The ice came out of nowhere.

One second I was crossing Sixth Avenue with a latte in one hand and my phone in the other, and the next I was airborne. My hip hit first, then my shoulder, and finally my head cracked against the pavement hard enough that I saw white.

Someone grabbed my arm. "You okay?"

I blinked up at a middle-aged woman in a North Face puffer. Her grip was warm through my coat sleeve. And then I heard her voice again—except her lips weren't moving.

*Please don't sue me. I didn't salt this block yet. Please don't sue me.*

"I'm fine," I said automatically. My skull throbbed. "Just slipped."

She helped me up, still holding my elbow, and the voice kept going. *She's bleeding. Oh God, she's bleeding. I'm going to lose my job.*

I touched the back of my head. My fingers came away red.

"You should see a doctor," the woman said aloud. Her face was pale.

"I will." I pulled free and stepped back. The voice stopped.

I stood there on the sidewalk, breathing hard, watching her hurry away. My latte was a brown puddle in the gutter. My phone screen was cracked. And my head felt like someone had taken a hammer to it.

Concussion, I thought. That's all this is.

I went home.

---

Marco was already on my couch when I got back to my apartment in Hell's Kitchen, feet up on the coffee table, scrolling through his phone. He looked up and smiled. "Hey, babe. Rough day?"

"Something like that." I dropped my bag by the door and went to the bathroom to clean the cut on my scalp. It wasn't deep. Just enough to sting.

When I came back out, Marco had moved to the kitchen and was opening a beer. "Want one?"

"Sure."

He handed it to me, and his fingers brushed mine.

*God, this place is depressing. How does she live like this? Meredith's penthouse has a wine fridge. An actual wine fridge. I need to move this along.*

I almost dropped the bottle.

Marco tilted his head. "You okay?"

"Yeah." My voice sounded far away. "Just tired."

He put his arm around my shoulders and guided me to the couch. His palm was warm against my sweater. And the voice in my head—his voice, but not his voice—kept talking.

*She looks like hell. Should I be worried? No. She's fine. She's always fine. I need to text Meredith back. She sent me that photo an hour ago and I haven't responded. The one in the black dress. Jesus.*

I sat very still.

Marco kissed the top of my head. "I love you," he said.

*I need to figure out how to break this off without her making a scene. Maybe after the holidays. Meredith's taking me to Aspen in February. Aspen. Not this dump.*

"I love you too," I heard myself say.

He smiled and reached for the remote. His hand left my shoulder. The voice stopped.

I stared at the TV. Some sitcom. Canned laughter.

My head was pounding. My hands were shaking.

I waited until Marco went to the bathroom, then locked myself in the bedroom and opened my laptop.

Venmo history. Credit card statements. Receipts I'd photographed and filed out of habit. Rent payments. Dinners. Groceries. The Canada Goose jacket I bought him for Christmas because he said his old coat was falling apart.

I opened a spreadsheet.

I started typing.

---

Two days later, I had everything.

Marco came over Thursday night with takeout. Pad Thai. My favorite. He set the bag on the counter and grinned. "Hungry?"

"Sit down," I said.

His smile faltered. "What's wrong?"

I slid the printed spreadsheet across the table. Three pages. Every transaction. Every date. Every dollar.

"Fourteen thousand, six hundred dollars," I said. "That's what you owe me."

Marco stared at the paper. Then at me. "What is this?"

"A bill."

"Bailee—"

"I want it back. All of it. You have two weeks."

He laughed. Actually laughed. "You're kidding."

"I'm not."

He reached across the table and took my hand. "Babe, listen—"

*She's lost it. She actually made a spreadsheet. This is insane. How do I talk her down? She's not going to get a cent. I'm not paying for dinners from six months ago. Is she serious?*

"You think I'm insane," I said quietly. "You think you're not going to pay me back. You think this is about dinners from six months ago."

His face went white.

I pulled my hand free. "You also think I'm not going to get a cent. And you're wondering how to talk me down."

He stood up. "How did you—"

"Two weeks," I said. "Cash, Venmo, check. I don't care. But if I don't have it, I'll file in small claims court. And I'll win."

Marco stared at me like I was something he'd never seen before.

I stood, walked to the door, and opened it. "Your stuff is in bags by the closet. Take it. Now."

He left without another word.

I changed the locks that night.

By Friday, I'd signed a lease on a new place. Upper West Side. High-rise. Doorman. Suspiciously cheap for the square footage, but I wasn't going to question it.

I moved in on Saturday.

And on Saturday night, I met my neighbor.

Monday morning, Christian was waiting by the elevator.

I saw him before he saw me. He stood near the lobby doors, checking his watch. Perfectly pressed suit. Dark gray. No coffee. He didn't drink coffee on the way to work. I'd learned that Saturday night.

When I walked up, he glanced at me. His face didn't change.

"You're going to the office," he said.

Not a question. A statement.

"Yes."

"Get in."

His Tesla was parked at the curb. I slid into the passenger seat. The interior smelled like leather and something clean I couldn't name.

Christian pulled into traffic without a word. I kept my hands in my lap. No touching. No accidental mind-reading.

Then he spoke.

"The quarterly report you submitted Friday had a typo on page eleven."

I blinked. "I'll fix it."

"You should have caught it before submission."

"I will next time."

He said nothing. I waited.

Then his hand shifted on the gear stick, and his knuckle brushed mine.

*She bit her lip. She just bit her lip while apologizing. I am going to lose my mind. Focus. Do NOT look at her mouth again.*

I pulled my hand back and looked out the window. My mouth twitched.

"Something funny?" Christian asked.

"No."

"Good."

We drove in silence the rest of the way.

---

Tuesday, he was waiting again.

This time he commented on my coffee order. I was holding a latte when I got in the car.

"That has too much sugar," he said.

"It's a latte."

"It's dessert in a cup."

I took a sip. "I like it."

He made a sound that might have been disapproval. His hand rested on the console between us. I saw his fingers tap once. Twice.

*She's drinking it anyway. Of course she is. That's the third time this week she's ordered the same thing. She likes vanilla. I should remember that. Why am I remembering that.*

I hid my smile behind the cup.

---

Wednesday, he critiqued my presentation.

I'd submitted slides for a client pitch. He pulled them up on his phone while we sat at a red light.

"This font is aggressively mediocre," he said.

"It's Arial."

"Exactly."

I stared at him. "What's wrong with Arial?"

"Everything." He handed me his phone. "Use this instead."

I looked at the screen. Some serif font I didn't recognize.

"Fine," I said.

His hand brushed mine when I gave the phone back.

*That color makes her eyes look incredible. Stop. STOP. She's looking at you. Say something normal.*

"Green is acceptable on you," he said aloud.

I blinked. "Thanks?"

He turned back to the road. His jaw was tight.

I pressed my lips together and looked out the window. This was getting ridiculous.

---

By Thursday, I was cataloguing the gap.

What Christian said versus what Christian thought. The distance between the two was so wide I could have driven a truck through it.

He told me my report structure was sloppy. He thought about how I'd stayed late to finish it and whether I'd eaten dinner.

He said my email response time was unacceptable. He thought about whether I was getting enough sleep.

He told me to stop using exclamation points in professional correspondence. He thought about how the one I'd used in a message to him yesterday had made him smile for five full minutes.

I started keeping a mental list. It was entertaining. Dangerous. Addictive.

I wanted to touch him just to hear what else he wasn't saying.

---

Saturday, I went to Whole Foods.

I needed groceries. Normal things. Eggs. Bread. Something green that wasn't dying in my fridge.

I was in the produce section when I heard the voice.

"Bailee?"

I turned.

Marco stood three feet away. Meredith was next to him. She wore a coat that probably cost more than my rent. Her bag was Chanel. Her smile was sharp.

"How are you?" Marco asked. His tone was friendly. His eyes were not.

"Fine," I said.

Meredith looked at my cart. Eggs. Pasta. A bag of apples.

"How quaint," she said. "Some women just aren't built for the finer things."

Marco smirked.

I felt heat rise in my chest. I opened my mouth.

"Bailee."

The voice came from behind me. Low. Calm. Familiar.

I turned.

Christian stood at the end of the aisle. He wore dark jeans and a sweater. Casual. Still perfect.

He walked toward us. His eyes moved from me to Marco to Meredith. He didn't smile.

"Mr. Flores," he said. "Ms. Lawson."

Marco's smirk faltered. "Mr. Pierce."

Christian stopped next to me. Close enough that I could feel the heat from his arm.

"I wanted to inform you," Christian said, "that your lease is under review."

Meredith's smile froze. "Excuse me?"

"Multiple violations. Noise complaints. Unauthorized subletting." His tone was flat. Professional. "I own the building. My property management team will be in touch."

Marco's face went pale. "We didn't—"

"Monday," Christian said. "Expect the call."

He turned to me. "Your avocados are overripe."

Then he walked away.

I stood there, staring after him. Marco and Meredith left without another word.

I looked down at my cart. The avocados were fine.

I touched the spot on my arm where Christian had stood close. Nothing. No contact. But I didn't need it.

I knew exactly what he'd been thinking.

*I will buy every building they ever try to live in. She's shaking. I want to hold her. I cannot hold her in a Whole Foods.*

I smiled.

I bought the avocados anyway.

---

Monday, I had to deliver documents to Christian's office.

His assistant — Evie — was at her desk outside his door. She looked up when I approached. Her smile was bright. Professional.

"He's in a meeting," she said. "I can take those."

"I'll wait."

She stood. "Let me just check—"

She knocked, then opened the door. I saw Christian at his desk. He glanced up.

Evie stepped inside. I watched through the glass.

She said something. Gestured to a spot on her blouse. Then she stumbled. Her coffee cup tipped. Liquid splashed across her shirt.

"Oh no," she said loudly. Her hands went to the buttons. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Pierce. I'll just—"

Christian stood. His face was blank. He walked to the door and opened it wider.

"Ms. Robinson," he said. "Come in. Ms. Daniels, please step out."

Evie's smile faltered. She walked past me. Her blouse was barely damp.

I went inside. Christian closed the door.

"Documents," he said.

I handed them over. His fingers brushed mine.

*Is she having a seizure? Should I call HR? Why is she arching her back like that? This is deeply uncomfortable. Where is Bailee? I want Bailee.*

I bit the inside of my cheek. Hard.

Christian's eyes narrowed. "Something wrong?"

"No."

"You're smiling."

"I'm not."

"You are."

I pressed my lips together. "The documents are all there."

"Good." He set them on his desk. "You can go."

I turned to leave.

"Bailee."

I stopped.

"Tomorrow morning," he said. "Seven fifteen."

"I'll be there."

I left.

I made it back to my floor. Sat down at my desk. And laughed into my coffee for ninety full seconds.

Diana looked over from her cubicle. "You okay?"

"Perfect," I said.

I was still smiling when I went back to work.

The mariachi band appeared at eight oh-three.

I was in the breakroom getting coffee when I heard the trumpets. Loud. Bright. Unmistakably festive.

Diana looked up from her phone. "Is that—"

"Mariachi," I said.

We walked to the windows overlooking the lobby. Fifteen floors down, a group of men in matching black suits and silver-studded jackets stood in formation. One held a guitar. Another had a trumpet. A third was singing.

Diana pressed her face to the glass. "They're in the building."

"They're in the building," I repeated.

Security appeared. The music continued. People on the ground floor had stopped walking. Phones were out. Someone was filming.

"This is for the CEO," Diana said. "This has to be for the CEO."

I said nothing. I already knew.

The band played for four full minutes. A love song. Something about corazones and eternidad. Then security escorted them out. The lobby returned to normal.

Diana turned to me. "Itzel Chavez."

"Probably."

"That woman is unhinged."

I sipped my coffee. "She's persistent."

"She's going to get arrested."

I thought about Christian sitting in his office seventeen floors above us. I thought about what he was thinking.

I was right.

At nine thirty, I had to drop off revised contracts. I took the elevator to his floor. Evie was at her desk. She smiled when she saw me.

"He's in a meeting," she said.

"I'll wait."

She stood. "Let me just—"

The door opened. Christian appeared. His face was blank.

"Ms. Robinson," he said. "Come in."

I went inside. He closed the door.

"Contracts," he said.

I handed them over. His fingers brushed mine.

*This is the third incident this week. I need this to stop. I need a solution. I need Bailee.*

I pulled my hand back. "Anything else?"

"No."

I left.

I went back to my desk. I opened my laptop. I stared at the screen.

Diana leaned over the cubicle wall. "You okay?"

"Fine."

"You look weird."

"I'm fine."

She disappeared. I went back to work.

---

Friday afternoon, the skywriting started.

I was in a meeting when someone pointed out the window. We all turned.

The letters were huge. White against blue. ITZEL + CHRISTIAN.

Someone laughed. Someone else groaned.

Diana, sitting next to me, shook her head. "Someone is going to get a restraining order."

I watched the letters dissolve. Slowly. The wind pulled them apart.

"Or a fake girlfriend," I said.

Diana looked at me. "What?"

"Nothing."

The meeting continued. I didn't hear a word of it.

---

Christian appeared at my door at seven fifteen that evening.

I'd just gotten home. I was still in my work clothes. I heard the knock and looked through the peephole.

Him.

I opened the door. He stood in the hallway holding two cups of coffee. His tie was still perfect. His expression was not.

"I need to speak with you," he said.

"Now?"

"Yes."

I stepped back. "Come in."

He didn't move. "Here is fine."

I crossed my arms. "Okay."

He held out one of the cups. I took it. Our fingers touched.

*Do not panic. You have rehearsed this eleven times. Say it exactly as planned. Do NOT improvise.*

"I need you to pose as my girlfriend," he said.

I blinked. "What?"

"Professionally. Temporarily. I'll compensate you."

I stared at him. His face was completely serious.

"You want me to pretend to date you," I said.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Itzel Chavez will not accept a verbal refusal. She requires visual evidence."

I almost laughed. I didn't. "Visual evidence."

"Correct."

I took a sip of coffee. It was my usual order. Vanilla latte. Too much sugar. He'd remembered.

"What kind of compensation?" I asked.

"Name your terms."

I looked at him. He looked back. His hand tightened on his cup.

*Please say yes. If she says no I will need to leave the country.*

I let him wait. Fifteen seconds. Maybe twenty.

"Professional curiosity," I said finally.

"Is that a yes?"

"That's a yes."

His shoulders dropped. Just slightly. "Good."

"When do we start?"

"Tomorrow. Dinner. I'll send you the details."

"Okay."

He nodded once. Then he turned and walked back to his apartment. I watched him unlock his door. Step inside. Close it behind him.

I stood in my doorway. I pressed my hand flat against the doorframe. The wall was thin enough.

I heard it. Felt it. His thought, loud and clear and utterly ridiculous.

*Yes. YES.*

I smiled.

I went inside. Closed the door. Sat down on the couch.

Diana was right. Someone was going to get a restraining order.

But it wasn't going to be me.