A red-hot story from New York Times bestselling author Anne Marsh! Billionaire Devlin King goes undercover to expose the company that’s stolen his work—but after a sizzling encounter with his new boss, can he keep his eyes on the prize?

My company’s software has been pirated by a tech start-up, but its owner, the beautiful Lola Jones, would never admit it. As a renowned Silicon Valley CEO, I couldn’t exactly walk into her office and accuse her—so when I saw a chance to go undercover as her new summer intern, I took it.

It shouldn’t have been difficult to prove my theory, but Lola is smarter than I gave her credit for—and the chemistry between us is an unexpected complication. She might be an infuriating boss, but her power over me drives me wild with desire. When our sexual tension threatens to bubble over, we cross a line, and one night of exhilarating pleasure soon turns into several. Evidently, she’s more than a match for me in bed as well as business.

As I’ve grown closer to Lola, I can’t stop thinking about her. Each irresistible encounter is more electrifying than the last, and when she discovers my true identity, sparks will really fly...unless I can convince her our connection is worth fighting for!

Mills & Boon DARE publishes sexy romances featuring powerful alpha heroes and bold, fearless heroines exploring their deepest fantasies.

Four new Mills & Boon DARE titles are available each month, wherever ebooks are sold!

ANNE MARSH writes sexy contemporary and paranormal romances because the world can always enjoy one more alpha male. She started writing romance after getting laid off from her job as a technical writer—and quickly decided happily-ever-afters trumped software manuals. She lives in North Carolina with her two kids and five cats.

Her Intern

Anne Marsh

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08718-6

HER INTERN

© 2019 Anne Marsh

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

Lola

HELL IS A party where the hosts expect you to mingle, asking random strangers for obscene amounts of money. It feels like a bad joke. Hi, my name is Lola. I’ll do anything for a million bucks. I have very few boundaries left, although anal or sex slave for a year are still out. Around me, a crowd of beautifully dressed people chat about their newest business projects and sip champagne from crystal flutes. Waiters in black tie circulate, offering trays of delicious nibbles. I don’t fit in here, a nerdy girl engineer in the thrift-store little black dress that’s my go-to for social functions requiring heels.

This is the glamorous side of Silicon Valley, the part featured in glossy business magazines starring successful, extroverted dealmakers. It’s also a pond stocked with fat, captive fish and I need to toss in my line and pluck one out. Tonight’s mixer isn’t even one of the now-legendary venture capital parties where the VC boys make disgusting come-ons and would-be girl bosses choose between start-up funding and ethics. This is a perfectly respectable party for grown-ups.

Instead of schmoozing, I watch from the sidelines, clutching my champagne flute. I don’t “people” well. People are best in small doses. Plus, the VC guys judge relentlessly from the moment I start my pitch. It’s like a beauty pageant but without the fun tiaras. While trying not to fall over in my heels, I’m expected to produce insightful, thirty-second sound-bite answers about how the company I founded is going to contribute to The Greater Good and make tons of money in the process. Coding is so much easier.

So I’m pathetically grateful when I spot a familiar face. Maple weaves through the glittering throng toward me. She recently launched an online yoga wear company building on her brand as a successful athleisure influencer. After six months of swimming in the start-up waters myself, I know she’ll succeed. She doesn’t take no for an answer and, thanks to years as a principal for the San Francisco Ballet, she’s happy standing out while everyone looks at her. Tonight, she’s a flamingo in a sea of penguins. In her neon yellow bandage dress, white blazer and chunky, tasseled heels she looks like the million bucks I need so badly.

She clicks to a halt by my side, heels together, toes out in a perfect first position. “Hit me with tonight’s plan.”

Lists are awesome, and without a checklist of things to accomplish tonight, I’d just walk from one side of the room to the other and go home. I hold up my phone so she can see tonight’s list.

Hunt down two venture capital groups

Introduce self to reps

Trade business cards

Be charming (heh)

Maple borrows my champagne before delivering the bad news. “The partners from J&H have already come and gone.”

Well, poop. VC firms pick a very few companies to invest in each year and most look for unicorns—privately held start-ups worth a billion dollars or more. Invest in the next social media sensation and you can buy your very own tropical island (and a yacht and a private jet) when it goes public. Calla, my start-up, is worth more like a thousand bucks, and that’s just because I bought good office furniture.

Move on, I remind myself. Start-up funding is like speed dating. “Bayview Capital.”

“Four o’clock.” She points helpfully as I’m currently sans glasses and can’t see more than two feet in front of me. While I plot the shortest, least-peopled course toward the Bayview guys, Maple hums under her breath and scans the room. Her party game is dividing its suit-wearing occupants into hypothetical keep and discard piles. Some people apply Marie Kondo’s organizational theories to their closets and kitchen cabinets; Maple applies those principles to men. Since she’s in a committed relationship and I’m adamantly not, I’m the one who’s supposed to rummage through the keepers and pick someone fun. She refuses to believe me when I say I simply don’t have time for a relationship right now.

Ten minutes later, I’ve located Bayview Capital’s representative (wearing a lovely Hugo Boss suit), made painful but effective small talk and exchanged business cards. The basic premise of the networking event is simple. Collect business cards and make introductions, hoping to score a request to come back and interview for the big money during working hours.

Mission accomplished, I return to Maple, scanning the room for the nearest exit.

As always, Maple cuts straight to the chase. “Are you going already?”

Uh, hello? The room is pushing the fire marshal’s stated limits. Leaving would be civic-minded. “I’ve had a glass of champagne, handed my business card to twenty-seven random strangers who gave me their cards thus promoting us to casual business acquaintances and met the people I came to meet. Why would I stay?”

Maple gazes at me patiently. “To have fun?”

I get the sense Maple is serious and not making a joke. I love to laugh as much as the next person, but challenged in the humor department? Yes, yes, I am. Clarification is required. “You want to stay here?”

“Let me sum up—free champagne, free food.” She tucks her arm in mine, ensuring I can’t escape without towing her like a boat anchor. Thirty seconds later, we’re tucked into prime real estate—a padded window seat with picture-perfect views of downtown San Francisco and the city night lights. When I first moved here, I visited the aquarium on the Wharf and strolled through a huge glass tunnel while a dozen species of sharks and rays swam up checking me out. This feels remarkably similar except the sharks in this room aren’t particularly interested in me. I’m the tiniest fish.

“This is a party, Lola.” Maple mimics scanning the room like a sailor checking out the horizon. Probably for pirates. “There are hot guys here.”

“Really?” Successful people possess many fine qualities, including drive, discipline and intelligence, but when God handed out looks, they’d been too busy standing in the drive, discipline and intelligence lines to score hotness.

“Yes.” Maple nods vigorously. I’m pathetically jealous that her sleek ballerina bun doesn’t so much as wiggle on top of her head. “How about that one? Does he spark joy in you? Would you keep him?”

The blurry blond guy on the other end of Maple’s pointing finger is perfectly fine. Emphasis on perfect—perfect blue suit, perfectly coordinated navy blue tie, perfectly groomed hair with just the right amount of styling products to keep everything perfectly in place. He’s a total sand shark. Dating needs to be less work. From the data points of my most recent Friday night experiences, choosing a random stranger ends in disappointment. Imagining the possibilities is more fun and less work.

Maple smacks my arm when I share this conclusion with her. “Pick better, then. How about that one? I’ll bet he has a huge penis.”

Her new choice is tall, dark and handsome. He’s absolutely yummy even if he seems like the MBA type. My ovaries vow on the spot that he’s smart, dependable and the best baby daddy ever. Mentally I check off cow shark in the game of mental shark bingo I’m playing with myself.

Maple sighs and nudges me in the side. “When’s the last time you went out on a date or had me time?”

“I don’t have time for a relationship.” She’s only trying to be helpful, but as much as I appreciate her concern, it also makes me want to run and hide in my very nice bed. I’m thirty-one, I’m the baby sister who’s failed to make good (so far) and I’ve just founded my first company. I have time for nothing but work.

“Sex,” Maple announces in her outside voice, cupping my face in her hands. “Hot sex. The only ring you have to put on it is one of those vibrating cock rings. When’s the last time you had fun?”

“Never with a cock ring. It’s like plugging up the bath and running the water full bore. The poor guy’s blood has nowhere to go, so he’s totally focused on what’s going on down there because it’s distracting as hell, and he has no choice but to keep it up. It’s like a corset for dicks.”

The waiter leaning in to offer us a new round of appetizers beats a hasty retreat.

Used to my verbal diarrhea, Maple just waits for me to finish. “If cock rings aren’t your thing, find some other toy that you do like.”

“Have I ever struck you as a playful person?”

“Practice,” Maple deadpans. “You just need practice.”

“I could practice until I was eighty. It wouldn’t make me fun. I’m an engineer. I’m a nerd. I’m a freaking entrepreneur. And I like all that. I might not be fun, but I’m happy.”

Am I 100 percent happy? Details. I’m at least 51 percent happy, and that rounds up to 100 percent. It’s basic math. In college I had Friday night study groups and lived in the computer lab. I wasn’t a troll, but working on my social skills hadn’t been a priority. After I dropped out due to a lack of funding and time management skills, I bounced from job to job. This was great for building my skill set, but not so good for peopling. I’d always moved on before I could build genuine friendships. Boyfriends had been the same song, different verse.

Maple, however, has no intention of giving up. “I bet you could be perfectly happy with someone in this room.”

“Sex is a lot of work.” I shrug, forcing Maple to make an emergency grab for my sleeve before I accidentally flash the entire networking event. Off-the-shoulder dresses are worse than corsets, requiring minimal movement and perfect posture. I should probably look for a new dress.

Slapping my sleeve back into place, she snorts. “Don’t be such a giver, then. Be a taker. Let the guy do all the work.”

“I’m not even sure I like sex all that much.” Before Maple can tell me I need a good therapist, or to embark on a journey of self-discovery to find the right penis, I barrel on. “I mean, I don’t hate it, but it’s kind of like going to a spa for a massage. Do I really want to give up an hour of my life to tell someone where and how to touch me? Or do I want to keep on living the happily single life where I DIY and wear old sweatpants to bed and no one points out I haven’t shaved my legs in days? Self-care is much more satisfying.”

Maple groans. “Just promise me you’ll get out there and sample a penis or two. DIY is for home repairs.”

I polish off my champagne and squint, but I can’t spot a waiter. “Maybe after Calla’s launch.”

“At least stay a little while longer.”

“How long?”

“Twelve minutes.” She beams beatifically at me.

Even though she’s pulled that number out of her ass, I nod. Twelve minutes and then I’m out. I can kill at least six minutes in the bathroom if I play my cards right.

“Potty break.” I stand up, twitching my dress back into place. Either it’s gotten shorter, I’ve gotten taller, or parts of me have gotten larger.

Four minutes later, I’m procrastinating in front of the bathroom mirror. My dress is definitely shorter and tighter. The black jersey stops barely south of my butt and far, far above my knees. The off-the-shoulder sleeves seem to be squeezing my boobs in a manner that’s far too friendly. When Maple came by my apartment earlier for a pre-party assessment, she redid my hair into a high ponytail. She also applied my makeup, which means I’m wearing a ton since Maple only does stage makeup. There’s also a whole lot of bare leg between the dress’s hem and my three-inch strappy heels.

Maple vetoed a wrap. She also ixnayed a bra. The no-panties thing, however, is entirely my fault. I prefer to go commando, although I’m usually wearing yoga pants and therefore not in danger of sharing my beaver with the world. Still, I look good. Maybe I do fit in after all.

My return trip through the throng of glittering people takes much longer. I manage to score another glass of champagne, but the event organizers dim the lights before I reach Maple, and someone is holding forth in the center of the room in the sole pool of light. I’m actually relieved to throw myself onto our window seat—my feet are killing me. Instead of hitting cushions, however, my left knee drills into a hard, male thigh while my right lands on something much softer. Off balance, I flail. Champagne sloshes everywhere. I’ve crash-landed on the wrong seat—and it’s already occupied.

Hands catch me, probably more to halt my accidental assault than to help. Fantasy hands, my stunned brain supplies. Wow. I’ve definitely had too much champagne and not enough orgasms, because I swear I go supernova staring at the strong, capable fingers wrapped around my wrists. Capable is a judgment call on my part, but the fingers’ owner is definitely strong—unlike ballet-honed Maple, I’m no lightweight. It’s dark, but I’m close enough to tell he wears no rings. The most delicious black ink disappears beneath pristine white shirt cuffs. A dark tailored suit jacket stretches over his forearms.

Mesmerized, I lean closer. Great white shark. Bingo. This guy is the sleekest and deadliest shark of all. “I didn’t think they let bad boys in.”

Oops. That’s my voice.

“Jesus.” I try not to look up because his voice is every bit as amazing as his hands, a low, gritty rasp that makes me want to beg him to tell me more. About anything. This man definitely sparks joy in all the right parts of me. Looking up would spoil the fantasy.

Instead, I keep my eyes fixed on his wrists and those just-visible whorls of black ink. His skin is sun-bronzed, a downright lickable golden-brown against the impeccable white cuff of the dress shirt peeking out from beneath the dark sleeve of his suit jacket. He could have been a hand model or a mechanic, but whoever or whatever he is, I liked the way his hands caught me so firmly far too much. A guy like this shouldn’t need instructions in bed.

My stranger’s voice rumbles something. Words, words, words. As always, I’m happier filling in the blanks myself. Maybe Maple is right and I need to settle for just sex because I’m on fire where my bare skin brushes my sexy stranger. He might even be worth giving directions to if it turned out he was a little less than capable in the bedroom department.

He reaches between us, cupping my bare knee, and goose bumps erupt where he touches me. I take a deep breath, fighting the urge to rub against him. His fingers feel better than any nonsolo sex act I’ve ever participated in.

“Move,” he growls, sounding more than a little pissed off.

I look up.

And...just like that I fall in crush. Is that even a thing? It should be because with one upward glance, my overactive imagination goes crazy. The growler’s face is the perfect cherry on a sextastic sundae. Dark blond hair pulled back in a ponytail reveals cheekbones a sculptor would kill to immortalize. He looks like the guy from The Princess Bride but a thousand times larger, harder and less nice. He stares at me, irritation painting his cranky, gorgeous face. When he shifts beneath me, I confirm he’s all muscle. I take a hopefully discreet sniff. Cologne, my best friend. I’ll have to go to Macy’s and do my research because his scent will haunt my fantasies. God, if he could just never open his mouth, this would be perfect.

Maple teases me all the time about my crushes. I spot a guy and I fall in love or at least in like from a safe distance. Imagining the possibilities excites me. Once I get to know my crush, however, my feelings fade rapidly. Cinderella probably came to her senses, too, and realized that Prince Charming wasn’t who she’d imagined him to be. Maybe he was better or (more likely) he was worse, but once the distance between them was erased, things changed. I usually solve this problem by avoiding real-life dating and opting for an active fantasy life instead where there’s zero disappointment as long as I’ve remembered to replace the batteries in my battery-operated boyfriend.

Over the years, I’ve enjoyed a number of memorable crushes. My first was the hot guy who played third trombone in high school competitive band. I spent more time staring at the impressive bulge in his shorts than at my sheet music. Next was a college literature professor for a required freshman seminar—I zoned out once imagining giving him a blow job and rejoined reality with the professor and the entire class staring at me because “I’d been making noises” (I’d dropped that class because there’s no going back after relative strangers know your porn sounds). And then there were plenty of noncontact fantasies that started with sexy emailing and texting and ended abruptly when my correspondent announced the ball is in your court and waited for me to make good on my dirty promises. Actions aren’t my thing—I ghosted those guys.

“Hello?” Tall, Dark and Cranky frowns at me. We’re nose to nose thanks to my perch on his lap.

“I—” My heart does a delicious nosedive. Now is the perfect time to snap out something witty, but I’ve got nothing. I’ll just have to make it up later.

“Never mind.” He tips me off his lap and onto the seat as he gets to his feet in one fluid, panty-melting move, more barbarian than white knight. To be fair, I just crushed his balls with my knee. He straightens his jacket, revealing that my champagne has christened his right sleeve in addition to darkening his shirtfront.

I give him puppy dog eyes as he strides away. Fortunately, he can’t see, so what’s left of my dignity remains intact. I’m not sure he even looked at my face. He definitely didn’t ask my name. Or tell me his. And there’s nary a business card involved. He’s perfect fantasy fodder.

Later tonight I’ll relive these moments and remember the way he touched me. The heat of his fingers braceleting my wrists. His scent and the crisp rustle of expensive cotton. I’ll touch myself when I’m alone, imagining what could have happened next.

Of how he might have kissed me with that sinful mouth.

Of how I might have bitten that full lower lip just to make him pay attention to me.

Of how I could have pushed my hands beneath his suit jacket and explored the hard, muscled chest he’d so thoughtlessly hidden from the world. The truth is, I love not knowing who he is. Tall, Dark and Cranky is a mystery. I know only that he’s fit, horrifyingly attractive and—given his presence at this mixer—likely business-minded to a sharkish fault, but everything else about him is just a gorgeous possibility. He’s the ultimate fill-in-the-blank problem where I can pencil in absolutely anything I want and he will never, ever disappoint me since I will never see him again.

CHAPTER TWO

Dev

MONDAY MORNING SHOULD not surprise me. After all, I wrote the agenda for my company’s executive team meeting. When I stroll into King Me’s San Francisco conference room, however, the mood is not jubilant. I closed a major e-commerce deal at the Friday mixer despite crazy chick’s drenching, and that means more stock options, bigger bonuses and the hugest possible gold star. Winner.

I drop into my chair at the table and eyeball the room. People claim my surfer boy outside in no way matches my CEO insides. That I’m a cranky bastard who routinely demands near-impossible coding heroics from my people. I offer this truth: I make those people money and ergo there are no complaints. Something is up today, however.

“Explain.” I point to the head of my engineering department. Simon Rand is an excellent software developer. He doesn’t do the bullshit dance around unpleasant truths. This forthrightness saw him let go from two previous start-ups, where the CEO-owner-entrepreneurs preferred team members to blow expensive, happy smoke up their asses while the companies burned through VC capital and made rapid descents into bankruptcy. I prefer making money hand over fist, so I insist on truth-telling.

Simon makes a sour face. Rather than ask the logical question explain what?, he assumes I’ve acquired telepathy powers over the weekend and already know the what. He plunges into explanations.

I hold up a hand. “Stop.”

Simon stops.

A tense pause follows as the team attempts and fails to get on the mind-reading train to figure out who I’ll fire for this. It’s tempting, because Simon’s news (and it’s news to me) falls into the no-good-very-bad-day bucket. It’s also humiliating, frustrating and makes me see red.

I recap on the off chance I’ve misheard. I don’t make mistakes but hell could freeze over. “Someone stole our brand-new e-commerce shopping cart code.”

Simon nods.

“The exclusive code we’ve presold to twelve major online vendors.”

Another nod.

“Exclusive code that is no longer exclusive unless Merriam-Webster has changed the definition of the word.”

A veritable storm of head-bobbing around the table. We’re all on the same page.

“Who is the cause of this really big fucking problem?”

No one moves because the first thing you learn in the corporate world is that moving makes you a target. Simon looks like he might be sick.

I try again. “How?”

This one should be easier to answer given the multiple levels of security I’ve instituted. Unfortunately, this question is also met with silence.

“So essentially we know nothing.” The theft may now be a fact, but revenge remains an option. I build a back door and handy-dandy detonator into our apps. Steal my shit and poof—your e-commerce site sells rubber ducky dildos in fashion colors rather than whatever you’ve really got in your warehouse. And because industrial espionage is rampant and I trust no one outside my immediate circle of friends, I build in that safeguard from day one. I also build in a tracker that alerts when my software goes live on the internet, which must be how Simon knows.

“Yet,” Simon clarifies. “We don’t know anything yet.”

Now it’s my turn to nod. “Exactly. All we have to do is figure out the connection between the three seemingly unrelated businesses illegally using our code. We didn’t sell it to them, but they’ve got it. Somehow. There’s a pattern even if we don’t see it yet.”

Simon leaps to his feet, grabs a dry-erase marker and starts sketching on the whiteboard. While the rest of the room pretends to listen intently to the stream of engineering coming from his mouth, I brainstorm internally. The first business sells mail-order hemp candles and I assume they’ll likely get arrested on drug distribution charges. The second business, an adult pool float company, might not mind a deluge of rubber ducky dildos (I’ll trigger the alternate version of my destructo-code for them, the one that crashes your site by playing endless loops of puppies and kittens). The third company is a woman-owned, eco-friendly, socially conscious feminine hygiene products start-up that promises to donate a box of tampons for every one you purchase in the ultimate two-for-one deal. The only obvious connection between the three is that none of these companies can possibly make any money.

The marijuana maker inhabits office space three hundred and forty miles north in Humboldt County and an ocean separates me and the pool party, which maintains offices in China. That leaves the girl boss company. I check my phone. I can get there in forty minutes, straighten out this Lola Jones who thinks she can steal from me and still make my two o’clock. I just need to know. I hate secrets. I’ve always sussed out my Christmas presents early, I read the ends of books first and I check for spoilers on my favorite TV shows. Enjoying the ride is easier when you know how the ride ends.

When Simon finally comes up for air, I stand up. “Meeting adjourned.”

CHAPTER THREE

Dev

THE HIPPIE CHICK at the receptionist’s desk either doesn’t recognize a heartless bastard when she meets one or she optimistically believes dating is the ultimate DIY project and she can fixer-upper me into happily-ever-after. From the slack-jawed way she’s stared at me since I strode through the door and demanded to see the company founder, she may also be entertaining naked fantasies. My expensive suit is gift-wrapping on an amazing package and we both know it. Strip me down and, heartless or not, I’m gorgeous. I’m also not afraid to play dirty—in bed and out—and I’m confident.

Too confident?

Borderline asshole and all the way arrogant?

Noise.

I know my worth. In addition to my billions, I have surfer hair, sun-streaked and shoulder-length, salt-tousled and unruly. Ironically, given my chronic inability to sleep, I usually look as if I just rolled out of bed. Beast lord, billionaire bad boy, surfer, Conan the Barbarian, pirate king—I can star in any fantasy you jill off to and Hippie Chick has clearly zoned out to her personal favorite.

Her forehead wrinkles as she tries to bring her brain back online and do her job. “You want to see Lola?”

Pay attention to the fact that she doesn’t ask why I’m here. She’s made an assumption, an important and entirely incorrect assumption.

“That’s why I came.” She’s wasting my time. I could have been in and out already, and that’s no euphemism.

Hippie Chick beams at me. I could ask her out right now, but I’m not here to score a date. I have two rules: never bring a girl back to my place and never screw at work. It’s too risky. Too drama inducing. Too boring. And while Calla Enterprises isn’t technically my workplace, I’m here on business.

“Okay.” Hippie Chick bounces to her feet. Literally. Instead of normal, ergonomic office chairs, this place has neon-colored yoga balls. As she flip-flops away, presumably to fetch Lola and not on a karmic journey of self-discovery, I admire the view even if I’m staying otherwise hands-off. Business casual has achieved a whole new level of undress, and the ripped jeans hugging her ass are spectacular—as is the white T-shirt over the jewel-green bra.

I used to be Mr. Impatient but surfing taught me to slow down (some) and pick the right moment to rush in full speed. Nothing beats chilling on the ocean, hanging on my favorite board until the right wave arrives and I ride it home. I put that same, patient plan into action at King Me, my software company. My IPO might have made me a billionaire, but my impeccable sense of timing has kept me riding the financial wave when so many of my competitors have crashed and burned—and I’m only in my midtwenties.

Calla Enterprises is ambitious. It’s a fledgling start-up that promises women around the world easy, nonembarrassing access to tampons because tampon access is apparently an important first step toward gender equality. According to the website copy, tampons remove a critical barrier between women and important things like an education and a job. And while I’m all for vaginal self-care, this company will fail long before the grenade I planted in their e-commerce system ever detonates. In the company’s brief life span of thirteen months and two days, it has yet to close a round of venture capital funding or bring its product to market. Cue the death march.

In addition to lacking both operating capital and actual product, the company naively assumes that its customers possess genuine humanitarian spirit. Calla promises to donate one box of tampons for every box purchased online. Think about that for a minute. If you were dating and scored two girls for the night, would you really want to hand one off to an unknown guy at the club? Nope. You’d keep them both for yourself and have a threesome. No one is as altruistic as Calla’s founder hopes.

And hope is clearly said founder’s strategy. Calla is located in a repurposed loft/warehouse deep in San Francisco’s Mission District. The neighborhood reads like a Who’s Who of busted start-ups. Despite constant tenant turnover, the building’s great—a loft-style, three-story workspace with a big atrium, an open-space kitchen that reeks like lunch and an enormous disco ball. A handful of flip-flop-wearing, jeans-clad twentysomething women hunch over laptops on tables.

Oblivious to the impending financial doomsday, Hippie Chick flip-flops her way inside a conference room separated from the main space by a wall of glass. It’s like a gigantic fishbowl, except it holds a lone woman and an odd collection of furniture instead of fish and fake mermen. The woman perches on yet another inflatable yoga ball. She’s also head-down on her laptop—I’d have fired her on the spot.

When Hippie Chick bounces in, however, Sleeping Beauty somehow rolls off the ball and onto her feet without serious bodily harm. Seconds later, she marches toward me. Hello. The reason for my visit flies out of my head as the blood in my body heads south and stages a fiesta in my dick.

I think I know this woman. She’s the one who crash-landed on me Friday. She drowned me with her champagne. She all but gave me a lap dance, and then I tipped her off and left. At the time all I could think was what the fuck was that? I scowl. It was dark and I didn’t get a good look at her face—although just remembering the luscious peach of her ass wriggling against my dress pants... This woman is my thief?

I may need to revisit Friday night’s rejection. Lola Jones is unexpectedly, seriously hot for an engineer turned CEO. Dressed even more casually than her receptionist, she wears black yoga pants and a tank top with skinny straps. The tank top is cute and pink, and even though I’d have bet my man card that she isn’t wearing a bra, my thumbs itch to check. To nudge those thin strips of cotton down her shoulders. To mark every creamy inch of her with my mouth, my teeth and my body. I promptly start a Lola to-do list.

Lick her

Explore that sexy shoulder hollow

Nip

Suck. TBD what and where—or everything

Palm a sweet little tit hard

Catch her nipple between my teeth and—

Focus. The porn film in my head is simply reflex. See a pretty girl, think dirty thoughts. It’s nothing I can’t handle. Just as soon as I’ve finished here, I’ll retreat to my Porsche and handle the problem she’s created in my pants. Or I could be a gentleman about our other problem and let her make amends. On her knees, on her back, on top as she rides me like an enthusiastic cowgirl—I’m unexpectedly flexible about the terms.

She shrugs into an oversize, black-and-white flannel shirt, doing up the buttons as she gets closer. Dragging my eyes away from her now-covered tits doesn’t help. Her hair is long and dark brown. She’s twisted it up on top of her head in a spectacular feat of engineering. Perfect for fisting. We should totally try it. She wears tortoiseshell glasses that rest just above a spray of freckles on her right cheek (hello, dirty librarian fantasy). And since she wears no visible makeup, including no nail polish on her bare feet, my brain—both the big one and the smaller, temporarily in charge one below my Gucci belt—fixates on one thing. She’s wearing pajamas.

And yet even half-dressed, she radiates confidence as if she knows this is her space and she completely owns it. I admire that assuredness, even though it’s probably the reason she thinks she can get away with pirating my software. For those of you who’ve ever contemplated doing that: don’t. Like many things in life, software is worth what you pay for it.

Despite my reputation as a bastard, I try to stay friends with karma. I buy flowers for my dates, I routinely spot the panhandler on the corner five bucks and I donate generously to animal charities. I can’t and won’t, however, let people steal from me. It’s like sex and marriage. Why buy the cow if the milk is free? Why pay my premium subscription fees if you can just download what you want from a mirror site in Asia?

Oblivious, my sexy thief pads to a halt. She looks stunned, but only for a brief second. “You.”

“Me,” I agree.

“God,” she groans. “This is so embarrassing.”

Pink creeps up her chest and over her cheeks as she looks at me. She’s staring, but I stare right back. I won every staring contest growing up.

Yes, you sat on my lap.

Yes, you felt me through your dress.

Yes, I know you weren’t wearing any panties.

She has a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones and that distracting spray of freckles beneath a pair of melting brown eyes. A crinkle grows between those eyes as she frowns. I imagine kissing away that little look of confusion. She doesn’t look impressed by who I am. Or scared. Or even, ever so slightly, wowed. It’s more the embarrassed kind of look when you’ve just bitten into the last doughnut and realize you were expected to share. Perhaps Friday night’s crash landing was an accident after all and she wasn’t a founder hounder trying to meet and marry a tech billionaire.

She abruptly shoves a hand at me. “Perhaps we can start over? Lola Jones.”

Ballsy but nice.

“Devlin King, but the jury’s out on the second chance.” I wrap my fingers around hers. Smooth and delicate, her hand would feel better wrapped around my dick. No polish, no rings, short nails, but that’s okay. She can scream my name instead of digging her nails into my back.

She purses her lips as she reclaims her hand, skepticism written all over her pretty face. She rocks back on her heels. “You’ve never screwed up and needed a do-over?”

“I don’t make mistakes.” I lead off all my interviews this way, but my trademark quote doesn’t appear to ring any bells.

Instead, she snorts. “Despite your unhuman good looks, I’m certain you’re Homo sapiens. Ergo, mistakes happen. Crap.” She slaps a hand over her mouth. “Let’s pretend I never said that.”

“It might be hard.” Something about her makes me want to break my rules and flirt shamelessly. Her touch is electric, making my body burn, my hands itch to touch her more.

“Come with me.” She’s already turning, and anticipation hums through me.

Happily.

I follow her toward the fishbowl. I assumed she knew who I was on Friday night. Founder hounders are common on the Silicon Valley social scene, looking to strike it rich and score a start-up-wealthy mate. The demand is great; the supply is low; and I’m Grade A billionaire material. My company’s grown to stratospheric levels and I have the cash and lack of a personal life to prove it. And although I’ve also got the racing cars, private jets and oceanfront property, the kicker is that I’m top five on the Billionaire Bachelors app.

Yes, there’s an app for spotting tech billionaires. My best friend Max O’Reilly launched it three years ago and his dating algorithm made him a fortune when he IPO’d. Fork over your hard-earned cash and you unlock dozens of extra date-finding features, but the one that rakes in the biggest bucks is his signature Billionaire Bachelors List. For the price of a cup of coffee and a quick download of the Happily Ever After app, he’ll push you a monthly hot list of Silicon Valley’s top bachelors and bachelorettes—complete with rankings, pictures and favorite stomping grounds so that you, too, can hunt the elusive wealthy mate in native territory. I’ve topped the list for the last two years.

Lola drops onto a yellow yoga ball and waves a hand at me. “Sit.”

Normal chairs of any type do not appear to be available. When in Rome, right? I choose a blue ball because I enjoy symbolism, roll it over and sit down. I don’t rush into explanations or accusations. I just watch her. People rush to fill up silence. You learn a lot that way, plus it makes the other person nervous and confess misdeeds.

This time, the silence stretches on and on until the soft skin between Lola’s eyes crinkles as if she’s thinking about something tricky. The frown deepens, so probably not thoughts of me naked.

She darts a longing look—at the laptop on the table. “Give me a moment?”

Her fingers are flying over the keyboard before I can respond. Okay, then. Totally lost in thought, she rolls back and forth like a metronome on top of that stupid yoga ball. She must have amazing abs.

After thirty seconds, I get bored and set the stopwatch on my phone. After ten minutes, I tap the table in front of her. “Earth to Lola.”

“Oh.” She turns bright pink and promptly loses her balance. I catch her by the elbow. For the count of three, my mouth is by her ear. Her hair brushes my cheek and that’s all it takes for me to learn that she smells like vanilla, like cookies and sugar. Danger.

I force myself to roll my ball away from hers. “We need to get going here.”

“Right.” She slides the laptop away with obvious reluctance. “So you start. Tell me about yourself.”

I haven’t decided how to play this. Threaten her with my lawyer? Present her with a hefty invoice for the software she stole? Or just inform her that her pirated e-commerce system will switch her product to rubber ducky dildos as soon as she goes live because of my anti-theft safeguards? As Inigo Montoya assured Miracle Max: humiliations galore. Making small talk, however, is not part of my revenge plot.

“You know all about me.” The words come out more growl than nice. Whatever.

“Uh-huh.” She fidgets with the edge of the laptop. Her gaze flicks to the screen. Back to me. “Well, Lev—”

“Dev,” I correct.

She makes a face. “Sorry. I thought I read—”

“You can’t believe everything you read.” I glance at her laptop as I speak. It’s just code—lines and lines of the stuff in the typical developer environment. Not my code. Not my problem. But the mess on the screen is all wrong. It’s inefficient and poorly organized.

I nudge her yoga ball abruptly, scooting her out of the way so I can pull the laptop toward me. “This is so wrong. Jesus. Who taught you how to code?”

She sucks in a pissed-off breath, reaching for the laptop. “That’s mine.”

I shoot to my feet, balancing the laptop in one hand, typing like a fiend with the other. Delete. Delete. Delete. I scroll down, check a line, scroll back up. There aren’t even any unit tests—does she really believe testing is optional? Lola yanks furiously on my arm, but not only am I much, much taller than her, I also spent a year commuting between San Francisco and Santa Cruz on the train. I’m a master at typing while the world around me sways, lurches and violates my personal space.

I hit Save at the same moment the laptop flies out of my hand. Lola glares at me from the top of the conference room table she’s climbed so she can repo her hardware. Score one for her. She transfers the glare to her screen and anger morphs into visible outrage. Whatever. I drop back onto my blue ball and smirk up at her.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.” Love me, hate me, or plan to bury my body in the alley behind Calla—but I’ve just fixed a major showstopper of a bug in her code. She knows it, too.

Hippie Chick chooses this moment to stick her head in the conference room door. “Are you done?”

Not a chance.

But Lola jumps off the table, laptop clutched to her chest. As she lands, her hip not-so-accidentally checks my shoulder hard enough to rock my ball.

“You bet,” she tells Hippie Chick.

“No,” I snap at the same moment.

I’m supposed to discuss the reasons that brought me here. Read her the riot act. Make her life generally unpleasant and ensure that she never, ever touches anything of mine again without permission. Spank her for being a bad girl.

“He’s hired,” Lola announces as she strides out of the room. “He’ll start tomorrow.”

Wait.

What?

Hippie Chick fist pumps. “Welcome aboard, new summer intern.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Lola

“ASS,” I HISS under my breath. Exaggerated sibilance sounds way less cool than, say, when a wizard is speaking Parseltongue. Yes, I’m a nerd with a Harry Potter fixation (House Ravenclaw, naturally), and yes, some days it sucks being the girl boss. I’ve worked hard to get where I am, though, so I don’t scream the truth to the rafters of Calla’s amazing three-story loft space. If I did, that truth might deafen the departing ass.

My newly hired nemesis, Mr. Devlin King. My intern.

My Friday night crush.

I’d worked my clit feverishly remembering his muscled thighs and stern face. Even though I apologized for crash-landing on him and his magnificent lap (at least I think I did—the details are fuzzy), he’s holding a grudge. He certainly doesn’t seem to have spent his weekend fantasizing about the mystery woman who gave him a free lap dance.

He’s still impossibly gorgeous, though. To preserve what remains of my sanity, I retreat to the kitchen and pretend to deep-dive into my code while what I really do is watch Dev walk away from me for the second time: tall, built and still in possession of the most amazing backside I’ve ever ogled. He totally owns his ridiculously expensive suit. He’s also quite possibly the most brilliant programmer I’ve ever met, having solved in seconds what a team of Calla engineers has been wrestling with for a week. Unfortunately, a continental-sized ego and the suave manners of Attila the Hun accompany his stunning good looks and big brain. Working with him will be impossible, but there’s no viable alternative. The man is a genius and he works for peanuts, almost literally. Naturally, I’ve already forgotten whatever was on his résumé—UC Santa Cruz?—but he’s definitely a college student with a willingness to intern for almost nothing. Given Calla’s financial state, personality is negotiable.

Nellie woofs, poking her square white head out from behind the trash can. Nellie is a scaredy-bear and she hides whenever she spots intruders. She resembles a miniature zeppelin on squat legs. Bringing her to work with me is the perk of being the boss.

I reach down to stroke the soft fur on top of her head. “The coast is clear.”

Like me, Nellie prefers to people in small doses. Another surreptitious peek reveals I’ve been overoptimistic in my estimate of Devlin’s leave-taking. He’s still on the premises, talking up Katie, Calla’s receptionist.

As Nellie eases out to say hello to me, Devlin nods at Katie. Not a smile, nothing pleasant, just a brusque tip of his gorgeous head that makes parts of me long to grab him by that stupid tie and yank his head down to mine. I should look away but I can’t. I blame the way his shoulders stretch his dark suit jacket, framing all those delicious muscles. It’s too bad the man ever has to open his mouth. If he could just work and glower in silence, seen but not heard, he’d be perfect. If he could do that with a Scottish accent and a tartan, I’d come on the spot.

Katie clearly agrees with me about the pretty boy factor. She stares at Devlin King, her mouth working like a fish. I can practically hear the stunned pop, pop, pop from my hiding place as she drinks in our intern’s brand of hotness. His voice rumbles, low, rough, way too sexy. I can’t catch the words, but Katie beams as if he’s actually, finally said something nice. Finally, our sexy troll steps out into the San Francisco sunshine and is gone.

No, thank you. No excitement. Definitely don’t let the door hit your mighty fine ass on the way out.

That man is trouble, and not just because we’re an all-girl team and he’s the lone slice of chocolate cake. Diversity is good. A roomful of people who think the same way does not solve coding problems. But because Calla is on the edge, one nudge in the wrong direction will also send us careening to our doom. After getting turned down by the last venture capital firm I approached for financial backing, we’ve burned through our remaining operating capital and yet electricity and flushing toilets remain nonnegotiable items for my team members. I not only need to launch soon, but I need the launch to be a success. It would be even better if someone left a sack of large-denomination bills on our doorstep. Wishful thinking. I’m a master.

A test version of Calla’s website is up and operational in a sandbox, I remind myself. We’ve just finished integrating our new e-commerce platform. That platform is a thing of beauty, although I’m also secretly grateful I didn’t have to tell anyone how I obtained it. My small budget inspired an equal measure of creativity and embarrassing desperation.

Nellie whines, alerting me to incoming humans. I mentally flush my thoughts of Dev—mooning over my much younger intern is crazy—and find myself face-to-face with Valerie. Valerie is our director of international marketing. At twenty-three, she has a degree from UC Berkeley, pink hair and glossy pink lips that match the hair. She was an “influencer” before we landed her, which means she posted carefully curated content to Instagram and other social media. Her brand, she’d informed me during our interview, was Start-Up Chic and she makes more money documenting the start-up lifestyle than she does from Calla’s actual paychecks. I live in terror that she’ll abandon us, but so far, so good.

She leans down to pat Nellie on the head. Nellie flinches. “Who was that and why are we hiding in the kitchen?”

“I’m caffeinating, not hiding.” To back up my claim, I beeline toward the coffee bar, almost tripping over Nellie, who believes my energy level means we’re hunting doggie treats. Ugh. All ten of Calla’s team members are serious caffeine addicts, but none of us has a Martha Stewart–esque penchant for organizing or cleaning. The coffee bar is a sticky collection of used cups, spilled sugar and empty coffee pods. I made a note on my phone to Google proper intern responsibilities—maybe he can take over coffee duties.

Val points to the front door. “Our guest was gorgeous. Now tell me he’s smart. And ours.”

“He’s definitely smart. He’s got a huge brain. He has the personality of a troll.” Darn it. Out of coffee pods. I sift through the cupboard, searching for instant coffee, and discover an empty box. “I’m naming him Director of All Things Coffee.”

“Uh-huh.” Val nudges me enthusiastically. She’s a hugger, too, whereas my personal space requirements are more generous. “Bet he’s got a huge something else, too.”

I make the buzzer sound. “Inappropriate, Val. Would you want your future teammates discussing your body the minute you walked out the door?”

Pot. Kettle.

“Sorry.” She pulls a face. “You’re right. Not here.”

I look at her apologetically, but I know she understands. Lusting after the summer intern falls into the category of Shit You Do Not Stir. Above all, it’s wrong. Whether you’re Team Vagina or Team Penis (or prefer not to state your allegiance), you should be able to come to work without your coworkers imagining you naked and performing sex acts. And second and more practically, not only is everyone working all out to launch Calla in two months, but we simply can’t afford the drama and expense of a workplace harassment lawsuit.

I shut the cupboard door and toss the empty box into the recycling. “Come with me to the coffee shop?”

Val nods enthusiastically, which experience has shown is her default factory setting. She’s enthusiastic about everything. When we step outside, my head starts swiveling. I tell myself I’m just soaking in the sunshine. It’s a balmy seventy-two degrees and the morning fog has already burned off. Normally, I’d take a few centering breaths and appreciate being outside, but instead I scour my surroundings. For him.

Fortunately, Val doesn’t notice. Instead, she enthusiastically launches into conversation. “Do you have weekend plans?”

Right. It’s Friday, the day of the week normal people get excited about because they actually intend to leave the house. On purpose. I personally prefer hiding inside where there are fewer people. After I finish my monster to-do list, I have a hot date with a new book and takeout. And Nellie. Nellie and I are practically an old married couple. I tie her leash to the bench outside the coffee shop and plunge through the doors. There are thirty-two people here and the sound wave deafens me.

“No plans,” I roar, stepping up to the counter and placing my order. Don’t feel sorry for the introvert, folks. That’s how she likes it.

“No hot date?” Val examines the muffins on offer. Smart. It’s unlikely we have time for lunch and I’ve eaten my way through the box of tasteless granola bars stashed in my desk. I pull out my phone and make order snacks the two hundred and forty-seventh item on my to-do list. “When’s the last time you went out?”

I tap my calendar. Dates are violet as pink feels clichéd—and violet is as rare on my calendar as unicorns are in my life. Which is A-okay with me. My crowded schedule has no room for hearts and true love.

Val snorts. “If you have to check your calendar, it’s been too long.”

“Three hundred sixty-one days.” Precision is important.

Val digests my disturbingly long period of celibacy as the baristas bellow out names, the space-age coffee maker whoosh-whirs, and a dozen customers chat each other up and make business calls at the top of their lungs.

“You need to get out more,” she says finally. “There are apps for that.”

“Hello? Married to the firm?” I grab my chai latte off the counter and head outside. Nellie barks enthusiastically. She loves coffee dates, even if she anxious-pees if I take her inside. Popping the lid off my cup, I pour her a taste. Uh-oh. Whatever’s in this cup isn’t chai latte. Once again, I’ve stolen someone else’s drink.

I debate slinking back inside and buying—I rotate the cup until I spot the owner’s name underneath my pinkie—Ross a new drink. It’s too much work, though. Plus, if he really likes steamed coconut milk, we’ll never work out. I opt for fleeing back toward Calla, Nellie trotting alongside me, licking her chops.

Val is right behind me. “Sex is like flossing. You should do it once a day, twice a day is better, and if you haven’t done it, you lie and say you did anyhow.”

I roll my eyes. “Who has time to do it twice a day?”

My brain helpfully supplies an image of Dev. He likely has both the time and the stamina to do it twice a day. Probably twice an hour. Bad brain. Not only is he much, much younger than me, but he’s my intern. I meant what I said to Val about respecting our team members. It shouldn’t matter if Devlin is tall, short, fat or supremely built. His outside package has no bearing on his ability to do the job, and I won’t treat him any differently than I’d want to be treated. My social skills might be lacking, but even I know having your boss come on to you is at best horribly awkward and at worst criminal.

Plus, I’ve already had naked fantasies about him, and he’s brought me to orgasm twice since Friday night even if he didn’t know it.

Shit.

Hiring him is a bad idea. If anyone finds out I’m crushing on him, I’ll look ridiculous. And then there will be the usual stupid, giddy delight at going to work, knowing that I’ll see him for a few minutes. Or our shoulders will brush, our knees bump under the table when we work together. He’ll lean in so I can point out something on my laptop screen, and his breath will rush over my arm, and then the kibbles of those brief contacts will turn me into a brainless babbler. It’s happened before.

But how can I fire him now? Not only do I need his big brain to sort out the bugs in my software, but I have no legal ground to fire him for hotness. The grumpy asshole part gives me material to work with, but I need him. And not just in a naked-and-thrusting way. Stop thinking about him.

The ache between my thighs as I walk back into the office is totally wrong. And Devlin King has given me zero reason to believe he sees me as anything other than his new boss, so this is one-sided chemistry.

I’ll just shut it down.

That’s what I’ll do.

CHAPTER FIVE

Dev

JACK LEVELS A look at me, an impressive feat since we’re bobbing up and down on our boards a quarter mile off the Santa Cruz shore.

“I’m not sure if I should congratulate you on your new internship or knock you off your board,” he says.

Jack is a big guy with the size to follow through on his threat, although we both know he won’t. This is partly due to us having been best friends since our freshman year of college, where we shared an apartment and a major in computer science at the University of California at Santa Cruz. We spent most of our time hacking or surfing. Before I met Jack, however, I was the youngest brother in a family of four boys. I’m competitive about everything and Jack knows it.

Long-term friendship has pluses and minuses. On the plus side, Jack makes an amazing wingman and he really gets me. On the con side, he often knows what I’m thinking and acts as a self-appointed conscience and guardian angel whenever he decides I’m headed for the moral deep end without a life jacket.

His superpower is that, despite being the size of a professional hockey player (which is why I at least pretend to listen to him) and having the killer instincts of a shark, people like him. Unlike me, he’s the amiable, happily married prince among men that ladies love to borrow as a loaner husband and confidant. Today, the shaggy hair that usually falls around his face is pulled back in a ponytail and his wet suit outlines his muscles. I squint. He looks sort of like the Hulk, but less green and way more smiley.

“You shouldn’t have let that girl think you were her intern.” But I have been, for a couple of weeks now. Jack eyeballs the ocean.

Today is the kind of day that comes to mind when you think of California. Bright blue sky, supernova-heated sand on the beach thanks to the sun, and ocean everywhere. Plus, the waves are perfect.

“She assumed. I capitalized on it.” Jack plays by a very black-and-white set of rules, so in the Jack Rulebook, I’ve been a very, very bad boy. And while I know my new internship is questionable, I still feel I have a winning proposition.

“Why?”

“Because I need to find out who stole my software, Jack Ass.”

Jack ignores his college nickname, stroking his fingers over the surface of his board as he tests the wax job. I’ve pointed out that the whole stroking thing makes it look as if he’s jerking off an enormous dick. “You always build in a Trojan because you’re paranoid.”

True.

“So it’s not like she can go live with it,” he continues. “Plus, you have an awesome legal team, a big bank account for bankrolling a lawsuit and the social capital to burn her. Either pick the right fight or let it go and move on.”

I grin. “The day after she launches, I’ll pull the trigger on the Trojan and all her product will turn into rainbow-colored dildos and rubber duckies. Then I’ll hit her e-commerce server with a million requests a minute.”

“She’ll be down within the hour, so why go out of your way now to infiltrate her office and give her any kind of leg to stand on?” Jack’s familiarity with my game plan may have something to do with the number of times we pulled this stunt in our younger, more lawless days. Now that he’s married, and owns a very successful VC firm with his best friend Hazel, he claims to be reformed.

“Who’s Dev getting horizontal with now?” Max pops up behind me. Max O’Reilly is the third in our triumvirate and I blame him for the worst hacking offenses of our college careers. I may hate secrets, but Max has a vendetta against ignorance in any form. You know that stupid line about curiosity killing the cat but satisfaction brought him back? Just substitute Max for cat.

“He’s upgraded his skill set to super ninja infiltration.” Jack makes big eyes in my direction.

Max frowns. Literal at the best of times, Max takes a sledgehammer approach to most social situations—which makes the fact that he’s the billionaire owner/creator of a successful dating app hilarious. Only Max would reduce human interaction to neat lines of code and end up with a fat bank account rather than an actual date.

Like us, Max wears a black wet suit. Even in June, the water off the California coast is cold enough to turn your balls into blue Popsicles.

“Remember the rule,” Jack says.

“Which one?” Jack has too many. I bought him a copy of Robert’s Rules of Order the same Christmas he gave me a label maker. Like the British royal family, we have a gag gifts–only rule for present-giving.

“The rule. No sex at work.”

There’s silence for a beat as we bob up and down on our boards. And while all three of us have flirted with the rule, none of us has ever broken it. The most we do is flirt, especially if the woman in question is a client. If she’s an employee, we don’t even look in her direction. It’s asking for trouble. But...

“Does Lola’s office count as work? Because technically I’m her employee. She’s paying me.”

“You need to keep your hands to yourself. Don’t look at her, don’t touch her.”

Max nods solemnly. “Personal space bubbles are important.” Max has learned this in his capacity as uncle to his sister’s twin demon spawn.

“What if she looks at me? And invites me into said bubble?”

Jack shakes his head. “Don’t. I can have it tattooed on your dick if that helps.”

Jack reaches over and slaps me on the back. “Does this mean your new boss is hot?”

“You bet.”

“So what’s it like having your first internship?”

Jack laughs so hard he almost falls off his board. None of us interned in college—we’d been too busy launching our first companies. We’d found the magic, winning chute in the Game of Life.

“Taking orders sucks. She wants coffee runs, photocopies, meeting minutes and code reviews. I’m not allowed to check in any code changes without written permission—it’s like getting a field trip note from my parents. Then she points out every place I’ve done something different from how she would have done it—which is everywhere—and tells me to redo it.”

“None of those are unreasonable requests,” Jack points out.

“They’re not requests. They’re orders.” Great. I sound like an unhappy five-year-old. Maybe I could whine it’s not fair for my next trick. “I have no idea how normal twentysomethings handle this.”

“They need the paycheck.” Max sounds serious. I can’t tell if he’s pulling my leg or not. We all know interning isn’t a lucrative proposition.

“But I’m right.”

Jack, naturally, mock-wags his finger at me. “And she’s the boss. What if she knows something you don’t? Or her way of doing things is equally good?”

I consider the possibility before dismissing it with a middle finger in Jack’s direction. “I’m the best at what I do.”

“Think of it like sex,” Jack says, checking the wave coming toward us.

“I do not want to think about sex and you.” Max nods, in vigorous agreement with me. In college, we didn’t hang neckties on doorknobs to indicate that the room was occupied; we’d just agreed that our triple was a bang-free zone and that we’d take girls anywhere else. The rooms at Santa Cruz were too small for sexcapades.

“Work with me here.” Jack sighs, a long, dramatic, oh-woe-is-me sigh I blame on his one and only stint as a thespian. He’d signed up for UC Santa Cruz’s summer production of A Midsummer’s Night Dream because he’d wanted to bang Titania. Hazel had been the stage manager and she superglued the ass head to his hair because Titania—aka Molly—was her best friend, and she was too shy to tell Jack to bugger off. Jack married Molly four years later, and he and Hazel have been friends and partners in crime ever since. She’s the prettier but no less cutthroat half of their VC company. Together they have their thumbs in some of the tastiest Silicon Valley pies.

Jack has suggested repeatedly that we grow up and include Hazel in our Saturday surf dates rather than shut her out of our boys-only tree house. She’s great, but I’ve shot him down every time—not because she’d prefer to discuss the hotness of the male of the species, but because she honest-to-God can’t swim. Drowning Jack’s business partner isn’t a friendly move. The compromise is her sitting on the beach with a book and holding on to our wallets. Currently she’s a bright pink dot wrapped in three blankets. In addition to not being a good swimmer, Hazel gets cold easily.

Jack continues, “You’ve got the moves, you’re the foreplay master, you’ve got the whole night mapped out and it’s going to the best orgasm she’s ever had.”

“So, a typical night.”

Jack ignores that. “But your date knows what makes her come, so what if she wants to do something different? She’s not wrong, right?”

Put that way, my actions might possibly seem a little immature.

Jack taps his heart. “What do you want to happen next?”

I blame Hazel for Jack’s insane willingness to talk about feelings and relationship next steps. She’s a terrible influence. Jack claims it’s a side effect of being married, which just underscores what a dangerous idea the whole two-becoming-one state is—he’s turned into a girl.

“Pretty certain misrepresenting yourself in the hiring process is illegal,” Max says. “Plus, if she mistook you for the intern, there must be a real one out there somewhere. What if he shows up?”

“No problem. I’ll be in and out.”

“That’s what she said.” Max waggles his eyebrows and I knock him off his board.

CHAPTER SIX

Lola

MAPLE AND I are having sad desk salads for lunch. She’s on some sort of mason jar salad kick this month, so she’s brought us each a glass jar crammed with more fiber and vegetables than I usually face in a week. Nellie flops by my feet, disappointed that it’s not bacon cheeseburger day.

Frankly, I’m voting with Nellie. When Maple hands me my jar, my first thought is ooh, super pretty. The greens and vegetables are layered inside like a healthy version of three-bean party dip. I unscrew the lid and poke my fork inside.

Maple aims hers at me. “How is Pretty Boy?”

She thinks it’s hilarious that my summer intern is none other than Hot Lap Guy. She asked how he took finding out I’d be his boss for the summer, but I wasn’t sure what to tell her. I tried to apologize, he announced he wasn’t pro second chances, and then he stayed anyhow. I think that means he’s decided we can work together. Yes, I’ve felt his penis up through his pants and he’s had his hand on my knee, but no one has seen anyone naked and there’s been no tongue (which is slightly disappointing, if I’m being honest).

I chew before confessing. “He’s a grumpy bastard.”

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