When I whirl in the direction of the voice, I see Alex, the company's managing director. All six-foot-something, dark hair, and blazing eyes glare at me from the door that had been closed a few seconds before.

"I-I . . ."

"Is that the Corp Comm file on the tire-recycling program?" he growls, and I nod enthusiastically. "Fucking marketing. They take so long with everything."

Hey! We do not! I want to shout, but he's obviously angry so I stand, frozen to the plush gray carpet.

"Gather those papers and get the coffee on. She'll be here soon."

She? Who? What?

"Uh, sir, I—"

Alex steps closer and his smell washes over me. Whoa, yum. I breathe deep a few times, trying to drag more of his scent into my nose. My heart pings around my rib cage.

"I told the agency that I didn't want the girls to call me 'sir.'" He gives me a once-over, and I detect a suspicious, or possibly skeptical, look on his face.

"Sorry, sir." I look up, then down at my feet. "Sorry, Mr. Jenkins, but I think there's been a mix-up."

"Yes. There has been a mix-up. Corp Comm has screwed up, and on top of that, the agency obviously sent me a temporary personal assistant who's subpar. Go get the coffee. My grandmother will go ballistic if I don't have something hot and alcoholic waiting for her."

I press my hand to my chest. His poor granny.

"The coffee's in there." With an arrogant gaze, he points at the door where he'd emerged, then walks around the front of the desk and sinks into the black leather seat. "And make it strong. Three fingers of Kahlúa—the bottle's on the table."

Shaking, I collect the papers and set the file on his desk. I guess there's no harm in making the guy and his grandmother coffee, right?

Sabrina would call me obedient for doing something like this, but I think it's old-fashioned manners. Even if Alex Jenkins is a prick. I'm an intern, and I'm here to make life easier for the employees. If I do, I'll be noticed and get a full-time gig. Maybe this is a test from the universe, and a full-time job at this company will magically open for me by tomorrow morning.

That's the kind of thing my business school advisor would say, although she never mentioned anything about what to do about arrogant managers. A sigh escapes my lips as I look around.

The room's something of a studio apartment, with a fancy stainless-steel coffeemaker on a sleek table near a small fridge, a clothing rack with identical dark suit jackets and white shirts, and a cozy-looking gray sofa that's aimed at a flat-screen TV.

He must work so hard that he stays here sometimes. I fiddle with the coffeemaker buttons. As the machine churns out the fresh-smelling brew, a disconcerting realization comes over me.

He thinks I'm his personal assistant.

It's kind of funny, really, a man so powerful not knowing his own assistant. But he'd said something about a temp, and with the mercurial temper he exhibited, I suspect that he goes through staff quite quickly.

Thank God I'm in a whole different department, away from such wrath. Even though he is impossibly good-looking, I'd hate to be around such arrogance for forty hours a week. And he's probably the kind of boss to make his secretary work overtime.

Wait. I'm working overtime. I calculate the time and a half in my brain and figure I'll get an extra . . . eighteen bucks in my paycheck if I work three hours of OT. I stifle a sigh.

First, I pour the coffee into a mug, along with a splash of Kahlúa, then wonder if I should use one of the carafes. Figuring that I'll bring some to him first to get his approval—he seems like the kind of man who wants to approve everything in his orbit—I straighten my spine and strut into the office with the coffee, trying to project an aura of inner confidence, as if I do this all the time.

I'm good with change. I can pivot. This isn't the worst thing that's ever happened to me.

He's sitting in the chair, his back to me, when I slightly bend to hand him the coffee. When he whirls around, his knees brush my bare legs and I become flustered. His arm flies up and knocks the mug out of my grasp. The liquid splatters all over his white shirt and my pink cardigan. He curses, loud and vulgar, and I yelp.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Jenkins! Sorry, sorry, sorry!"

I spring back and run across the office into the adjacent room to grab a towel. This is a disaster, and all because I wasn't more assertive about who I really am. Towel . . . towel . . . towel . . . I snatch a fluffy white towel from a basket and run back in. Is the towel even clean?

This still isn't the worst thing that's ever happened to me, but it is pretty mortifying. By the time I fly back into the office, he has his shirt off. Eep.

I didn't know real-life men are this muscular. I've seen guys like that on TV, but figured that pecs and abs and whatever those muscles on a guy's side are called were all computer-generated trickery.

Alex Jenkins is like a damned Rodin statue. Hard, sculpted, and smooth. His skin is tan and . . . mercy, his shoulders have muscles on top of muscles, ones that I didn't even know existed on the human body. He must spend entire weeks in the gym. When does he have time to even work?

I shield my eyes with one hand.

"I'm so sorry, sir. You startled me, that's all. Here's a towel. I think it's clean. Maybe. I got it out of the basket." I hand it to him without looking. I feel my own shoulder with the opposite hand. Nope. I don't even have those muscles.

He utters a few more swear words. "Miss . . . Miss . . . what is your name, anyway?"

"Evie Cooper." I address the floor.

"Evie Cooper, look at me."

I raise my eyes, trying not to pay attention to his muscular arms, the planes and valleys of his six-pack stomach, the hardness of his pecs. I ignore the bronze of his skin and the sprinkling of hair on his chest. His beauty makes me feel naïve and inexperienced and completely, one hundred percent inept. I stare into his eyes, an act equally as dangerous as looking at his body.

He flings the soiled shirt into a wastebasket. "Get me a shirt and bring it here. And another tie. The red one. They're on the hook on the back of the door. And take off your sweater. Now."

I stand, frozen. He's telling me to take off my clothes. The very idea is exciting. And scary. "My . . . sweater?"

"There's coffee all over the front." He points at my chest.

A flush of embarrassment spreads across my face as I peel off my sweater. He wasn't asking me to strip for him. Lord. The coffee hasn't reached my black sheath dress. Thank goodness because it's my nicest work outfit, and I don't have money for dry cleaning this week. Or this month.

Looking about wildly, I wonder what to do with my sweater.

"Give it to me." He extends his hand.

Keeping my gaze on the floor, I hand it to him. Our fingers brush against each other, and a flare of electricity travels from my hand, to my arm, right into my chest.

I scamper away.

When I return, his back is to me, and he's staring out the window. The sound of me clearing my throat makes him whirl around.

"Sir. Mr. Jenkins. Here," I say, extending the open shirt in his direction.

He steps forward and my heart pounds as he comes closer. I'm not used to being around masculine, powerful men. Okay, so I'm rarely around any men. I've kissed a few, but it's never gone further than that. Unsurprisingly, losing my parents and raising a teenage sister hasn't exactly done wonders for my love life.

Attempting to be professional—there's that obedient side of me again—I help slide the shirt over those powerful arms.

He stares at me while buttoning the shirt. "Not a great first day, Evie."

No kidding, dude, I wanted to say. Wait. First day? What's he talking about?

Wordlessly, I hand him the tie. I'm not going to argue because I assume that this will be my last day at this company, because he'll fire me soon enough, either when he discovers I'm not his temporary assistant or when he finds out I'm an intern in the incompetent corporate communications department.

He slides the tie through his collar and glares at me, an expression that is completely uncalled for, given the circumstances. "Can you help me, please, instead of standing there and gawking at my body?"

My obedient side is approaching a cliff and I narrow my eyes at Jerky McJerkface. There's only so much attitude I can handle. I stand in front of him, my breasts inches from his chest. God, why is today the day I wore my thinnest bra? I can see my nipples poking through my cheap dress. What a disaster.

Concentrate on the tie. Concentrate. My hands tremble out of fear and a touch of rage. I haven't tied a man's tie since my father was alive. If I think too hard about the last time I did that—the night he and my mother died two years ago in a car crash, when I was twenty—I'll want to cry.

This is not the time to cry. I am a damned mess right now.

Taking a deep breath, I put my hands on either end of the red tie and look into his face. It's then that I notice he's staring at me with something other than anger. An unfamiliar warmth spreads through my body, concentrating somewhere between my legs. His eyes are half-lidded, almost sensual. He smiles at me, but it's not a kind expression. It's dangerous.

"You do know how to tie a man's tie, don't you, Evie?"

"Of course I do; Which knot do you like?" My dad had taught me the Windsor knot, the half Windsor, and the four-in-hand.

"I like knots of all kinds," he murmurs. "Usually I'm the one tying them, though."

I pretend that he didn't make a stupid double entendre. I'm suddenly less enamored with his looks. Hopefully he'll fire me in the next couple of minutes. At least then I can go home and eat a frozen pizza. As if on cue, my stomach grumbles.

"Can't you tie your own tie, Mr. Jenkins?" I ask, my tone frosty.