This temp's going to be a problem, and it's the last thing I need tonight.

For one thing, she doesn't seem like she's capable of performing the job. Not due to the way she spilled coffee on me, because hell, that was my fault. And it's not the tone of her voice, nor that snark she displayed when she asked whether I could tie my own tie.

No, there's something about her that doesn't seem qualified as an assistant. Like she hasn't been trained in dealing with the flow of an executive office. I can tell by the way she's pussyfooting around the place. It's puzzling. Usually the agency sends over confident women who have loads of experience.

Why the hell did my regular PA decide to go on vacation this week?

I take the tie from her and loop it around my neck. "Of course I can do it myself. See?"

She scrutinizes me with an adorable little frown as I loop the silk fabric around itself. This woman is distractingly pretty. But I can handle that. I'm not a Neanderthal. At least not outwardly. I'm rather complicated when it comes to women. I'm both Atlanta's most eligible bachelor (according to Peachtree Magazine) and "something of an overgrown fuckboy" (according to a woman I'd met in a bar recently).

The latter detail is one thousand percent false, but as I've come to realize, a rakish reputation—even a false one—is difficult to live down.

Despite all this, or maybe because of it, I have rules.

Not screwing an employee is one of those rules. It doesn't matter that Evie's eyes are as blue as the Caribbean, or how her pink lips pout as she watches me; I'm not getting involved with a subordinate—even one who is here temporarily. And I need to stop flirting and joking with her, for Christ's sake. I approved the company's new sexual harassment policy last week.

"Wait, no. That's crooked." She waves my hands away and undoes the tie while shaking her head. She reties it and straightens the knot at my throat. "There. You look way better than before."

What the hell does she mean by that? Save the snappy comeback, Jenkins . . .

"Thank you," I say briskly, trying to steer this situation back into something resembling an orderly office environment. "Now. Let's go over what I need for the next hour while Gram, ah, Eleanor, is here." I step behind the desk and point to one of the two chairs on the opposite side of the desk from me. "You're going to sit there. Eleanor will be there." I stack some papers hastily.

"Mr. Jenkins, I need to tell you, I'm not your assistant." She remains standing, behind the leather chair.

I raise my hands in a WTF gesture. "Then who are you? A woman off the street who enjoys spilling scalding coffee on men and showing off her Windsor knot talent?"

"Technically, you spilled the coffee on me. On my work sweater."

I pause to grind my molars together while I let everything sink in. Maybe I didn't hear her correctly, so I'll start fresh with an olive branch of kindness. "And I apologize for that. The coffee spill was my fault, I'll be sure to dry-clean your sweater. I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted." Good lord, this woman's attractive. Normally I don't like women with shorter hair, but the way hers brushes against her graceful neck? Hell, I could stare at that for hours.

"Did you say . . . work sweater?" I narrow my eyes.

"It's freezing on my floor. Subzero. You should really fix that. I keep a sweater here so I don't get frostbite." Her eyelashes are long and alluring. "And it would probably save the company money if you bumped the thermostat up a degree."

I pace around the desk. "What floor do you work on?"

"Third. I'm an intern in corporate communications. I came here to give you that file." She points to my desk.

I'm not usually caught off guard, but I am tonight, so I stalk back around the desk and sink into my chair. "You're an intern?"

"Yes. This is my postgrad internship. I graduated from Emory in December. Next week is my last here at the company. I've had a rewarding time here at Jenkins, so thank you for that."

"Good school, and it's great to hear you've gotten a lot out of your internship," I mutter as I impatiently shuffle files around my desk. I glance up and see more than a hint of pride in her eyes and feel bad for being so cynical. The woman's what, twenty-one? Twenty-two? I groan inwardly at the entire situation. Lusting after a girl nearly ten years younger and being harsh to a young employee who's trying to climb the corporate ladder? Just great, Jenkins.

"Do you happen to know where my temporary assistant went, Miss Cooper? And please. Sit. You're making me nervous standing there."

She shrugs her thin shoulders and perches on the edge of the chair. "How should I know? I walked in right before the coffee incident. I was delivering marketing reports and you startled me."

My gaze travels from her face down to her neck and I briefly catch a glimpse of her chest. Her curves are barely hidden by her dress. I scowl. "There was no one outside when you walked in? At the desk?"

She shakes her head.

"Dammit. The agency must not have sent a temp. Or the girl left. I don't know. This day's been busier than a mosquito at a nudist colony." I wait for her to giggle, but she doesn't. Tough crowd. "When my usual PA is on vacation, I go through assistants like you wouldn't believe. Swear to God, during the weeks Nadine's gone, I change assistants more than I change my sheets."

"I can't imagine why. You're so kind," Evie deadpans.

Everyone's a comedian these days. "I'm going to ignore that because I'm in a bind and need someone to take notes during this meeting. Can you please act as my assistant for the next hour? It won't be difficult. Sixty minutes, tops."

Her eyes lift to the ceiling as if she's thinking hard, which gives me an excuse to stare at her face. She crosses her arms over her chest.

"Please?" I push out a breath. "Listen, I'm sorry I called you subpar a few minutes ago. That was wrong of me. I'm under a lot of stress these days. Are you willing to stay and help?"

"I'm afraid it will cost you." She slants her mouth, as if to say, What stress are you under, buddy?

I stare at her incredulously. "You're an intern. You're supposed to do whatever anyone asks of you."

"You're keeping me here late. I'm only paid for thirty hours a week. I've already worked two hours of overtime, and whenever I work OT, I don't get paid. That's a labor violation." She straightens her spine. "I'm giving up important things by being here late."

Important things? At her age? Probably partying or screwing her boyfriend or drinking at some club with her friends. The nerve of this woman. But she obviously knows she has me over a barrel. "Okay, fine. I'll pay you double. Here." I take a blank legal pad and a pen out of a drawer and hand it to her.

She taps her foot. "Triple overtime."

I squint at her. She has a thin, delicate frame, and there's a defiant edge to her. An alluring, defiant edge. I've always loved a challenge. "Extortion. That's what you're doing. If you were a man, I'd tell you to go to hell."

"My professor says women should demand to be paid what they're worth. And what's it to you? It comes out to thirty-six dollars." She snorts. "I'm sure you have it in your budget. Or probably in change, behind the cushions of your couch."

We pay the interns only twelve an hour? Christ. I'll have to ask HR about this tomorrow before I go to New York. One more thing to deal with. I inhale deep. "Fine," I bite out. "Triple overtime. Now would you please get ready to take notes?"

"Why do you need notes if it's your grandmother? That's a little strange."

"Because my grandmother is the sharpest person on the planet, and I need a record of what she says to study it later. She's stopping by to drop off a list of ideas before she goes to the opera."

"Hmm." I can't tell if that's a judgmental hmm, or a hmm of agreement.

We stare warily at each other, and I swear, I imagine myself looking into those ocean-blue eyes right before I kiss her. Her eyes are the color of the water off the coast of St. Barts, which is where I went on my last vacation.

"But why?"

My brow forms a scowl. "Why what?"

"Why do you need to study what your grandmother says? Please explain the situation to me so I can perform my work duties proficiently." She taps the pen on the pad.

Massaging the back of my head, I try not to snap. None of this is Evie's fault. She can't help that she's not an assistant. She can't help that Gram is stubborn, or that Dad's pressuring me. Or that Beau, my slimy cousin who runs the sporting goods arm of my family's company, is once again trying to weasel in on what's mine. Perhaps I should send Evie away . . . but no. I need notes.

"Okay, here goes. I'm the managing director of this company." She nods, a look of annoyance on her face as I continue. "And my father is the CEO of the Jenkins conglomerate, which owns a tire manufacturer, a line of chemical and industrial rubber products—"

She interrupts. "A chain of sporting goods stores, and a new roofing supply company based in St. Louis. I proofread the latest annual report."

Does she expect a thanks? I plow on. "My grandmother is the chairperson of the board of the whole thing. The company was started by her husband. Dad and I want her to step down so he can be chair, and I can move into the CEO position."

"Okay, so what's the issue? You're all on the same team. You seemingly do a good job here. Or is this some sort of hostile takeover?"

I snort out a breath. "Yeah, right. Hostile is a good word. My cousin Beau—who's a managing director of another of my family's companies, the sporting goods stores based in Cobb County—wants the CEO role."

Evie tilts her head. "Ah, so this is some sort of Succession power play."

"What?"

"That TV show. Never mind. Why make your grandmother step down? Why can't you all continue the way you are? Or do you want more money or something? Is Beau older? More experienced than you? Or does your dad want more power?"

"Money's not the issue. Beau's only a year older, and we have about equal experience." Revenge against Beau is my driving motivation, but I won't tell dearest little Evie about my ulterior motive. "And Gram's old and she should enjoy what time she has left. Also, I am often at odds with my cousin over various, ah, things, and I don't want him to get this job. So, there's that."

At odds is a polite way of saying that I hate his fucking guts.

"Why not let your grandmother choose what she wants from her life? And why not try to run the company with your cousin, instead of trying to beat him at some invisible game? Wouldn't that be best for your entire family?"

I inhale a thin breath through my nose and stare at Evie. She has no idea that the Jenkins clan puts the fun in dysfunction, and if she knew what was good for her, she wouldn't ask any more questions. "Did you sign a nondisclosure agreement when you started your internship?"

She pauses to think for a moment. "I did. But what does that have to do with your cousin and you taking over the company?"

"Because my grandmother and I could discuss sensitive topics and I don't want you blabbing about them at the water cooler in marketing, and I definitely don't want my cousin to find out."

Her eyes narrow. "But wouldn't your grandmother tell your cousin that you discussed these sensitive topics? And I thought he works in a different division, in another county?"

"No chance of that. Gram's good at keeping secrets." Such as who's going to take over the company. Too good at secrets, in fact. "And Beau keeps an office here. He stops by sometimes so he can keep his foot firmly in the company door."

Evie pantomimes a zipper motion against her luscious lips. Then opens those lips. "The water cooler on the third floor hasn't worked for two weeks. But that still doesn't answer my questions."

Hell. I jot the words water cooler–third floor on a notepad. "Let's put it this way. My rivalry with Beau Jenkins—my cousin—is akin to that of the Atlanta Falcons and New Orleans Saints, and I want to come out on top. Ever since we were kids, we've competed against one another. Grades, colleges, sports; you name it, we've tried to one-up each other at it for years."

She blinks a few times, probably thinking my entire family is a bit unhinged. Well, we are.

I don't mention the other thing. The big event. The defining moment of my life. Don't need to get into that particular scandal with this sweet summer child.

My eyes flicker to Evie's hair, which is dark and straight and cut in a bob that falls to her shoulders—I know this because my sister, Savannah, once tried to tame her curls into this shape. Evie's soft-looking locks are perfect for the style. It's not sleek or severe. It falls to her collarbone, and something about seeing her dark hair touching her tan, freckled skin makes me want to brush it back and gather it in my hands. And kiss her collarbone.

Dammit, stop. She's an intern. More off-limits than an assistant. An inappropriate fantasy sends a burn of discomfort into my chest. I smile awkwardly at Evie, and she returns the expression. Dear God, she has the sweetest dimples. Didn't she say her internship was over next week?

"My dear, who is this?"

Christ. Cockblocked by my grandmother.

"Gram." I stand up, stride over, and give her a kiss on both cheeks. The room is clouded with Poison, her signature perfume. She hands me a thick, monogrammed envelope. I'm certain that Gram's ideas are on linen stationery inside, in her formal cursive handwriting in black ink.

Evie stands and faces my grandmother.

"This is . . . my assistant for the evening. Evie." I sweep a hand in her direction. "Evie, meet Eleanor Dorothy Jenkins, my grandmother and matriarch of not only my family, but this company."

With manners obviously learned at some finishing school for girls, Evie's eyes sparkle and she offers Gram a gentle handshake, the kind women do with their fingers.

"A pleasure to meet you," Evie says.

"Your assistant or your companion? I thought you'd sworn off the beautiful secretaries," Gram retorts, winking at Evie as she settles into her chair. Evie looks alarmed, and I cough. Gram is a pistol, and tonight could go off in a hundred different ways.

"Gram, you know I never get involved with the staff. Let me get you one of your special coffees. I'll be right back."

She lets out a hoot and looks to Evie. "Ooh, you've trained him perfectly, dear. Alex never gets my coffee. Well done."

Evie coughs in response.

There's no way I'm letting Evie around hot liquid again. And I need a minute to gain my composure. Tonight, I'm going to explain my latest proposal to save the company money—and once again, to not-so-subtly suggest that my grandmother give up her role as chairperson of the board and name me as CEO. I'm perfect for this new role, and desperate to prove to Gram and the rest of my family that I'm worthy of the job. My cousin simply cannot run this company. Beau can't have it all.

I hear my grandmother snort.

"Secretary, my ass. He's never dated his secretaries, but he's damned sure dated every other woman in Atlanta. I guess he's expanding his horizons. How'd he meet you, anyway? You seem a little classier than his usual."

I stab at the button of the espresso maker. As the machine whirrs to life, I pull out the bottle of Kahlúa and splash some into a mug, then down the whole thing in one gulp. Between a gorgeous, scrappy intern and a grandmother who doesn't have a filter between her brain and her mouth, this is going to be an interesting night.

I'm about finished with the espresso when I hear heavy footsteps in the office.

"Gram? Thanks for telling me you were stopping by the building! Lucky for you I happened to be here taking care of a few things. Where's Alex? And who is this lovely lady?" My cousin Beau's syrupy, braying tone makes me stare conspiratorially at the coffeemaker, as if it's my only confidant in the world. Gram obviously called Beau and asked him to join us. Hell.

My cousin's arrival means that an interesting night has turned into a rotten one.