at him with something like hopelessness. "Would you?"

"For what?" she asked, her eyes dark and hurting, her voice soft.

Those hooks dug deep enough to pierce his heart. But she was right. She was right, and he'd known it before he'd opened his big mouth. He could promise her the world if she just wanted him to stay, but he was afraid it would just be another damned lie.

"Okay," he said. "Okay."

"Okay," she repeated. But her lips remained parted as if she might say something else. Something that hovered against the softness of her mouth, waiting to be exhaled on her breath like a blown kiss. But she only shook her head, pulling her hand from his, backing away. "Let's go home."

She turned away from him, almost running from him, her steps quick and sharp as she stepped out onto the crosswalk. Stepped into a sudden blaze of headlights turning. Stepped in front of the silver gleam of a grille bearing down, and the world slowed for Evan as he lunged for her, as he grabbed at her, as his fingers stopped just short of her coat, too slow, too far, not enough.

" _Zoraya!_ "

*     *     *

It was all his fault.

Evan paced the hospital waiting room, fingers dug tight into his pockets and clenched so hard his fists made lumps bulging against his jeans. If he hadn't pressed her about their relationship, if he'd just been fast enough to pull her back out of the street, if he'd noticed the car in the turn lane...if if _if_. So many ifs, but no amount of _if_ would change that Zoraya was in that examining room without him and it was all his fault.

He could have lost her. Just like he'd lost everyone else—it could have been over in an instant, there and gone, and he'd be left with just another hole in his heart where someone used to be. Never mind that she'd been fine. Barely bowled over before the car had stopped; the SUV had only been going about ten miles per hour, slowed into the turn, and Zero had insisted she was fine until she tried to push herself up and her arm had given out beneath her, leaving her tumbling into the snow while Evan reached for her, then drew back, afraid to touch her, afraid to leave her there, not knowing what to do until the driver had offered them a tense, silent ride to the hospital with its sounds of people coughing and stifling heat and the stink of his own fear-sweat in his nostrils.

If that SUV had been going just a little faster, it could have been a ride to the morgue.

He couldn't stand it anymore. He stalked up to the reception desk and curled his hands tight against the counter. "Any updates on Zoraya Blackwell?"

The admin nurse looked up from her screen, watching him with that sort of polite sympathy that said she saw this all the time. "Are you her...husband?"

"No."

"Boyfriend?"

"It's complicated." Evan barely restrained himself from slamming his fists on the counter. "May I see her?"

"She'll be out soon, sir." She offered him a reassuring smile. "I'm sure she'll be all right. It's sweet of you to care so much."

Sweet. More like the dumbest thing he'd ever done in his life.

He flashed her a thin, polite smile and made himself turn away—but froze when the double doors leading to the exam rooms swung open and Zero walked out, poking and prodding at a bright blue short cast that wrapped her arm from elbow to knuckles.

"Zero." He started forward, feeling like a seam had been cut open along his heart, then made himself stop. Just...stop. "You're all right?"

She lifted her head, looking up at him in surprise. "Evan. Hey. I...didn't think you'd still be here."

He smiled weakly and gestured toward her messenger bag and coat, draped over one of the chairs. "Someone had to play guard dog, right?"

"Right." Something flickered in her eyes, before she looked down again and curled her fingers around the wrist of her cast. "It's just a hairline fracture. I shouldn't type for a while, but it'll be okay. Stupid of me to walk out without checking the light." With a rueful smile, she shrugged. "Hey, at least this gets me out of the office for a few days."

"Yeah."

He fumbled for something else to say. He knew what he wanted to say. _I was worried about you. I'm so sorry I couldn't pull you back in time. I care about you. I need you. I'm so glad you're all right._

But he couldn't say those things. He couldn't _feel_ those things. Sometimes he felt like he was cursed—and anyone he dared to care for would only be taken from him in horrible, painful ways.

So he went with the first thing that came to mind, as he shrugged and collected her bag and coat for her. "I still think you should start your own company."

_Not that, idiot_.

Zoraya gave him an odd look. "I still think it's a bad idea."

"Why?" He told himself to shut up. Told himself not to push the matter, but the words were already spilling out of his mouth, everything but what he really wanted. "You're stagnating here. I can't even fix this company. It was on its way down before I showed up; all I'm doing is slowing its fall and making it look good even while it crumbles. You might as well bail out now while it's your choice."

"Why do you keep pressuring me about this?"

"Because you're always unhappy." He held out her coat so she could slip her arms into it without fumbling with her cast. She wrinkled up her nose, then stuffed herself into the sleeves.

"It's a job. It's not exactly meant to be fulfilling." She fidgeted and tugged at her coat, then headed for the exit. The automatic double doors whooshed open, letting in a swirl of snow. "You were the one giving me all the lectures about growing up and toeing the line. Now you want me to buck the system?"

"Maybe I was wrong." Yes. That was closer to what he wanted to say. _I was wrong. I was wrong, now please let me get through this without sticking my foot in my mouth. I was wrong—about so much more than just your job_. "It doesn't have to be one extreme or the other. Middle ground isn't a bad place to be. So dressing up for work isn't a big deal...but you said yourself it's not the dress code that's killing you. It's being stuck."

"Yeah, well, I don't have anywhere else to go."

"Make your own place."

She tossed him a slit-eyed, peevish look as she fumbled in the pocket of her coat to pull out her phone. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"I just...can't."

"Because you don't want to." He caught her good arm to still her rapid strides down the sidewalk. "You keep talking about the economy, and rent, and a million other excuses, but you know what I think the real reason is? You're scared. You're scared, so you'd rather stagnate and complain than take a risk."

She just stared at him. Stared at him, and he wondered if he'd lost her already. "That's not fair," she said softly. "I'm trying to be pragmatic. I'm making adult decisions about my life."

"No. You're playing it safe. And if that's your choice, fine. But when you feel like complaining about it again, just remember: you chose this."

He was saying everything to her that he wanted to say to himself. He was playing it safe. Making choices out of fear. Pushing her away out of fear. Making the choice to cut her from his life so he wouldn't have to feel the pain of losing her.

It was easier that way.

And it was what he always did.

She jerked her arm from his grip. "I don't want to talk about this anymore," she bit off.

"That's fine. I need to go anyway."

Her stride slowed, her eyes widening. "You're leaving?"

"I need to pack. My flight leaves tomorrow."

"Evan..."

He couldn't stand that hurt, liquid look in her eyes. The shock of it. No doubt she'd been hoping for a few last kisses, a last soft goodbye. That would only make things ache more. He was sparing them both, he told himself. No point in dragging this out.

"Don't." He unslung her bag from his shoulder and held it out. "You knew I was only here until the assignment was over."

She didn't take it for long moments, seconds ticking on. Seconds in which some inner voice screamed at him to take it back, to stop doing this, to for once in his life make things right. But it was too late. He'd screwed up again, and this time she wouldn't forgive him.

Maybe he didn't deserve forgiveness.

And maybe if she hated him, breaking things off would hurt that much less.

"So that's it," she said, taking the bag with her good hand. "You just...walk away."

"That's what I do."

"I'm catching on to that." A brief, incredulous laugh escaped her lips. "So you're just going to move on. Back to a life of meaningless nothings and shallow connections." She shook her head, swallowing hard, lowering her eyes. "Is that really all you want?"

"It's all I'm cut out to handle." He clenched his hands, then stuffed them in his pockets. His fingers brushed against Zombie Evan, and he wrapped his hand tight around the little toy, holding fast for the strength to say, "Maybe all I want is shallow connections. Not... _this_."

"'This.' Okay." Her lips creased in a bitter smile; she tilted her head back, looking up at the snow-dotted sky. "Okay. I'd almost forgotten what an unrepentant asshole you are. Let me guess, you don't believe in goodbyes either?"

"You got it." _Don't do this_ , he told himself, but his feet wouldn't listen. His heart said _stay_ , but his head was already turning him away. "Have a nice life, Zero."

He almost begged her to say something. Anything. Something to turn him off this path to self-destruction, to slow his headlong tumble into the emptiness he'd once thought he wanted.

But she said nothing. He didn't blame her.

And so he walked away, and tried to tell himself he was doing the right thing.

## CHAPTER TWELVE

SHE SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER.

Long after Evan had left, Zero stood on the sidewalk and watched the snow fall down, imagining she could make out each individual flake in the golden halos of the street lights. It was so quiet, after midnight. Quiet enough to hear herself think.

And to hear her beat herself up for ever thinking Evan James could change.

She closed her eyes and took a deep, aching breath, her throat tight, her eyes and nose damp. She wouldn't cry, she told herself. Not over him. Not out here. It would just freeze on her eyelashes and cheeks, and she already felt cold enough inside to make the winter night feel like summer in the tropics.

What had she been hoping for? That those little half-conversations and feints would finally turn into something? That he'd make an eleventh-hour play and somehow turn this absolutely maddening week into something more? They'd gotten what they wanted out of each other. That was what it had always been about, from the moment she'd met him in the bar. They'd both had an itch to scratch and nothing else.

So why had her heart nearly broken when she'd come out of the examining room to find him looking at her like he was afraid he'd never see her again?

She closed her eyes and felt the snowflakes melting on her cheeks, running down her skin in lieu of the tears she refused to cry. A smile tugged at her lips. Maybe she'd keep her cast for a souvenir. _The week I lost my mind, and had crazy sex with the biggest asshole on the planet_.

God, she didn't want to go home right now. Her bed would still smell like him, and suddenly her tiny apartment would feel too small for the very first time. She was still clutching her phone in her good hand; it had practically frozen to her ungloved fingers. Biting her lip, she pulled up Ravi's number and hit _Call_.

It wasn't Ravi who answered but his girlfriend, Alyssa. Zero had met her a few times. Had a few beers, talked shop about neural network programming; Alyssa was into advanced robotics, and programmed things Zero could only dream of working on. She liked her. She liked even more that she and Ravi were getting serious enough for Alyssa to sleep over, even if she felt a faint pang of jealousy—and a bigger one of guilt at the sleepy slur of Alyssa's voice.

"'lo?"

"Hey, Alyssa. It's Zero." She sniffled, then forced it back; she started to rub at her nose, only to flinch as she bonked herself with her cast. "Could I talk to Rav for a sec?"

Alyssa paused; when she spoke again, she sounded much more awake. "Sure, honey. Sure. You okay?"

"It's been a bad night."

"Just a second, sweetie." The muffled sound of voices rose, before Ravi's voice piped in her ear.

"Zoraya? What's wrong?"

"Depends. Are you asking about the arm fracture, the asshole who just dumped me, or the fact that I'm standing outside the hospital in the freezing cold?"

Ravi's sharp inhalation echoed over the phone. "Go back inside the hospital. You'll be warmer in the lobby," he said. "Let me get dressed. I'll be right there."

*     *     *

He showed up as crisply dressed as if he'd just gotten ready for work, not one crease out of place. Zero couldn't help but smile; going out in his pajamas or even tossing on jeans with an old t-shirt would have driven him crazy. But her smile faded when he hugged her, and she fought back that urge to cry. "It's okay," he said, and smoothed a hand over her back. "It's all right. I'm here. Tell me what happened."

So on the drive back to his apartment, she told him everything. How a few days of fighting turned into a few days of something else. The accident. The way Evan had looked at her. The things he'd said before the accident, and the way he'd completely one-eightied after. And why it didn't matter in the slightest, when he was leaving town anyway and probably wouldn't even look back.

"I think he will look back," Ravi murmured. "He lies to himself as much as he lies to others, this man. You said yourself he was afraid to get close to people, Zoraya. And what do people do when they are afraid?"

"They run."

"Exactly." He patted her knee. "Stay with us for the weekend. Alyssa will be glad for the company. So, I think, will you." He grinned. "If only to have someone to be your left hand."

"You're funny, Rav," Zero said, but she wouldn't turn him down. "You're real funny."

Alyssa was waiting with hot chocolate and a sympathetic hug when they arrived. Precisely four and a half marshmallows for Ravi; approximately five hundred for Zero. God, she was lucky to have friends. Friends who didn't tell her how stupid she'd been, for hoping Evan could be something more than what he was. Friends who just gave her painkillers and settled her down in the guest room, and stayed with her until she fell asleep. She dozed off with Alyssa's fingers stroking in her hair and her cheek resting to Ravi's chest, counting the soft, strange ticks of his artificial heart until she was claimed by a deep and dreamless slumber.

She tried to go home the following morning, refusing to impose. Alyssa told her she could go home as soon as she could screw the cap off her toothpaste by herself. Zero tried, and ended up with a toothpaste goatee.

"Okay," she groaned, wiping her face with a wet towel. "Okay. I'll stay. I just don't want to be in the way."

"You won't be." With a sweetly amused smile, Alyssa squirted toothpaste onto a spare toothbrush from the cabinet and held it out to her. "Now brush your teeth, dear."

With a grumble, Zero stuck the toothbrush in her mouth.

Having a fractured arm _sucked_.

She took it easy for the rest of the weekend. Reading in her borrowed room; helping out around the house until Alyssa chased her to the couch to watch _World War Z_ on Netflix. She almost couldn't stand it, when she kept remembering how Evan had cringed and covered his eyes at the gorier bits. And little Zombie Evan, and the look on his face as he'd stared down at the toy. Her throat knotted up again, and she shut the film off—and avoided Ravi's knowing gaze.

On Sunday she tagged along to the workshop space he rented in the basement of his apartment building, and watched while he welded a...thing...to another thing, sparks flying, reflecting in the faint hints of brown eyes she could glimpse behind his mask.

"What are you making?" she asked, lounging against a sawhorse.

"Not sure yet," he said distractedly. There was a looseness to him that he only seemed to have in his workshop—as if he could only relax, stop counting, stop pacing, when the blowtorch was in his hands and the room filled with the scents of sparks and hot metal. "I'll know what it is when it's done."

"So you won't walk into a strange building without knowing where all the exits are, but welding? Just wing it."

"Pretty much." He smiled slightly, angling the blowtorch down. "This is my quiet place, Zoraya. You know that. As you love to watch the snow fall, I love to watch the sparks fly."

"I guess everyone needs something like that."

"It is sometimes the only way to stay sane in a world full of madness." His eyes flicked up to hers, through the mask. "What do you think your Evan's quiet place is?"

The question hit her square in the center of the chest and knocked the air out of her; she lowered her eyes. "I...I don't know."

"It's all right to cry, you know."

"Over him?"

Ravi cut the blowtorch and lifted his mask, dark eyes watching her far too discerningly. "He was good enough to bring home, but not good enough to cry over?"

"Look, we never said it was anything more than what it was." Zero shrugged and wrapped her arms around herself. Her eyes stung; her mouth trembled, and she pressed her lips together and silently demanded that they _stop_. "There's no point in crying over something that never was."

"Sure there is."

"And what's that?"

"Because you want to," Ravi said, setting everything down and stepping closer to her. "And you're only hurting yourself by keeping it in."

His hand fell to her shoulder—and as if his touch had shattered the fragile glass vial that held all her emotions bottled up, her tears spilled out and poured down her cheeks until they burned her skin and she tasted salt. Ravi only wrapped his arms around her and held her close. He let her cry—the kind of deep, ugly cry that made her breath come in huge hollowing heaves and made it hard to inhale when she choked on the wet knots in her throat every time. She felt like it lasted forever, but once it started it bled out in a matter of minutes, leaving wet dark stains on Ravi's shirt.

"There," he murmured, stroking her hair. "Feel better?"

"Yeah," she said, resting her head to his shoulder. Yet it wasn't his arms she wanted around her; wasn't his voice she wanted in her ear. "Yeah, I do."

*     *     *

The following day, she called in sick to work and slept in—until Rick called back, demanding to see a doctor's note. Zero mooshed her face groggily into a pillow. Really? Maybe he'd want to see the X-rays of her fractured radius, too. Or her slip for prescription-strength Ibuprofen. Idiot. She just needed to get through this, get out, and go home to her own apartment so she could stop burdening her friends.

Ravi and Alyssa had already left for work, so she struggled into her clothes one-handed—only bonking herself in the face four times before she was done—and called a cab to work. The leftover Ibuprofen buzz from the night before had worn off by the time the taxi let her off outside the office, but she forgot about popping more painkillers when she saw the stream of people leaving the building, many carrying boxes, a couple even crying. Janelle brushed past her so hard she almost bumped her cast, eyes red, not even looking at her. Zero stared after her, but she didn't need to ask what happened.

The layoffs had started.

Maybe she should file for unemployment now, before she got the notice that her sick leave had turned into a permanent leave.

She took the elevator upstairs to their floor. So many of the cubes had already been cleaned out. Alejandro's was still covered in his album covers and posters, but the man was nowhere in sight. God damn it. She closed her eyes. He was smart, she thought. He'd land on his feet, if he could just get over the Rebel Without a Clue attitude. But when she opened her eyes and saw Ravi bowed over his desk, meticulously arranging his things in a cardboard box, the breath sucked out of her lungs.

"Ravi..."

He looked up, then offered her a small, wistful smile. "It's not your fault. You don't have to be so sad."

"I know. I know, just...what will you do now?"

"Make things, perhaps." He shrugged. "I hear there are more glass doors waiting to rediscover their lives as living room furniture."

Zero told herself she wouldn't cry again. She'd cried enough over the destruction Evan had left in his wake. But her eyes burned as she pulled Ravi into a hug, pressing her face into his shoulder. "I'll miss you."

Warm arms slid around her. He always smelled like nutmeg, comforting and subtle, and she breathed him in. "I am always only a phone call away, my friend," he murmured. "And the guest room is always open."

"This place will be miserable without you." Pulling back, she glanced around the near-empty floor. The few heads still visible above cubicle walls stared fixedly at their screens; she could almost taste the fear of the axe swinging over their heads. "If I'm even around to see it."

"You could always leave." Ravi's knuckles brushed her cheek, dragging her gaze back to him. "You were made for better things than this, Zoraya."

"Everyone keeps saying that."

He pressed his lips to her forehead, murmuring against her skin. "Maybe because we're right."

Zero lingered for a moment longer, then made herself pull away and head for Rick's glass-walled office. His desk was nearly invisible under the mounds of folders and other paperwork, and she couldn't help a smug smile. She hoped it buried him, and he rested well in a grave of his own making. When she pushed the door open, he glanced up and flicked his fingers at her in that imperious beckoning motion that made her want to put his teeth out.

"Zoraya. Good. While you're here, we need to talk about the status of the Ajax project. I'll need you to take over as senior programmer on that."

She froze. Her mouth fell open; she clicked it shut sharply enough to make her teeth hurt, then blurted, "Me? A senior programmer?"

"You know the project best, out of everyone that's left." He flashed her an ingratiating smile. "Congratulations on your promotion."

A promotion. Just like that. Maybe it was a promotion by default, but it was what she'd been wanting. Just what she needed to fill out her resume, and take that next step in her career. She'd actually be able to make decisions without asking ten people for permission. She might actually get some control over software development. She'd have a chance to prove herself, instead of getting buried under credit hogs like Rick.

She'd also be doing the work of half a dozen people. Half a dozen people who'd lost their jobs so she could have her promotion.

Her tongue stilled. She knew she should say _thank you_ , kiss a little ass, show just how overjoyed she was, but as she looked through those glass walls and out at the empty floor, she just felt hollow. This wasn't a victory. This was wrong.

And she wouldn't be able to live with herself if she toed the line. Not this time. This wasn't about wearing nice clothes or dyeing her hair or work-appropriate behavior. This was about ethics—and she'd be damned if she gave up her own, no matter what else she might sacrifice for her career.

She smiled, wide and bright, as she fished a slip of paper from her pocket. "Here's my doctor's note. You can consider it my two weeks' notice." Her grin widened, until it almost hurt; she felt a sudden lightness inside, bright and freeing, as she turned to push the door open. "I quit," she called over her shoulder. "Enjoy your office. I'm sure you'll be very happy together."

With her chin lifted, she strutted out—and walked right into Alejandro's broad chest. She stumbled back, while he stared down at her with a look that said he'd heard it all.

"What did you do that for?" he growled.

"For me." She refused to let go of her smile, and pushed past him without a backward glance. "And I really don't give a damn if you approve or not."

Her cab was halfway back to her apartment before her phone buzzed in her pocket. For a heart-lurching moment she hoped it was Evan, before she pushed it down. Evan didn't matter. Evan was long gone, anyway, that silver-bellied bird taking him away. The ache in her stomach would ease, eventually—and she needed to worry more about her career options than some jerk who couldn't even be bothered to stick around.

Alejandro's name popped up on the text notifications. im srry. ive ben a dyck.

Just a bit, yeah, she texted back with a smile. Jezebel might have been a bit harsh. Lock your Twitter account, you fucking idiot.

Oops, he sent, then a moment later, think i got enuf left 4 pizza.

Rain check?

u mean that?

Did she? She was still pretty mad at him, and he really had been a dick. But it had been pretty big of him to apologize. To admit he'd been wrong. She could at least give him a chance.

Yeah, she tapped out. We'll talk. You'll grovel. We'll get drunk. I'll forgive you eventually.

gonna miss workin wit u

Me too, she replied, then smiled and slipped her phone back into her pocket.

Her good mood lasted until she got home—where she just stood in the middle of her apartment, completely at loose ends. Her life was made up of structured expectations, she realized. An inner clock that always knew work would be in so many hours, and she had to build her day, her life, her expectations around that. Suddenly her tomorrows were formless, open, her future uncertain, and she didn't quite know what to do with that.

She sank down onto the couch and stared around the room. Just a few days ago the space had been filled with Evan. Now it was all hers again—but it wouldn't be for long if she didn't figure out what to do to keep her cash flow going. Her savings would last a few months, maybe. After that, she was screwed.

_Call Ion_ , she thought, and told herself it was only for advice. Not because she felt like a lost little girl again, and desperately needed her brother to hold her hand. _Just call him_.

She stared at her brother's contact on her phone for way too long, calculating if she could afford a call to Paris, before she dialed. He always knew what to say when she was at loose ends, and right now she could use a bit of big brother wisdom.

After three rings Ion's warm, low voice rumbled in her ear. " _Allô_ , brat."

She smiled, closing her eyes. "Hey, big brother."

"Hey. You don't sound too happy."

"Is it that obvious?"

"I know my little sister."

"I'm okay," she said. His skeptical silence said far more than words, and she groaned. "Well, sort of okay. I broke my arm Friday, and today I just quit my job."

"Okaaay...guessing there's a story behind the arm, but why'd you quit your job?"

"Because—" She blew out a frustrated sigh. "I don't know why. Because I need to do something better than this."

"Do what makes you happy, Zoraya."

She cracked one eye open. "You're not going to lecture me for being irresponsible?"

"I'm not Dad." He chuckled. "Look, I'm the one who dropped everything to go write—what did he call them?"

"I think the exact phrase was 'maudlin, shallow teenage pulp dramas.'"

"Ouch. Still stings."

Zero laughed. "Yeah, well...love Dad to death, but he's kind of a dick."

"My maudlin, shallow teenage pulp dramas pay the bills. I found my way. You will too, baby sister. Just let me know if you need any help." Ion paused. One of those pauses that said he was overanalyzing things, and what pissed her off was that he was usually right. "That's not really why you called me."

"No? You don't think quitting my job is panic-attack worthy?"

"You're not panicking. You're hurt."

"Damn it, Ion." She groaned and started to drag her hand through her hair—and smacked herself in the forehead with the end of her cast. She swore, then sighed. "Okay. _Okay_. I had a one-night stand with this guy—"

"No. Nope. Not having this conversation. Once I visualize that, I can't unsee it."

"Oh, come on. I'm twenty-six."

"You're my sister. Do me a favor and self-edit just a little, brat. Or I'll kill this guy before you get to make up with him."

"How do you know we had a fight?" she demanded. Another telling silence—and she cursed again. "Sometimes I hate how well you know me."

But she told him. She told him everything she'd told Ravi, and more; Ravi was her best friend, but he wasn't her brother. He didn't quite understand her the way Ion did, and right now...right now she needed that understanding more than anything.

When she was done, Ion remained silent for a few moments, then let out a contemplative hum. "Sounds like exactly the kind of guy I'd hate."

"Must be why I like him."

"So you do like him. I was starting to wonder."

"Yeah, I guess I do." She smiled faintly. "Can't really do anything about it, can I? I'm not going to do the clichéd 'run to the airport' scene. I'd hate myself forever. I'm probably a few days too late, anyway."

"Plus I think I've got the monopoly on dramatic reunions in this family."

"Yeah, I think we need to _talk_ about that, Mister."

Ion groaned. "...do we have to?"

"I think you've got some explaining to do. Isn't she...?"

"She is. You sound worse than Scheherazade, you know." He clucked his tongue. "You _do_ remember I'm the older brother, right?"

"Since when have I ever cared?"

"Some days I wonder why I surround myself with shameless brats," he muttered. "I'll be in New York in a few weeks. We'll catch up then. Christmas? We might even get everyone else in one place for the holiday."

"Okay. Can you just answer me one thing?"

"Anything."

She hesitated, then asked, "Are you happy?"

"I'm home, Z. She's the home I've been looking for."

Home. After Evan had said so much about wanting to find _home_ , that comment pierced just a little too close to her heart. "I think I envy you that."

"One day, hm?"

"Maybe." She closed her eyes with a smile that felt like it pulled on that hollow, sad place inside her heart. "Later, Ion. Love you."

"Love you too," he said. She'd pulled the phone away from her ear and was about to hit the _End Call_ button when his voice floated through the speaker: "...brat."

She rolled her eyes. "Why does everyone call me that?" she sighed, and hung up the phone.

And immediately just about jumped out of her skin when a heavy _thud_ shook her apartment door.

She tumbled off the couch and peered out through the keyhole—and couldn't see anything. Someone was leaning against the door, and from the texture of fine, dark hair pressed up against the keyhole and the way the door strained in its frame, they had thunked their head against the door and left it there.

"Um. Hello?" she called.

"Zero."

Her lungs constricted as that voice drifted through the door, deep and rumbling and harsh at the edges.

"Evan?" she breathed, then yanked the door open, staring at him. He was there. How the hell was he there? His flight had left two days ago, hadn't it? Was she imagining this? No—no, he was right there, unshaven and scruffy and looking like he'd come off a five-day bender, haggard eyes staring at her as if he'd just seen Nirvana and was desperate to hold it in his grasp. She swallowed roughly. She almost didn't want to know what he was doing here. After the way he'd left, he was probably here to get something he'd left in her apartment. Like hell she'd get her hopes up after the way he'd acted. "Oh my God. How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough to hear you say you like me, but not enough to chase me to the airport."

Oh. Fuck. "Why _aren't_ you at the airport?" She dragged a hand over her face. This couldn't possibly get more mortifying. "And how did you hear all that?"

"Thin walls." He smiled weakly. "Surprised your neighbors haven't complained about your screaming yet. Z...Z, we need to talk. Please. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for leaving, I just—"

Of all the times for her phone to ring. He cut off short, looking at her helplessly, while she pulled the phone from her pocket and checked the caller ID. She didn't recognize the number, local, and God she wanted to hear what Evan was about to say, but something whispered at her to take the call. She held a hand up and swiped her phone, then lifted it to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Hello?" an unfamiliar voice said. "May I speak to Zoraya Blackwell?"

An odd chill ran through her. "This is she."

"My name is Nurse Maria Salvaggio. You're listed as an emergency contact for Ravi Brahmbatt. He's currently being treated at—"

Everything else the woman said faded into white noise. She sagged against the wall, listening numbly, terror pulsing to the beat of her heart, a sick wild thumping music that drowned out everything else. _Device failure_ , she caught past the muted roaring in her ears. _Emergency surgery._ Her tongue swelled to fill her mouth, and she was barely aware of promising to be there soon before she let the phone fall numbly from her ear.

Evan watched her with his brows drawn together. She looked up at him, her trembling making her body feel as if it would fly apart. "I'm sorry. I can't have this conversation right now."

"What's wrong?"

"Ravi," she whispered around her thick tongue. "It's Ravi."

His eyes widened, before he drew himself up and reached over her head to pull her jacket down. "Come on," he said. "I'll go with you."

## CHAPTER THIRTEEN

IN THE CAB, SHE CLUNG to Evan's hand all the way to the hospital. She had so many questions, so much confusion, but right now those things didn't matter. Nothing mattered except that warm hand in hers, holding tight and easing her fear, providing the wordless comfort she needed as she silently prayed for the cab to move just a little faster, for traffic to part for her and let her through.

At the hospital, she spilled out into the snow and rushed inside. A breathless question at the front desk sent her upstairs, Evan hot on her heels, and God, she thought she might have fallen apart if he hadn't been there with his hand against her back the moment she opened the door and saw Ravi laying there. He was so pale. So pale, his brown skin washed to a clay color, too many tubes protruding from his mouth and nose and arms, that sick hospital smell making her want to throw up when it made her think of nothing but a slow and wasting death.

"Ravi." She nearly fell against the bedside, looking down at him with tears blurring and catching on her lashes. "What happened?"

"Pump malfunction," he whispered, voice weak and thready. "Sudden blood pressure drop. It is all right. I'm stable now. I'll be fine in a day or two. I just need rest."

"Are you sure?" She caught his hand, hating how limp and cold it felt against hers. "Is there anything I can do?"

He smiled, wan and hopeful. "The nurse won't move my bed."

Zero looked up, glancing around the room. Right. The foot of his bed was facing the door. He hated that. Used to drive his college roommates crazy, but it would drive him crazier if someone didn't fix it. She bit her lip, eyeing the equipment ringing his bed.

"We'll get in trouble," she hedged.

"It's _itching_."

She groaned. Even before she spoke, she knew she would give in. "Come on." She beckoned to Evan. "Keep an eye on the door."

Together they moved the bed, Evan always keeping one hand on the IV pole and machinery to keep from jostling it out of place, while Zero clumsily and one-handedly guided the bed to wheel around until the foot of it faced the window. Once he was settled into place, Ravi's expression eased, relaxing into relief.

"Thank you," he said, then turned his head to look up at Evan. "Evan, right?"

Evan dropped his gaze, before a forced, almost sheepish smile tinged his lips. "Yeah, that's me. I'm the douchebucket who cost you your job."

"I don't think Zoraya would like a man who was a douchebucket."

"Who says I like him?" Zero huffed, only to scowl at Ravi's slow smile. "Shut up, Rav."

He only laughed, hoarse and raspy. Evan looked between the two of them, then lightly caught Zero's arm and bent low to her ear.

"Can we talk?"

She bit her lip. She didn't want to leave Ravi, but if he needed rest, he didn't need her hovering over him. "I'm not sure if this is the best time..."

"I'm fine," Ravi said, then laughed again when she just eyed him. "I am _fine_. It was just my blood pressure. It's back to normal levels. I've been stable for hours."

She narrowed her eyes. "The nurse said something about emergency surgery."

"Only if my condition worsens. And I'm fine."

A niggling suspicion struck her, and she drew back, squinting at him. "Rav?"

"Yes?" he asked just a little too innocently.

"Did you call me here just to turn your bed?"

He smiled, shoulders moving against the pillows in a shamefaced shrug. "Alyssa's stuck in traffic from Long Island."

Her laughter unraveled the tension inside her, and she slumped against the edge of the bed as her bones went soft on her and relief left her weak. He was fine. He was _fine_ , but no one had better ever call _her_ the brat again. "You are such an idiot." She looked up at Evan uncertainly, then tossed her head toward the door. She wasn't wholly sure she wanted to hear what he'd come to say, yet she couldn't deny how her heart twisted at the sight of him. "Come on. Hallway."

She led Evan outside, then pause to latch the door carefully—then do it again, and again. "Hold on."

He frowned. "What are you doing?"

"It's a thing. Have to do the latch...I think it was six times?" She counted in her head as she did it three more times. "Or that makes him itchy, too."

"It's funny, isn't it?" he said, something odd in his voice. "It's funny how some people show they love people with dramatic proclamations and huge displays and romantic gestures...but for some people, it's in the small things. Like the small things you do for him."

The way he was looking at her nearly broke her. As if the glass of his eyes had cracked, and everything in them was pouring through. _Why are you here?_ she wanted to ask. _Why did you come back?_ But she didn't. She only looked away, staring sightlessly down the hall. "I quit my job for him."

"You quit?"

"I went in to sort out something with my sick leave, and he was packing up his desk." She shrugged. "I don't know. I just...snapped."

"What will you do?"

"I don't know." Another shrug, so stiff it hurt her shoulders. "I'll figure something out. I'm an odd duck, and ducks float. My dad says that all the time." She risked a glance at him through her lashes. "You didn't have to come."

"I did. Ravi's important to you—and you're important to me."

Her breath hitched. "I...I thought you were leaving New York."

"I was. Then I drank half the hotel bar and canceled my plane ticket. Some people in Boise are pretty mad at me right now."

"Why?" she asked, needing— _craving_ —an answer, yet not sure she wanted to know, the ache of it nearly carving her open.

"For you. I...I came back for you. I had to." He laughed shakily and dragged a hand over his skull. "This was so much easier in my head. I mean...I just..." He breathed in and out slowly, hands clenching as he drew himself up, then spilled out, "I was wrong, okay? I was wrong. I believe in something. I believe in you. And I completely fucked that up by running away because I was afraid of losing you like I've lost everyone else."

She stared at him. The lonely emptiness that had missed him all weekend nearly devoured every word, taking them into her with a voracious hunger—but he'd burned her too many times. "You've only known me for a few days."

"I want to know you for a lot longer than that."

"I've only known _you_ for a few days."

"Okay." He paced left and right and left again, then suddenly dropped to his knees in front of her. "Okay. You want to know me?" He took both her hands, handling her cast-mummified fingers with gentle care, looking up at her with something close to desperation, his touch rough and warm. "My middle name is Cornelius. I spent the first sixteen years of my life barefoot on a shrimp boat, and even now the smell of shrimp makes me want to puke. I'll roll over and go belly up in submission for a good lasagna. My tattoo? Is from the cover of an old _Dungeons and Dragons_ guidebook. My favorite TV show is _The X-Files_. I'm allergic to fabric softener. I watch musicals. I watch a _lot_ of musicals. And I shave my hair close because if I don't, I get a curly 'fro and look like a pale version of Jules Winnfield."

Stunned, Zero could only laugh. He was such an idiot, but...that was what she liked about him. What she'd _missed_ about him. "That...may be too much information."

"That's who I am when I'm not being Evan James, Corporate Sledgehammer." He stood, still grasping tight to her hands, his smile so hopeful she couldn't look away. "Curly 'fro and the entire soundtrack of _Phantom_ belted out in the shower."

"Off-key. You forgot off-key."

"I will cop to that. I never claimed to be ready for Broadway." He drew her closer, pale green eyes searching so deep she felt as if he could see every minute of longing, every moment she'd told herself she didn't want him and known it was a lie. "Do you think this Evan is someone you could like?"

"Maybe. If this Evan is the truth."

"This Evan is the Evan you met that night. The Evan who made you laugh by being a complete idiot, before he was an even bigger idiot by not being honest with you." He released one of her hands and cupped his palm to her cheek, so warm she couldn't resist pressing into the touch. "This Evan makes mistakes, but is willing to own up to them if you'll give him a chance."

"This Evan needs to stop referring to himself in the third person," she murmured, a smile tugging at her lips; he chuckled.

"But it's so much easier to detach myself from my issues in a creepy way only a therapist could love."

"You're such an idiot." She bit her lip; the question she wanted to ask hovered on the tip of her tongue, but it took everything in her to force it out. Force it past the ache that he'd left behind, the fear that if she gave into him he'd just do it all over again and leave her hanging. "What are you asking me for, Evan?"

"For you to keep smiling at me," he breathed, fervent and low. "For you to give me a chance at something. Just a chance. I won't ask for more until I've proven myself to you. Go on a few dates with me. Drag me back to bed and do that thing with your tongue."

"Evan!" Heat flushed her face. She lowered her eyes, looking down at their clasped hands. "You kind of have to stay in town for me to do that."

"I can stay. I _want_ to stay. I want to do something more than tear things down. I want to help you build something. You've got the brains and creativity, Z. You just need the business plan."

Her stomach sank. "So you came back to help me start my own company?"

"I came back because I want to be here for you." He pulled her closer, hauling her roughly against the hard wall of his body. His arms—those warm, strong arms she'd ached for the night before—settled around her waist, and she couldn't help but lean into him to feel the rumble of his voice shake through her as he murmured, "No matter what you decide to do."

"Even if I decide to dye my hair neon green and open a falafel stand?"

Amusement lit his eyes. "Why do I get the feeling you'd do that just to prove a point?"

"I wouldn't spite myself that much."

"But you'd spite me."

She curled her fingers in the front of his shirt, tugging him down. "Spite's not quite what I'm feeling right now."

"Care to tell me what you _are_ feeling?" he growled, leaning closer.

"I'd rather show you."

Yet she hesitated, for just a moment. Hesitated as she drew him down, as her lips hovered near his, as she felt his breath on her cheeks. She'd just quit her job. Possibly thrown her entire career down the drain. Was she about to throw her heart after it, taking a chance on a man who'd already hurt her more than once? She'd already taken one risk, and that might have been one risk too many.

But life was nothing without risks. Her brother had taken a risk on his career—and taken a risk on love. Evan had taken a risk coming back to throw himself at her feet. She wouldn't know until she jumped if she would fly or if she would fall...but she'd never do either if she stayed in one place. Her idea of taking risks had been dressing like a punk and bucking the company line. It was time to grow up and take some real risks. Time to take her life, her career...and her heart into her own hands.

Evan was a risk. But he was a risk she was choosing—and she smiled to herself as she closed that last distance between them and kissed him.

She'd never thought in just three days she could miss someone so much, but when his mouth slanted hard against hers and his fingers crushed so desperately against her back she felt as if everything inside her clicked into place. He still tasted like fire, and he warmed her as no one else ever had. And in his kiss she tasted a promise: that no matter what risks she took, he would be there to hold her up. To be her anchor when her world was cast adrift, to steer her steady in whatever storm her choices stirred.

She clung to him until she couldn't breathe. Until her knees went liquid, and she had to hold fast just to keep herself upright. Gasping, she tore her mouth from his, resting her brow to his temple.

"I'm scared, Evan," she whispered.

He laughed, husky and deep. "You know what they say—there's nothing to fear but fear itself."

"What about zombies? Can I fear zombies?"

"And zombies."

"Spiders, too." She grinned, leaning harder into him. "Spiders are scary."

He nipped her lower lip. "...you're hopeless."

"You like me that way."

His smile faded. Pale, intense eyes searched hers, dark and hot with emotion that made her heart flutter and twist. "It might be more than like."

"Yeah? Don't get ahead of yourself, mister." She curled her fingers against his nape. "Let's start with another kiss—and then we'll see where this thing goes."

"As you wish." But as he leaned down to brush his lips to hers once more, soft words caressed against her mouth. "Am I home, Zero?" he breathed. "Am I?"

She smiled, giddy with the warmth inside her, the sweet euphoria that for him...for him, she could be that feeling of home that he'd always craved. That together, perhaps, they could take a chance—and turn that feeling of home into something more. "Yeah, Evan. You're home," she said. " _We're_ home."

## EPILOGUE

_Six Months Later_

"LITTLE MORE TO THE LEFT," Zero called, shouting over the whirr and grumble of the forklift as it maneuvered the massive, industrial-grade 3D printer into the corner of the single-room office space. _Her_ single-room office space. It was her name on the lease. Her name on the door, underneath the logo for Afterlife Heart Systems. She was still on the fence about the dripping zombie heart graphic. Alejandro thought it was cute, but there was always the larger audience to think about. Branding, Evan had said. It was all about branding. And people looking for an alternative to current heart replacement technology might not like the implication that Afterlife's technologies could turn them into a member of the walking dead.

Ravi set his laptop bag on his desk and moved to her side, eyeing the forklift operator from the delivery company. "You're putting it there?"

"It's the only place it'll fit."

"It's not very Feng Shui."

"Which is your way of saying we need to move the desks. It's gotta be there, Rav. It's the only heavy-duty outlet that won't fry the whole building when we turn it on." She squeezed his shoulder. "We'll just have to rearrange it all again after you finish the new furniture set. We'll figure it out."

"We always do," Evan's voice rumbled behind her. He slid his arms around her waist, pulling her close, tugging her off-balance until she swayed and laughed. "We figured this out, didn't we?"

Grinning fit to burst, she turned in his embrace and wrapped her arms around his neck. "We did. Where have you been, you lazy ass? Even Alejandro's done more work than you."

"I heard that," Alejandro called from the back of the room, where he was assembling a massive file rack.

Evan laughed and tugged a strand of her pink-streaked hair. "I was mailing off _your_ patent applications, Miss Blackwell."

"You're the best personal assistant ever." She squinted at him. "If that's what you were actually doing. I don't quite believe you. You've got a reputation, you know."

He let out a mock-groan and clutched a hand over his chest. "You're going to break my heart."

"We could always manufacture you a new one."

"I like the one I have right now." Still chuckling, he brushed his lips to hers. "The one that beats just for you."

"PDA!" Alejandro called.

"Grow up!" Zero tossed over her shoulder, then snickered and poked Evan's chest. "That was so cheesy."

"I'm cheesy when I'm honest."

"I think I can learn to deal with that." She twined her arms around his neck. "I like you honest."

He caught her wrist and turned his head to kiss her tattoo. "Mm...can I be honest right now?"

"Knock yourself out."

He pulled her closer, broad hands smoothing against the small of her back. "I think I love you, Zoraya Blackwell."

Her breath caught. The way he said it—so calm, so casual, as if it was a given that he didn't even have to question—hit deep and hard. "You think?"

A smile tugged at his lips as he leaned down to brush her nose with his. "I know."

"Mmm...maybe I love you too."

He arched a brow. "Just maybe?"

"Don't make me say it, you idiot."

"Oh, just say it," Alyssa said as she breezed past with the Keurig stacked atop a file box. Zero stuck her tongue out at her.

"You're all perfectly welcome to butt out of a private conversation."

"Then try not having it in the middle of your office," Ravi countered with a grin. "Just tell him you love him, Zoraya."

"Not in front of you guys!"

"That's as good as an admission anyway. I'll take it." Laughing, Evan squeezed her tight and lifted his head, looking over the wide, warehouse-style office space that was all their own. "You did it, Z."

" _We_ did it. I'm glad you stuck around. I couldn't have navigated this entire mess without you."

It was the truth. When she'd first come up with the idea for Afterlife, it had been nothing but that: an idea. She knew what she wanted to do, but not how. Evan had been the one who'd walked her through all those little details that came with starting a business—from strategic planning to investor presentations to incorporation, and he'd even sat in on the medical certification courses required for her to gain proper accreditation as a healthcare services company.

But he'd never taken over, never railroaded her. It had always been a team effort—from Zoraya's expertise in programming to Alyssa's skills in robotics to Ravi and Alejandro's meticulous attention to detail and flawless design sense, all supported by Evan's keen business acumen. And it had been Evan who had gone over a thousand resumes with her to help her hire a qualified cardiologist and a tissue generation specialist, both young but with stellar credentials—and both excited to get in on the ground floor of an innovative new startup in 3D-generated replacement heart technologies and biometric management software.

She'd taken her risks, and it had paid off. She'd be twenty-seven in two months, and she was CEO of her own company—a company where she set the rules, and where she could do something real. Something that would make a difference. Evan was still an asshole, but he was an asshole who told the truth—and he'd never turned his back on her or shut her out, not since that day when he'd come back. They still bickered. They still fought. And they still kissed away the heat of their tempers, turning the fire of anger into the warmth of a slowly-growing mutual trust—and love.

Evan nuzzled into her hair, then pressed a kiss to her temple. "Turns out getting attached isn't as bad as I'd thought."

"Yeah?" she asked, nearly melting at that warm, contented smile on his lips.

"Definitely."

"So what happens now?"

"We'll worry about that tomorrow," he said. "And the tomorrow after that, and the tomorrow after that. I'm not going anywhere, Zoraya. I'm home right here in your arms."

"Good." And ignoring her friends, ignoring their smug grins, ignoring even the forklift operator waiting for her to make up her mind, she stretched up on her toes and kissed him. "Because that's exactly where I want you."

_And I always will_.

THE END

## ABOUT THE AUTHOR

COLE MCCADE IS A NEW ORLEANS-BORN SOUTHERN BOY without the Southern accent, currently residing somewhere in Seattle. He spends his days as a suit-and-tie corporate consultant and business writer, and his nights writing contemporary romance and erotica that flirts with the edge of taboo—when he's not being tackled by two hyperactive cats.

He also writes genre-bending science fiction and fantasy tinged with a touch of horror and flavored by the influences of his multiethnic, multicultural, multilingual background as Xen Sanders. He wavers between calling himself bisexual and calling himself queer, but no matter what word he uses he's a staunch advocate of LGBTQIA and POC representation and visibility in genre fiction. And while he spends more time than is healthy hiding in his writing cave instead of hanging around social media, you can generally find him in these usual haunts:

•    Email: blackmagic@blackmagicblues.com

•    Twitter: @thisblackmagic

•    Facebook: facebook.com/xen.cole

•    Tumblr: thisblackmagic.tumblr.com

•    Facebook Fan Page: facebook.com/ColeMcCadeBooks

•    Website & Blog: www.blackmagicblues.com

Looking for more? You can get early access to cover reveals, blurbs, contests, and other exclusives by joining the McCade's Marauders street team at:

•    facebook.com/groups/mccadesmarauders

## THE CROW CITY SERIES

THE LOST: A CROW CITY NOVEL (CROW CITY #1)

_Haunting erotica with the taboo appeal of V.C.  Andrews._

goodreads.com/book/show/26119463-the-lost

**_Praise from Publishers Weekly:_** **"** ** _If the romantic character study is a genre, this fascinating contemporary novel is its exemplar. McCade digs deep into the difficult topics of rape, incest, and sexual abuse via the remarkable voice of Clarissa Leigh VanZandt._** **"**

On the day Leigh threw her perfect life away to disappear into the streets of Crow City, she gave up on love. She gave up on happiness. But her addiction to nothingness brings her to Gabriel Hart—the one man who can satisfy the desperate needs of her body and soul, who gives her the roughness she craves, who understands her the way no one else can. Yet she can't escape her past, the predator stalking her memories...or the lonely ache for what she left behind, and the loss of the most precious thing in her life.

THE FALLEN: A CROW CITY PREQUEL NOVELLA (CROW CITY #1.5)

_A broken man. A promise. And no reason left to hold  on._

goodreads.com/book/show/28247849-the-fallen

Reconnect with Gabriel, Maxi, and Gary in this free side story and glimpse into Gabriel Hart's life before he met Leigh. Gabriel once thought he was indestructible—but when grief brings him low, it takes a hard and painful journey to teach him how to live again, and how to survive long enough to find his way back to the light, to the people who love him, and to a reason to fight.

THE FOUND: A CROW CITY NOVEL (CROW CITY #2)

_Witness to a murder. Kidnapped by a monster. Prisoner to his whims—and to her own  desires._

goodreads.com/book/show/31291756-the-found

Willow Armitage's world is falling apart; between getting fired and caring for her chronically ill father, she's had little room for anything but survival. But that survival hangs in the balance the night she stumbles into a back alley—and watches a stranger die at the hands of the most beautiful man she's ever seen. Lethal. Powerful. Unstable. Terrifying. The contract killer known only as Priest is a dangerous unknown, and when Willow wakes tied to a chair in his hideout, the only thing she sees in his fox-gold eyes is death. Yet for Priest, Willow is a dilemma: an innocent, a saint among the sinners he cuts down in the streets of Crow City...and a woman he desires far more than he should.

THE SAVED: A CROW CITY PREQUEL NOVELLA (CROW CITY #2.5)

_Faith lost. Purpose found. And only the first step on the path into darkness._

goodreads.com/book/show/33231602-the-saved

Before he was a mysterious, silent killer stalking the streets of Crow City, the strange man known as Priest was a lost and broken soul—and part of Willow Armitage's world in ways she could never have imagined. Shattered by the Afghanistan War, left with no companions other than fellow survivor Gabriel Hart, ex-Marine Priest turns to his lost faith for answers when his life has lost all meaning...but in searching for his God, he finds a new religion. A religion of blood. Of pain—and of vengeance.

AUTUMN: A CROW CITY SIDE STORY (CROW CITY #2.75)

_Unrequited love. Long-held grudges. And a pain too deep to endure  alone._

goodreads.com/book/show/34469554-autumn

Walford Gallifrey has ever and always been an accessory in others' lives. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride, he's contented himself with caring for those he calls his family. His niece, Willow Armitage. Her father, Joseph Armitage. And any strays that wander into Wally's life, including the dark and sinister Vincent Manion. But when Willow is kidnapped and Joseph is left with nothing but questions and old grudges against Wally himself, the two must come together to bury old scars, rediscover themselves...and heal together, as hate transforms to love.

## OTHER BOOKS BY  
COLE MCCADE

A SECOND CHANCE AT PARIS (BAYOU'S END #1)

_A second chance at Paris. A second chance at  love._

goodreads.com/book/show/23505829-a-second-chance-at-paris

Sweet, lighthearted contemporary romance with the _joie de vivre_ of Paris. Author Ion Blackwell is captivated by astrophysicist Celeste London's beauty and brains; a chance meeting in Paris brings her into his life, little knowing he's already met her in high school as punky geek girl Mary Haverford. Celeste has reasons for hiding her identity—but when Ion discovers the truth, will her deception stop them from taking a second chance on love?

ZERO DAY EXPLOIT (BAYOU'S END #1.5)

_A free side story and companion novella to A Second Chance at  Paris._

goodreads.com/book/show/24216178-zero-day-exploit

**Zero day exploit (noun):** 1. An attack that penetrates a previously unknown vulnerability in a computer or system. 2. The kind of infuriating, manipulative man who gets under your skin and refuses to get out. And now, a one-night stand may turn out to be the biggest mistake of Zoraya Blackwell's career.

SOMETIMES IT STORMS

_Part of the IPPY Award-winning_ _Winter Rain_ _charity anthology benefiting_ _RAINN.org_.

goodreads.com/book/show/22880874-winter-rain

Ethan has never known how to love without hurting someone—or how to _be_ loved without fear of pain. But Aurelie may be the one person who can understand his personal demons, and teach him how to let someone in.

## WRITING AS  
XEN SANDERS

SHATTERPROOF

**Available from Riptide Publishing**

_Love only cures everything in fairy tales._

goodreads.com/book/show/30306399-shatterproof

**_Praise from Publishers Weekly: "Sanders gracefully handles the loaded subject of suicidal depression in this tale of life, death, and love in present-day Savannah, Ga. [...] Cathartic and pleasurable."_**

Grey Jean-Marcelin wants to die. He thought painting his passion—vivid portrayals of Haitian life and vodou faith—would be enough to anchor him to this world...but it isn't. And when the mysterious man known only as Saint saves Grey from a suicide attempt, it's more curse than blessing—until Grey discovers that Saint isn't just an EMT. He's a banished fae, and can only survive by draining the lives of everyone he cares for. At first they seem the solution to each other's desires, until this game of life or death becomes a game of star-crossed love. If one would live, the other must die—and as love and death intertwine, they'll discover...no one's heart is shatterproof.

FROM THE ASHES (FIRES OF REDEMPTION #1)

**Available from Entangled Publishing**

_Even a villain can become a hero._

goodreads.com/book/show/33285960-from-the-ashes

One man a super-powered, sociopathic monster. The other an idealist, trying to be a hero. The secret that brings them together will be the one thing that keeps them apart—and will set the stage for a love that could save them both, or burn the world to ash.
