My boss is a crazy bitch.

No, that’s not true. She isn’t really crazy. She’s driven. Focused. Often obsessive. But there usually is method to her madness.

So let me rephrase that statement: my boss is a heinous bitch.

Tonight, that’s my mantra. Jean Grey, CEO of Grey Communications, Inc., my esteemed boss and role model (God help me) is a heinous bitch.

But it didn’t matter how much I resented Jean and the assignment she gave me—I just had to get it done.

I sighed and turned to the guy standing next to me at the bar. I stared at his cheeks, wondering if he had dimples. “Excuse me.”

He glanced down at me.

Blue eyes—at least he had that going for him. “Does your family have a history of mental illness?”

His lovely eyes widened with something reminiscent of horror. He snatched his drink and hurried away.

Maybe that wasn’t such a great opening question.

I rummaged through my Coach bag—I got it from a thrift store on Elmore for a steal--- and pulled out my handheld. I turned it on and accessed the spreadsheet I’d put together earlier that afternoon. With a few clicks, I rearranged the questions on my list.

Better.

I smoothed down my straight black skirt, straightened the strand of faux pearls I’d added to dress the outfit, pushed my hair out of my eyes, and looked for my next victim—uh, candidate. I needed to find a man and I didn’t have much time.

At the end of the bar, there were two men standing together watching the dancers on the floor. They looked friendly and open-minded.

Gripping my handheld, I pushed through the masses to them.

“Hi,” I squeaked when I reached them.

The blonde guy glanced at me and looked away without saying a word. The other guy smiled and nodded.

This was going to be easier than I thought. Heartened, I forged on. “Uh, I was wondering, um…” I looked down at my spreadsheet. Shoot, I was gong to ruin my eyesight trying to read in this dim place.

He looked at me kindly. “Can I help you?”

“Well, yes, actually. Do you smoke?”

“No, sorry. But there’s a store around the corner. I’m sure they have cigarettes.”

I turned to look at where he was pointing. “Oh. Oh, well. Thanks.” I checked ‘No’ next to that question on my survey and jotted down that he was helpful and solicitous in the Notes area.

Next question. “Where did you go to college?”

He squinted at me in confusion. “SF State. How about you?”

“NYU.” Educated. I marked that down with a pleased smile on my lips. He squinted at me again, so I noted that he had poor eyesight.

“Have you ever sired any children?”

His face scrunched but before I could say anything, his friend poked him in the ribs and they disappeared into the crowd.

“Well.” I hit Close, opened a fresh spreadsheet, and surveyed the club.

If I had to picture hell, it would be like this, only less scary. There was a diffused red glow and loud thumping bass accompanying the music. At least I thought it did—the thumping was all I registered. I could make out the outlines of figures, but they looked otherworldly.

“What am I doing here?” I murmured, shaking my head.

I had no one to blame but myself. It was my brilliant idea to come to GY-R8. This afternoon when I cooked up my plan, it seemed so simple. I’d go to the hottest club in town, find a man, and go home happy.

I should have known it wouldn’t work out that way.

“Suck it up, sugar,” I told myself. “This is your ticket to the big times.”

All these years, that was what I wanted—a chance to strut my stuff. The opportunity to prove that I, Anna Marie D’Ancanto, was capable and worthy. Jean had handed it to me on a silver platter and all I could think of doing was shoving it back with a polite, “no, thank you.”

I sighed again and considered ordering a stiff drink. Only I have zero tolerance for alcohol. The fumes alone from all the drinks around me were making me tipsy.

I waved at one of the bartenders. He finished flirting with a tall blonde and came over.

He gave me one of those thorough look-overs that guys give women—minus the sexual appreciation—and said, “The librarian convention is down the street at the Hilton.”

So I wasn’t exactly dressed for a night of boogying to what the masses called music these days, but neither was I a hag. I gave him my fiercest ‘you better do as I say or I’ll eat your lunch’ look that I learned from Jean and waved my hand in front of his face. “You will give me a Shirley Temple.”

Hey—it worked for Obi-Wan.

With a few quick movements, he whipped up my drink and slid it across the bar.

“That’s more like it.”

I took a few dollars and handed them over reluctantly. At least I’d be able to expense this out, and the twenty I’d spent on the cover charge. “Did you know Shirley Temple always had exactly fifty-six curls in her hair?”

He looked me over again and shook his head before moving along to a more trendily dressed, better-endowed woman.

“Hmm.” I took a sip and looked down the bar.

Most of the men were in groups of four or more. I cringed. There was no way I could approach a large group. My stomach flopped at the thought.

Then I saw a guy seated all by himself at the other end of the bar. Even better, he had brown hair. I enthusiastically checked that box on my survey.

“I knew I was going to get lucky.” I pushed my way through the crowd, stopping every now and then to make notes. Like that he was drinking a beer, sipping not guzzling. And that he was dressed in a custom-made suit.

Fortunately, the tall stool next to him was unoccupied. Unfortunately, I overcompensated for my purse, which really doesn’t weigh as much as most people say, and almost fell off the other side.

“Careful.” He reached out to steady me, helping me settle on the stool.

My hands got sweaty with excitement. Deep voice, big hands. Big hands had to count for a lot, right? I tapped it into the Notes area.

I could feel his gaze on me, so I looked up and genuinely smiled—that’s how excited I was. “Hi.”

He grinned. “Hi.”

My, he was lovely. “Do you come here often?” A clichéd question, yes, but I needed to know how much of a partier he was. I wasn’t looking for someone who habitually frequented bars.

“No, actually, I usually work late and go to the gym afterward.”

My heart beat faster and I could barely keep from squirming. A workaholic who kept in shape? Could he be more perfect?

“What type of work do you do?”

“I’m an attorney.”

Yes, he was more perfect.

“What type of law do you practice?”

“International finance.”

I was so excited I almost forgot to note that. “You must have to travel often.” I was very proud of myself. And Logan said I was an abysmal conversationalist.

“Yes, though not much in August. This time of year is slow.”

I leaned closer to him. Just as I opened my mouth to ask him about his family, a tall blonde swooped down from behind.

“Hi, baby,” she drawled and kissed him.

Goodness, it was voracious.

My ears went red, but I watched avidly. Maybe I could learn a thing or two.

When they finally broke apart, she glanced down at me. Apparently I wasn’t considered a threat because she dismissed me with a casual flip of her hair. She tugged on the guy’s sleeve. “Come on.”

He smiled at me and said, “It was nice talking to you,” and disappeared into the crowd with the bim—er, woman.

“That was my man,” I protested, deleting his questionnaire. Sighing, I turned to search for another candidate.

For a brief moment, I was tempted to order myself a stronger drink for fortification. It was a fleeting thought, though. The last time I’d imbibed, it was only half a beer, and I still don’t remember how I ended up at the beach.

“Okay,” I mumbled under my breath. “The One is in here. Somewhere. I just need to find him.”

I studied the scene. Easier said than done.

“I can do this.” I took a swig of my Shirley Temple for courage.

A man leaned onto the bar next to me, trying to get the bartender’s attention. I pursed my lips in consideration. Not bad. He didn’t have brown hair, but he was dressed nicely and was handsome enough.

He must have felt my stare because he glanced at me. I attacked before I lost my nerve.

“Have you ever had any social diseases?”

His skin paled and he rushed away from me, heading toward the back where the bathrooms were.

“Poor guy.” I shook my head. “Probably had too much to drink.”

“I’m going to be sick.” I stared at Jean’s office door and pressed a hand to my stomach, willing it to stop flopping.

Emma, Jean’s personal assistant, frowned at me. “Jean said she’ll see you now,” she repeated.

No kidding. I heard her the first time. I knew it was part of her job description to keep Jean’s schedule on track, but she didn’t have to rush me. I wanted to tell her to back off but I just smiled and said, “Thank you, Emma.”

Clutching a manila folder, I took a deep breath and walked in.

Jean glanced up from her laptop. “Sit down, Marie. I’ll be right with you.” She continued typing the whole time.

“Thank you.” How did she keep her manicured nails from chipping? I looked down at my own short nails and wondered what they’d look like with a manicure.

I took a seat across from her. I ran my hands first on the leather of the chair and then the cool chrome of the armrest. Lovely. Rich. One day…

I have an office, too, but I suspect it was a janitorial closet until they needed the additional space. It barely fits my desk, has no windows, and has the lingering scent of Lysol no amount of air freshener will ever erase. Still, it was better than a cubicle.

Until I saw Jean’s office. It’s bigger than my apartment, furnished in modern retro with leather, metal, and glass. It represented what I wanted: money—lots of it.

“Okay.” Jean closed her laptop and sat back. “What do you have for me?”

My nerves flared as the impossibility of my assignment hit me again. I stifled the urge to tell her that there were 384 fertility clinics in operation in 2001 alone—hundreds more now—that’d be able to help her better than I could.

“I made a questionnaire—here. I have a copy for you.” Somehow I managed to sound professional and cool despite the panic. I opened the manila folder and pushed the spreadsheet across the glass tabletop.

Jean barely glanced at it, keeping her unnerving, cool green gaze focused on me. “A questionnaire?”

I nodded. “I thought the most efficient way to interview the—uh—candidates would be to make a survey with all the criteria you requested.” I scooted to the edge of my seat and pointed out the list. “I’ve organized it in order of importance, according to the list you gave me yesterday.”

“Good.” She leaned back in her throne—uh, chair—and crossed her long, Wolford-clad legs. “And what progress have you made?”

Progress? I was good, but not that good. She gave me the assignment yesterday. What did she expect—that I had a sperm donor lined up in one evening? I cleared my throat. “Well, I did interview a few—uh,-- men last night—“

“Great.” Flicking her smooth red hair over her shoulder, she tapped her foot on the hardwood floor. Her shoes made my Ferragamos look like Kmart blue light specials.

“—but, uh, none of them were promising.”

“I see.” Jean said it blandly, but I could hear a world of meaning in those two tiny words.

“I think, though, since it’s been less than twenty-four hours since you gave me the assignment, that I’ve made adequate progress—“

“Marie, do you know why I gave you this assignment?”

Because you wanted to make my life a living hell? “No, actually.”

It did seem bizarre to trust an employee you barely knew with the task of finding a father for your baby. Why did someone as gorgeous and successful as Jean need someone to find her a mate anyway? All she had to do was crook her finger and any man would prostrate himself on the altar of her love.

Fortunately, mind reading wasn’t one of her innumerable skills. “I’ve watched you for the seven years you’ve worked for me—“

Eights years in a month, but who’s counting?

“—and I’ve been impressed with your tenacity. You’ve actually climbed up the ladder to director of research. Not a small feat.”

“Thank you.” I had to keep myself from puffing up with pride. It wouldn’t do to preen in front of the boss, even if she had just given an uncharacteristic compliment.

“Besides being the best researcher this company has seen since its inception, you get the job done, quietly and with a minimum of fuss. That alone made you the most logical candidate to take care of this job for me.”

I opened my mouth but had no idea what to say. I closed it again, hoping I resembled a competent employee rather than a fish.

Jean leaned forward. I felt a wave of energy from her—intense and impatient. “I can’t stress the importance of this matter enough, Marie. I’ve entrusted you with my dream.”

Uh-oh. Here it comes. This was why GreyComm was so successful—the power of Jean’s speeches. She made Joan of Arc look like a candidate for Toastmasters.

She came around her desk to pace in front of me. Her designer suit gently fell into place, not a wrinkle marring the expensive fabric. I bet the suit cost more than what I made in a month, and she had a closet full of them.

“I’ve built this company from scratch, paying for it with my own blood and sweat rather than using a penny of my father’s capital.”

Her dad was loaded. I would’ve used his money.

“To get to this point, I had to make a lot of sacrifices. Unfortunately, one of those sacrifices was having a family.” She leaned her beautifully encased derriere on the top of her desk. Even if I worked out three hours a day I’d still have a scrawny butt.

I couldn’t help interjecting at this point. “You’re hardly too old.”

“I’m thirty-eight,” she said flatly. “And, to tell you the truth, I don’t have the patience to go through the trouble of finding a husband. Men are needy and demanding, and my work doesn’t permit that kind of drain of my time. But then I realized I didn’t need a man to achieve my goal.”

It was hard to come by a penis that wasn’t attached to a man. But obviously she’d realized this because here I was, sitting in front of her.

I could understand the ticking biological clock, and that hers was set to self-destruct any second now, but I didn’t get one thing. “Forgive me for asking, but have you considered going to a sperm bank? Between January 2000 and August 2003, five hundred fifty-nine women conceived with donor sperm from the Sperm Bank of New York.”

She cocked a perfect, red eyebrow. “Of course I considered it; however, I wouldn’t have control over the choice. While they assure their records of donors are accurate, I feel more comfortable making my own selection.”

Right. She was ignoring the fact that she wasn’t going to be the one doing the selecting.

“That’s where you come in.” She picked a nonexistent fleck of lint off her skirt. “Your research is impeccable. I have the utmost faith that you’ll be able to find me a handful of suitable donors.”

“Yes, but—“

“I know I don’t have to reiterate my urgency in getting this matter settled. I’d like to begin my family by my thirty-ninth birthday.”

I almost sighed in relief. She was giving me some time. I’d have to reconsider the heinous bitch comment. “And that is?”

“In three weeks.”

Three weeks? She wanted me to find a father for her baby in three weeks?

Delusional.

Okay. I took a deep breath. There were more impossible things to accomplish in this world. At the moment, I was hard pressed to come up with one, but I knew they existed. Pointing out that she might have given me the time constraints yesterday, or perhaps assigned me this task five months ago, barely entered my mind.

Jean continued like she was asking me to research the history of the Pez dispenser. “Like I said, I have faith in you, Marie. And there will be adequate compensation—“

God, I hoped so. I’d deserve sainthood for getting this job done.

“---starting with a promotion. I know you’ve had your eye on the VP spot that’s recently opened.”

Forget sainthood. I wanted VP.

I gripped the armrests to keep from jumping up and screaming Yes! I tilted my head to one side—I’d seen Jean do it and practiced it in the mirror until I got just the right amount of coy—and said, “The thought had crossed my mind.”

Wow—what an understatement. For the last eight years, that was all I had existed for.

It wasn’t the actual job that jump-started my boat. It wasn’t the corner office or the fact that I’d have a lackey—excuse me, an executive assistance. Being VP of research meant I’d have a six-figure salary, which meant I’d be able to save more money, which meant I’d be able to realize my dream of owning a home that much sooner.

Jean gave me a look that said she recognized I was about to burst with excitement despite my cool exterior. “The way I see it, Marie, this assignment is the ultimate research project. Find me a viable candidate to father my child and the position is yours.”

My heart raced and sweat made my palms sticky. I forgot all my misgivings and fears. All I could taste was the sweetness of having my own home.

Surreptitiously, I wiped my hands on my skirt. “That certainly provides incentive.”

Jean’s perfectly bowed lips turned up in a little smile. “Good.” She gracefully slinked back to her chair and lifted the top of her computer. “I expect daily progress reports as well as a list of potentials at the end of each week, this week excluded.”

The haziness of my dream faded abruptly into the reality of what I had to do. How was I going to find viable sperm donors for her when I practically hyperventilated each time I had to ask a stranger for directions? At least she gave me a reprieve this week. I could come up with something by next week. I hoped. Maybe.

I gulped and resisted stating that over fifteen hundred children had been born to the Sperm Bank of New York.

Because Jean started with tapping away at her keys, I figured I was dismissed. I stood, collected my folder, and turned to leave.

“Marie.”

I looked back.

Without lifting her gaze from the screen, Jean said, “Failing isn’t an option. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you there are other qualified applicants for both the VP position as well as director of research.” She glanced up and the brief contact of her eyes reinforced the threat like nothing else could have.

I straightened my spine. “Failing never entered my mind.” Ha! Complete lie. Sometimes I thought the idea of failing had lived inside me forever. And now it was planning on expanding its territory.

“Good.” She went back to work.

I closed the door with a soft snick on my way out. Calmly, I walked to the elevator, took it down to my floor, and strode into my closet of an office. I shut the door and collapsed against it.

Oh god. I was in deep trouble.

By mid-afternoon I was in a state of sheer panic, so I did what I’ve always done when I’ve had a dilemma—at least for the last ten years. I went to Logan’s.

Logan Howlett has been my best friend since the first day of my freshman year in high school. He was a senior. We met in biology. I was sitting in the back, trying not to throw up from nerves, when Logan walked in long after the bell had rung. The only available seat was next to mine, and on that fated day we became assigned work partners for the rest of the year.

If we hadn’t met at the very beginning of my first year there, I doubt we’d have become friends. We were as far apart on the spectrum as we could be. I was the geek no one knew existed; Logan was the cool guy everyone respected. He was a jock, but that isn’t to say he was a dunce. Logan’s way smarter than me. You could bring up the most obscure topic and Logan would know everything there is to know about it. He just doesn’t apply himself in things that don’t interest him.

I blame Logan’s father for his lack of motivation. Mr. Howlett made Genghis Khan look like Mr. Rogers. If I had a father like that, I’d be a major slacker too.

Maybe I’m painting the wrong picture of Logan. I don’t mean to make it sound like he sits around all day eating bonbons. He doesn’t. He’s an ex-college hockey player who became a sports therapist who went on to get a degree in Sports Medicine and who also now has a thriving practice. He gets by well enough to afford a great loft just outside of White Plains with an attached studio he uses for his personal gym.

Anyway, I maintain he could easily become a mogul if he put his mind to it. It’s not often Logan really wants something, but when he gets it in his head, there’s no stopping him.

I let myself into his building with my key. I have a key to his loft too, but I always knock. It’s the polite thing to do. Logan rolls his eyes and says I should just come in, but I know the one time I do I’ll catch him browsing Internet porn or-- oh god--- him with one of his female companions. I’d never actually seen him with any of them inside of his loft before, but I know they come over occasionally. And I’d be damned if I was going to walk in on any of that skanky hanky panky.

I banged my fist on the door, hoping he wasn’t busy. Muttering curses under my breath, I shook out my hand. His door is an original one from the warehouse—ergo, thick metal. It’s like knocking on the door of an industrial refrigerator.

He must have not been looking up internet porn or anything because he opened up immediately. “Marie. This is a surprise.”

The familiar way his smile lit his face and his hazel eyes sparkled eased the tightness in my chest a little.

“Are you busy?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“’Course not.” He pulled me in and hugged me. Logan gave the best hugs. “Let me save the changes I’m making to my schedule and then I’m yours.”

Right. He’d never be mine. Yes, I was attractive and witty, but I’d never deluded myself to think I was his type—leggy and red.

Still, Logan is one of those kind guys that also happens to be drop-dead gorgeous. He has thick, wavy Matthew McConaughey hair and a lean, muscled body from his regular workouts. Combined with his intellect, humor and talent for massages, he was a woman’s dream date. One day I wanted a man just like him.

I followed him to the area he had sectioned off for an office. I paced back and forth behind him while he poked at the keyboard. I was just about to shove him aside and do it myself when he finally turned around. “Okay. Tell me what’s wrong.”

That’s the great thing about Logan. He knows me. And he didn’t hold it against me that I hadn’t had free time to hang out with him the past few months.

All right--- fine. I admit it’d been more than a few months. If I wanted the VP salary, I had to prove that I could work like one. Which meant long hours and no time for socializing.

I swallowed my guilt at being such a poor, undeserving friend and forged ahead. “I’m desperate. I need your help. I want to employ your services.”

“What? You need a massage?”

“No, I need a man to stud.”

“What?” He jumped out of his chair so quickly it toppled over. I found the spinning wheels oddly mesmerizing. He paid no attention to it, his eyes riveted on me.

Did I mention that he could really focus when he wanted to?

“I need someone to father a baby.” I realized how this sounded when his eyes bugged out. “Not for me, you idiot. For Jean--- my boss.”

He relaxed, his shoulders slumped in his typical untailored pose. “That’s a relief.”

I frowned. “What does that mean?”

He wrapped an arm around my neck and gave me a noogie. “Just that I don’t think I’m ready for you to get settled, kid.”

I hate it when he calls me that. Usually, I remind him that I’m only a few years younger than him and, at five-five, by medieval standards I was of Amazonian proportions, but today I shut up. I needed his help—bad. There was no way I could accomplish this without him, and I wasn’t about to antagonize my only hope. “So are you going to help me or not?”

He righted his chair and plopped onto it, learning back until the front wheels were six inches off the ground. I bit my lip to keep from telling him he was going to fall backward and crack his head open.

He studied me, his chin tipped to one side. He took my right hand and gently rubbed it, starting at the base of my palm and working his way out to my fingertips.

I tried not to melt but it was awfully hard. Tingles shot up my arm and down my spine, pooling in a pit right at the center of me.

But I was here on business, so I pushed the warm Logan feeling aside and pulled my hand from his. “Well?”

“This is important to you?”

“If I do this, I get my promotion.”

He nodded. “And this promotion is what you really want?”

“It means more money, which means I’d be that much closer to being able to buy a home.” He knew buying a home is all I’ve ever wanted.

“With the way you pinch and save I’d think you’d have enough to put down on a place. Maybe not in the City, but definitely in the outskirts.”

“Well…” I gave a little laugh and cleared my throat.

Logan’s eyes narrowed. “Marie, your father’s not still hitting you up for money, is he?”

Oh no. I hated when this came up. I knew he was just protective of me, but I wished he understood that I couldn’t not help my dad. But given Logan’s relationship with his estranged father, his reaction was to be expected. “The issue here is my promotion.”

Read: this subject is not up for debate.

He stared at me for what seemed like forever. “Isn’t finding your boss a sperm donor beyond the call of duty? You already deserve the promotion, if you ask me.”

“It’s what she wants me to do.” I forced a smile. “It’s the ultimate research project. If I do this, I’m worthy.”

He scowled. “You’re worthy anyway.”

Logan was so sweet.

“And why can’t she do what normal people do and go to a sperm bank?”

“She doesn’t want to. She’s worried about quality control, and I don’t blame her.”

Actually, I didn’t really understand what the big deal was about a sperm bank either. Except that there was a possibility that her child could have dozens of other brothers and sisters. Or that her child’s father could be a psycho.

I shook my head. None of that mattered. “I have three weeks to find her a viable candidate or I’m fired.”

“What?” Logan’s scowl deepened. “She can’t do that. Want me to talk to her?”

I sighed. “No, I want you to help me find a sperm donor. You know how I am around people I don’t know.”

He grinned. “You mean inept?”

“I just get a little tongue-tied.”

“You don’t get tongue-tied. You spew. Remember that time I took you to Hank’s Christmas party and you pointed out to his girlfriend that her shoes were made from an animal on the endangered species list?”

“Well, they were.”

“And the time we went to that bar and—“

“Stop.”

“- that guy next to us tried picking you up, but you kept quoting facts on how---“

“Seriously. Stop it.” I held up my hand. “I think experience has shown that I have no social skills.”

He tugged on one of my runaway locks. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

I batted his hand away and tucked my hair back into its ponytail.

“You should wear your hair down more. It’s beautiful.”

I snorted. “It’s frizzy and out of control.”

Logan cross his arms and studied me. “It’s not frizzy. And is being in control that important?”

I shrugged. “It is if it’ll get me my house.”

He didn’t say anything but I could read his thoughts. As a former army brat, I didn’t doubt that he understood how important my dream was to me. But sometimes I wondered if he could really appreciate what it meant. I mean, my father and I moved every few months, always to a tiny apartment that was worse than the one before it. I just wanted a place that was mine. A home instead of a hovel, one that I’d never have to leave.

“Okay.” He nodded.

“Okay what?”

“Okay, I’ll help you.”

“Thank God.” I heaved a sigh of relief. Logan was full of charisma. Strangers—women—flocked to talk to him all the time. With him helping, I was sure to compile my list in no time.

He leaned back in his chair again. “So what’s the plan, kid?”

I ignored the ‘kid’ only because he’d just agreed to help me. “We need to meet some men. I have a list of criteria here. It’s organized by order of importance.” I pulled out my handheld, brought up the characteristics Jean wanted in her donor, and handed it to him.

He read it out loud. “’Blue eyes (any shade), brown hair, dimples, successful in business, busy work schedule, good parentage, intelligence, attractive, and looks good in sunglasses.” He stared at me incredulously. “Looks good in sunglasses?”

I shrugged. “It’s what she wants.”

“You don’t think that’s weird?”

I found this whole endeavor weird, but if it meant me getting my promotion I wasn’t going to question it. “I’m sure Jean has her reasons.”

Logan shook his head in disbelief. “No wonder she can’t find her own husband.”

“She doesn’t want a husband. She just wants a sperm donor.”

“Whatever. So what’s the plan?”

“I was hoping you’d be able to help me with that.” I smiled. I hoped I looked innocently appealing and not like I was baring my teeth at him. “I need a list of potential candidates by next Friday morning.”

“Eight days, huh?” He shook his head and grabbed my hand—the left one this time—and massaged it as thoroughly as my right one. I tried to pull away but he held fast.

Logan touches. All the time. He always has. It’s how he communicates.

I’m uncomfortable with the touchy-feely stuff. You’d think I’d be used to it by now—we had been friends for ten years, after all. I guess it’s because I didn’t grow up with it. At least not since I was six, before my mom died. When Logan touches me so casually I’m torn between needing to put space between us and wanting to curl into him and let him pet me all over.

I flushed beet red. That was not something I needed to think about.

I tugged my hand. “Well?”

“I’m thinking.” His fingers pressed a particularly sensitive spot.

I clamped my lips on the moan that rose in my throat.

Space—need to get free. I jerked my hand hard. Logan chose that moment to release it and I flew back into his desk.

He frowned at me. “What’s the problem?”

“Nothing.” No way was I telling my best friend he was making my nerves tingle in places I didn’t realize I had nerves.

He rolled his eyes. “You’re strange sometimes, Marie. Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. You meet me at a club of my choosing tomorrow night and I’ll show you how to meet people.”

“Are you going to introduce me to your friends?”

“Hell no.” He shook his head vigorously. “Leave my friends out of this. I like that they talk to me.”

I stuck my tongue out at him and then shrugged. I’d take whatever he’d give me.

Logan leaned back in his chair. “What do I get for helping you?”

I frowned. “What do you want?”

A wicked gleam hit his eyes. “A boon.”

“A boon?” I scowled. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I’ll help you make your list and you’ll give me whatever I ask for.”

His satisfied smile made me nervous. “You aren’t going to want my firstborn or anything, are you?”

“And if I did?”

The way he looked at me made me understand how Little Red Riding Hood felt in the wolf’s presence. “That’s not exactly reassuring.”

“Would I ever hurt you?”

“No.” I didn’t have to think about that.

“Then what’s to worry?”

He had me there. I hated when Logan outmaneuvered me. “Fine.”

He grinned. “Shake on it.”

I reluctantly took his hand. Somehow, I knew this was going to come back and bite me in the ass.