Iris

"What the fuck just happened?"

I pushed my hands against my face, forcing my cheeks to puff out and my lips to purse while I stared at the black computer screen in front of me. The pressure eased some of my anxiety, and I let go slowly, inhaling and exhaling as I leaned back into my chair and attempted to process the shit show that was now my life.

By Sunday evening Ivy had convinced me her plan was fail-proof. A hair appointment, nail appointment, waxing appointment, and a shopping trip that resulted in my bank calling to ensure my debit card hadn't been stolen had turned me into the mirror image of my sister. I went to bed confident about the day ahead.

That confidence was shot within my first hour at work. Garrett James—Ivy's boss, the man who whispered all the filthy things to me in my dreams, and most importantly, the man who was supposed to be kumbayaing in the woods with his brothers walked into my cubicle asking me to review his schedule and move what I could to this week since his brothers had cancelled the camping trip last minute.

Something like a yes must have squeaked through my lips because he nodded and went back to his office while I fell into a tailspin. Yanking the sliding glass door shut, I'd called Ivy.

"Mission abort," I hissed.

"What?" Ivy shouted. The distant sounds of an airport filtered through, and I squeezed my eyes closed to push back the guilt and this morning's poorly chosen sausage biscuit.

"Garrett is here. His camping trip got cancelled."

"I'm sorry, Iris."

"You're sorry? You have to come back."

"I can't. I'm in Switzerland."

"What am I going to do?"

Ivy must have sensed the genuine panic in my voice. "Listen. Make it through lunch. Then say you're sick and go home. I'll get credit for the day, and you can get out of there and take a minute to get your nerve back. You've got this. I have to go. We're boarding. Love you!"

Twenty-four hours later and I'd given myself a pep talk worthy of the last act in one of my books and forced myself to go back into the office. Not even ten minutes passed before I almost landed on my ass in front of Garrett. I'm fairly certain I touched inappropriate body parts when he set me back on my feet.

At least the task he'd set for me would be easy enough. There were only two people in this world who could read Ivy's handwriting. Her and me. To this day, she defended her writing, calling it a personality trait—one I lovingly said belonged to doctors and serial killers. It was a wonder Paul could decipher anything.

I looked at the note about the hotel. The one I'd hidden from Garrett because he would know instantly I wasn't Ivy if he saw the precise print I'd perfected during my years of writing stories in school notebooks.

Ten minutes later, I was only fifty percent sure Garrett would end up with a room when he went to his conference. The man on the phone had been... scattered was nicest way I could put it. Air headed was probably more accurate. But I'd done what I could, and hopefully, if things fell through, he would remember what he'd said about not trusting them and not blame me, er, Ivy.

The glass door slid open so hard it banged and bounced. Paul's lanky frame blocked the hallway's fluorescent lighting and filled my office with shadows. "Are you trying to get me fired, you pernicious slut?"

Iris might have trembled and fought back tears, but today I was Ivy. And she wouldn't stand for this kind of treatment. Not to mention, I might not stand up for myself, but I did not tolerate anyone bullying my sister.

"Oh, I very much doubt the company would be willing to fire anyone with such an extensive vocabulary. Callous, malicious, and heartless would also be appropriate adjectives. That daily word calendar on your desk is your best bet for job security."

"Fuck, I love it when you're a bitch," he growled, closing my door and dragging me out of the chair.

Before I could utter a protest, his mouth closed over mine, and he backed me into a filing cabinet. The fact he didn't seem concerned about my utter lack of participation was a glaring red flag and made me wonder briefly about my sister's lack of discretion when it came to partners. Surely, she could do better.

All of that went through my head while he shoved his tongue down my throat, but it was the soft zip of his belt sliding out of the belt loops that zapped me into action. Shoving him didn't work. If anything, it excited him more.

"See what you do to me?" He panted, grinding his erection against my crotch.

"Please," I said, struggling to free myself. It was a poor choice of words.

"Fuck yeah, baby."

"No," I shouted, ramming my knee into his junk and bolting out of the cubicle as he hit his knees.

Papers in hand and a wrinkle of concentration on his brow, Garrett was walking toward me. Raising his eyes slowly, he didn't seem to register my presence, but then they snapped back up, narrowing with an intensity that stole my breath.

"Ms. Wilson, what's wrong?" Garrett demanded.

Paul chose that moment to stumble out. Hands cupping his junk, his entire focus was on me. "She assaulted me!"

"Excuse me?" I stopped tucking my shirt back into my skirt and glared at him. "You're the one who kissed me."

Garrett went still as stone, and his voice was deadly calm when he asked, "Did you kiss her?"

Paul wheezed and leaned against the wall. "She's acting like we don't do this every day."

"It doesn't matter what happens every day." Garrett pushed me behind him. Paul wilted under his fury. "She can change her answer every day and every second. If at any point she said no, you were to stop. If at any point she physically indicated she wasn't interested, you were to stop. Did either of those things happen?"

"Man, you know how wom—"

"I will escort you to your desk until security arrives. You will leave, and if you ever come onto company property again, charges will be pressed. Is that understood?"

Paul peered around Garrett, his eyes holding a tangible threat as he nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Ivy." Garret paused and looked down at me.

Meekly, I asked, "Yes, sir?"

"Wait for me in my office."