"Get a cat, he said. Cats are low maintenance. We can look after it together." I huff and pour some food in Mulan's bowl before turning on the coffee machine. Mulan somehow manages to meow and eat, which is annoying, but also impressive – almost as impressive as me curling my hair while chugging back coffee.

By the time I get to work, I'm my usual composed self. I totter through the lobby and into the elevator, my finger dithering on seven before I sigh and press for six. One day I will be on that floor; I'm certain of it.

The doors open, and I walk into the office to see it's even more festive than yesterday. Someone's put snow globes on every single desk, and tinsel now hangs from the tiles on the ceiling; this is my version of a nightmare.

I take a seat opposite Jess, who has been getting in early these past few weeks after consistently getting in late. She hasn't said so, but I have a feeling Laurelle must have had a talk with her, because now she's a whole new Jess. That's the thing about Laurelle: she lets you make one mistake and one mistake, only. After that, you're gone.

I switch on my computer and glance over at Milo, who as usual, is at his desk. He's already got a coffee by his side as he furiously types away, leaving me to wonder who he's emailing. I start to settle down, and Jess tells me about an article she read about online dating. I'm her only single friend, so of course she immediately thought of me.

I give her a look that says, Are you crazy? "Do you know how many people get murdered because of Tinder?" 

"Do you?" she asks.

"Well, no, but it's got to be a lot. Anyway, I don't want to meet a stranger. I don't want to meet anybody."

Jess rolls her eyes as she gets back to work. "I'm just saying, you did so well when you kissed Milo at that Christmas party. I mean, before you knew it was Milo. You need to get some of that momento back. Take the initiative."

"Thank you, love guru Jess. Can I get back to work now?" I don't wait for her answer, and she doesn't give me one. I flick through my emails, surprised to find one from Milo. I lean forward in my chair and eagerly read the message:

Kenny,

I'd like to take the opportunity to let you know that regardless of who gets this upcoming job promotion, I wish you good luck and all the best in the future.

Sincerely,

Milo Woods

I read it and then re-read it at least five times. Why is Milo emailing me to wish me good luck? Is this some sort of tactic? Did he send the same to Harry and Patricia? Is it all part of the process to see how cordial we are in the face of our reckless mistake? Well, I won't let him win. I start typing furiously, and Jess looks up at the constant clonking sound, clearly amused.

My email reads:

Dear Milo,

Thank you for your email. I appreciate your well wishes and wish you all the best in return. I'm sure that whatever happens, we will continue to work together amicably, as is the Long Bridge way.

Kind regards,

Kennedy James

I send the email and watch him. He's typing away but stops when his computer lets out a ping. He clicks at his mouse, quickly scanning the screen. After a second or two, his eyes flit to mine.

I glance away and get back to work. I know what he's doing – it's typical behavior for someone who's worried about their job. He's trying to throw me off my game by playing little mind games, but it won't work on me. I am always two steps ahead.

At some point, when I've finished liaising with clients, I head toward the coffee machine for my much-needed coffee break. Milo trails after me, standing right behind me as I wait. "I know what you're doing," I say without turning around.

I don't have to look at him to know his eyebrow is raised. "What am I doing?"

Ah, the age old playing dumb tactic. Well, two can play at that game. "Never mind, Milo."

I get back to my desk, and it's not long before Laurelle calls for those of us up for the promotion to come to her office. We rise from our seats and walk to the elevator to the stares of everyone else. Walking down this aisle is like walking down death row. I can practically hear the chant, Dead man walking as Milo presses for the button.

The four of us step inside in deathly silence. As soon as the doors close behind us, I turn to Harry, ignoring Milo completely. "What do you think the task will be?"

"Something ridiculous, knowing Laurelle," he says with a little disdain.

"Maybe some kind of How would you approach this scenario," Patricia says. I can't help but notice how confident she sounds.

When the doors open, I step into the lobby and let out this little dreamy sigh, the way I always do when I step on this floor. This is how imagine Charlie to feel when he wins the golden ticket and heads to the chocolate factory.

Milo looks at me like I'm officially insane. "You weren't kidding about liking it up here."

I ignore him and grab a coffee from the machine-which tastes one thousand times better than the coffee downstairs-and take a seat. My body sinks into the Italian leather sofas, and I close my eyes in pure bliss. I only have ten minutes top to enjoy this; I'm going to make it count.

"It's nice that you're so easily pleased," Milo says, sinking into the seat beside me.

I ignore him and continue to breathe in. The air up here is so much fresher somehow, like the rooms are equipped with air purifiers. There's a slightly fruity scent, too, mango mixed with the scent of clean sheets. I can't get enough of it. The only thing that could ruin this feeling right now is if Lucas walks past. Please don't walk past.

"Laurelle is ready to see you all."

My eyelids fly open, and I'm almost disappointed at having to move. I get to my feet at the same time as the others, and after sharing a brief look with Milo, head to Laurelle's office. He knocks on the door, and after a curt, "Come in," the four of us gather in her office.

As usual, Laurelle doesn't look away from her screen. "We've got some big properties lined up," she says, clicking at her mouse. "All around ten million, all ready for staging." She finally looks up. "Normally, these properties would go to someone on this floor, someone I can trust, but I think this will be a good opportunity for you to prove yourselves."

I glance at Milo, holding my breath in the silence that follows. I think he is holding his, too.

"You'll each take a property," she continues. "You'll need to determine what type of client the property will attract, and you'll need to use your findings to work alongside an interior designer to get the homes ready for an open house viewing. You'll also need to take pictures and inform me of every step so I can track your process." She stops talking to shoot us a severe look. "If you've done your jobs properly, your homes should sell for the asking price and you'll not only get your cut, but it'll go a long way in helping me decide who joins my team. Got it?"

We nod, and with a flick of her hand, we're dismissed. The whole elevator ride down, I play her words in my head on repeat, already imagining the type of house I'll be given. Milo and the others are silent next to me, and I know they are doing the same. The doors open again, and without another word, we rush to our desks.

Show time.

The document comes through at eleven as promised. The moment it pings, most of the office scramble to open our emails, scouring through Laurelle's instructions. From the looks of things, my property is located in Manhattan, a penthouse suite in an expensive apartment block. My heart pounds as I click on the link. These million-dollar properties usually go to the sevens, who get a ten percent cut for their efforts, which means if I can sell this apartment for the asking price, I'll have earned enough to be able to keep my apartment - for now.

I spend the next hour finding out everything I can about this property. It's a 63-story residential tower in the heart of Manhattan's Midtown Cultural District, with 94 apartments ranging from studios to a 4-bedroom duplex penthouse.

The property I'm looking at is over two and a half million, an amount my little brain can barely comprehend, but is a drop in the bucket in Manhattan. Ten percent of that would be 250,000 before tax, which is nothing in comparison to what the sevens are earning-or Laurelle for that matter-but to me, it's like winning the lottery.

At some point, I head to the coffee machine and press for my usual. As I wait, someone walks behind me, so I turn and see Milo. He taps his foot the same way he always does when waiting for his coffee. "Ditched the red, I see."

I turn to the coffee machine, so it doesn't look like we're talking. The last thing I need is to give people more ammo. "I decided it wasn't me."

"No, it wasn't," he agrees.

The coffee pours slower than ever. I can feel him behind me, his body radiating heat and making me feel flustered. I glance at him again, and he raises an eyebrow. He's wearing a black tie with tiny Mickey Mouses all over it. Just like my lipstick, his ties are his little way of rebelling.

"There's a meeting in five," Milo says like I don't know this. "Planning on wearing your coffee again?" He's standing right behind me, close enough for me to smell that familiar aftershave.

"Ha ha," I say, but this is all so weird. Milo and I never used to talk in the middle of a work day, but it's as though our locking of lips unlocked new social interactions. When my Espresso is ready, I grab my cup and walk straight to my desk, refusing to turn back around. Jess sits and watches me, both eyebrows raised like she can't believe her eyes.

Neither can I.

After a brief board meeting with the finance exec, I spend the rest of the day getting in touch with the staging company we've partnered with. Staging a home means bringing in furniture and working with a staging company to make an environment where a client can visualize themselves in the home. It takes a lot of thought and communication to get it right, so of course, I take most of my inspiration from Pinterest.

"Take a break already," Jess whines.

I look up to see her watching me from her over her laptop. She's right, I've been working like a maniac trying to deal with my usual clients while getting this new property ready. I glance at the coffee machine, where Milo is already waiting for his espresso.

"Sorry," I say, and then I tell her all about the property Laurelle has assigned to me. Jess listens intently, sipping her coffee while raising her eyebrows.

She knows as well as I do what it would mean to snag a property like this. While the properties and clientele we deal with on six are more upscale than on five, the commission we receive is still peanuts in comparison to seven.

"That should tie you over for the next few months with your rent, right?" she asks.

"It should do," I say, "and if I do a good job, who knows? There might be a promotion waiting for me."

"Well, you better not forget me when you become a worldly seven," she warns.

"If," I correct her. "I still have three other people to contend with, remember. I have a feeling we're going to be fighting tooth and nail before much longer."

After a final read-through, I send Laurelle a progress report on the property, giving her a lowdown of the kind of client I envision buying. I let her know I've contacted the staging company and have a meeting with them tomorrow to go through the look I want to achieve. Then I get up and grab another coffee.

Milo watches me as I walk. I'm not certain until I turn around and catch his eye, but I can feel his eyes on me. He's probably plotting how best to take me down. Or sabotage me. For some reason, Milo doesn't strike me as the type to play fair. But if that's the case, neither will I.

At seven, when Patricia and Harry are still tapping away, I give up and slip on my coat. Milo doesn't look up, but he stiffens like he's super aware of me. I pull out my gym bag from under my desk, and finally, he looks over. His eyes fall to the bag, which is almost as big as me. For a second, I think he might smile.

Sighing, he switches off his computer and slips on his coat. We stroll towards the elevator. Even our footsteps are like night and day: his shoes sound menacing on the polished tiled floors, while mine are rhythmic titter tatters. We get to the doors, and I reach for the button, but this time he beats me to it. When I glance at him, the corner of his lip has curled.

It takes several seconds for the doors to open. When they do, Milo steps back and then stretches his hand, letting me go first. I manage a polite thank you then stare straight ahead, at his reflection. Every time I get in an elevator, I'm reminded of that night. I look at his hands, which hang by his sides, but in my head, they are gripping my thighs.

"Haven't seen that in a while." He nods at my gym bag, which I've hoisted over my shoulder. Who is he, to comment on my gym habits?

"Yeah well, not all of us go to the gym every night. Some of us have a life." I say it because he goes religiously, and I'm jealous. I wish I had that kind of motivation.

"Touchy. I'm just making conversation, Red."

For about a second I'm confused, but then I catch on. Red. Red lips. "Don't call me that."

He ignores me and presses his thumb on the button. "I didn't realize it was a dirty word."

"It sounds like it, coming from your mouth."

He quirks an eyebrow. "Why are you thinking about my mouth?"

My eyes travel to his lips and then stay there. They're as soft as they look, all pink and pillowy. When I look up he's watching me, like he knows what I'm thinking.

"I'm not," I say, then add, "Not much to think about, if I recall correctly."

He stiffens then turns so that we're facing each other. For once, that mocking look is gone. His blue eyes stare back, bright and surprised and alive. "That's not the way I remember it."

"Maybe you're remembering it wrong." Why am I antagonizing him?

He steps closer until there's only a sliver left between us. "Are you saying I'm not a good kisser?"

"Not even top five." It's a lie-I've only ever kissed two people barring him.

He smirks now, his eyes gleaming black like I've just declared a challenge. Without saying anything, he turns to the doors, tapping his foot on the floor.

I clear my throat. "So, Laurelle sent the document." I glance at him to see his reaction, but he won't give me one.

"Seems so."

"It would be different working up there, wouldn't it?"

"Very."

I'm trying to see if he'll tell me something about his property, but trying to coax secrets from Milo is like trying to get blood from a stone.

"I've been dying to work up there since I first joined the company," I say, staring at my reflection.

"Don't get your hopes up."

When I look at him, he's staring ahead. He's either overly confident or he thinks I'm a moron: I don't know which is worse.

The doors open up, and Milo let me go first again, mirroring a gentleman. I step forward and look outside, sighing.

"You don't like the snow?" he asks.

I wrap my coat tighter, already feeling the cold. "Not really. I mean, you think it's going to be this nice thing, but in reality, it's not. It's cold and wet and makes walking impossible."

We both start our stride towards the doors. "That's because you don't dress appropriately for the weather," Milo says. He looks like a vampire in his black knee-length coat, like Angel from Buffy, or maybe Dracula. Given half the chance, he'd probably drain me of my blood.

"How is my outfit not appropriate?" I ask.

He stops for a second, so I do the same. Slowly, his eyes rake down from my head to my body, stopping at my thighs. Usually, I'd wear black tights in the winter, but Mulan destroyed them, leaving me only with nude.

"Am I supposed to answer that?" he asks.

I pull on my coat as if this will make it look longer. "You're right, I should dress like you."

His eyebrows furrow, forcing his lashes to bend into his brow bone. "What's wrong with what I wear?"

The truth is, nothing. Nothing is wrong with what he wears. I turn on my heel and start walking to the doors again. "Oh, nothing. Nothing at all, Milo."

Out of the corner of my eye, he frowns. We push the revolving doors, stepping into the same divider before ending up on the steps.

"Look," I say, turning to face him. He stares down at me impatiently, waiting for me to get to the point. "Just because we made a stupid mistake doesn't mean we can't be civil."

He raises an eyebrow. "I thought we were being civil."

Of course he does. I'm about to speak, but my bag starts slipping, so I hoist it over my shoulder. There's a tear in the bottom that I never got around to sewing. It must have got bigger because as soon as I move, the bottom splits open and my bottle rolls out. We stand and watch as it hits every step on the way down, spinning into the road. Seconds later, in a sick twist of fate, it's hit by a car.

His eyes find mine again, a mix of surprise and amusement beneath the blue. "That could only happen to you, Kennedy." My name rolls off his tongue like a purr. It's not rough or mocking or degrading: it is even and seductively warm.

I glance at the water bottle, which now looks like a pancake. "He's a goner."

"Agreed."

I turn back to face him, and his eyes are almost twinkling. I kind of like this version of him - it's refreshing. "As I was saying, we need to work to keep things as professional as possible," I say, "especially with us going for the same promotion."

Milo nods. "Exactly, there'll be no hard feelings, and when I get it, I'll be sure to send you a postcard from seventh. A goodwill gesture."

My eyes narrow. So arrogant. "When I get it, I'll be sure to send you a bouquet of flowers to cheer you up."

"I don't like flowers."

"What kind of monster doesn't like flowers?"

"And hey," Milo says as if I'd never spoken, "You'll still have our elevator kiss to keep you going."

My eyes widen, and I stop dead to look at him, even though we're in a moving crowd. "Keep me going? It's the one thing I've been trying to forget."

His eyebrow arches. I don't miss the hint of a smirk. "If you say so."

"On that note-" I give a half-hearted wave, then hotfoot it down the street in case he offers me a ride. Things are complicated enough as it is.

I end up skipping the gym and rush straight home, starting on my plans for the task. Maybe it's unrealised trauma from losing to Lucas, but out of everyone, there's no way in hell I'm letting Milo get that promotion over me. So I type and research, type and research, until the early hours of the morning. Deep down, I just know: Milo is doing the same.

A/N

Hey readers, I hope you're enjoying so far! ❤️

What time is it where you are?! 🇬🇧