Chapter 1
May
I push open the glass door to the kitchenette, my pumps clacking on the polished floor tiles as I juggle my leather calendar and phone.
The smell of coffee hits me—strong and slightly burnt. That means Logan is already here. And, as expected, he’s standing at the counter with that slightly reproachful look.
“Ten minutes early. You’re early,” Logan says. He looks up and sizes me up with his calm brown eyes.
Nothing escapes him—it never has. Even at seventeen, he knew I’d been crying before I even opened my mouth. “Either the apocalypse is coming, or you haven’t slept again.”
“The apocalypse,” I reply, smoothing the front of my blazer to buy some time. “Sleep is overrated when deadlines are looming.”
He pushes a clean cup toward me—the blue one with the chip on the handle that I always use.
“Team A submitted all ongoing projects yesterday,” he says, not quite smugly, but almost, so that I feel my back straighten.
“Team B will be better after the additional revision.” I pour hot water over a tea bag and watch the color run out. “Besides, you should know by now that quality comes before speed, Mercer.”
“Keep telling yourself that, Maddison.”
This is our usual morning dance. Team A versus Team B, Logan versus May. Old friends and eternal rivals since day one.
Logan runs his hand through his dark hair, leaving it deliberately tousled. “Did you see Gregory’s email? Whitmore wants both teams to be at the status update.”
“Really? Why…”
The kitchen door swings open with such force that I flinch and the tea in my cup sloshes dangerously close to the rim.
“Good morning, corporate slaves!” Brooke announces in a voice so loud it could replace the warning sirens. She storms in—a whirlwind of copper-gold curls framing her face and a dress in a bright blue-green that hurts my eyes.
Logan immediately grabs the bridge of his nose—his universal signal for 'Brooke is too loud for this time of day'.
“Inner voice, Dawson.”
“Inner voice,” Brooke snorts, dropping her huge tote bag on the counter with a thud and continuing. “Then how am I supposed to tell you that it’s getting disgusting that you’ve been wearing the same blue shirt three days in a row?”
“He changed,” I interject, hiding my smile behind my cup. “Monday it was navy blue. Tuesday it was azure blue. Today it’s…” I wink at Logan. “Cornflower blue?”
“Traitor,” Logan mutters, but I see the corner of his mouth twitch.
Brooke does too, though. She grins triumphantly and then turns her attention to the complicated coffee machine. This machine is made just for her, or so it seems, because no one else can operate it properly. “May, you look particularly buttoned up today. Hot date with the Stevenson client?” Her fingers dance across the buttons and the machine begins to make alarming gurgling noises.
“Budget review,” I correct her, confidently tugging at my blazer sleeve. “And I always dress like this.”
“Mm, no,” Brooke disagrees. “Yesterday’s dress? That was business and hot—which means you do have to talk to the Stevenson client today, but only via video chat—hence the skirt—and you’re afraid he’ll ask for your private cell phone number again.”
Logan snorts into his coffee—which makes me want to spill it on his dress pants.
“All right,” I admit. “But the Stevenson job is important. If he sees me like this from the waist up, at least he won’t try to look at my breasts, and that makes it more bearable for everyone.”
“You could just tell him not to stare,” Brooke says, nodding in my direction. “Because that outfit is a no-go. I hope you have a change of clothes with you.”
“I do,” I clarify, “and I’d love to. But I can’t risk losing the client so close to closing the deal, because if we lose him…”
“Then Team B’s numbers will take a hit just before the budget is allocated,” Logan finishes my sentence, his tone softening slightly.
“It’s okay, I understand,” Brooke says, pulling a frightening mixture of espresso and syrup from the machine. “Which doesn’t change the fact that I think it’s absolutely ridiculous. Just imagine it the other way around. What do you think I’d hear from HR if I pointedly looked at every man’s crotch to check whether he was big or small? To dispel the illusion – the more powerful the guys, the smaller…”
She gestures with her free hand to indicate a tiny size, and I feel the heat rising to my neck. “Brooke…”
“Brooke,” Logan warns quietly, “we’re at work.”
Logan and I exchange glances, enduring it in silence—we don’t know any better. Brooke is incorrigible.
She watches this exchange, and despite her chaotic appearance, her blue eyes are sharp. “You’re acting like retirees.”
“Brooke!” I almost choke on my tea.
Logan rolls her eyes so hard that I’m surprised they don’t pop out. “We’ve already discussed this. We don’t want to talk about it during work hours. What if someone overhears us? May and I lead teams. We have to set an example.”
“I stand corrected,” Brooke chirps cheerfully, unimpressed. “You’re acting like stuffy old retirees.”
Logan and I exchange glances again, but unlike Logan, I’m willing to make peace.
“You know what we mean,” I try, turning to Brooke. “But didn’t you say last night that you had something important to tell us? What happened?”
Brooke seems to consider for a moment whether to continue riding the wave of drama or give in immediately, and finally decides on the latter. “You remember what happened with the tattoo guy from Barley’s?”
I groan and regret my earlier words. “Oh no! Please tell me you didn’t go home with him. He had a wolf tattoo on the back of his neck.”
“The heart wants what the heart wants,” Brooke sighs and shrugs before hopping onto the bar. “And my heart wanted to find out if… if he had any more tattoos.” She raises her eyebrows meaningfully.
Logan groans. “It’s too early for your reports on sexual anthropology.”
“So?” I ask, even though my better judgment tells me not to. “Did he have more?”
Brooke’s grin widens. “Oh, yes. Let’s just say that the full moon rises in very interesting places.”
I press my fingers to my lips, but I can’t suppress my laughter at the image.
“The best part,” she continues, leaning forward conspiratorially, “is what happened when I took him back to my place. So we’re making out at my door, okay? And he does that thing where men try to be sexy by pushing you against the wall…”
“I’m leaving,” Logan announces, but doesn’t move toward the door.
“…and suddenly he stops and gets this weird look on his face. I thought maybe he was getting cold feet or wanted to tell me he had a girlfriend, but no. He looks me straight in the eye and says, ‘Before we go any further, you should know that I have dedicated my body to the great cosmic wolf spirit and sometimes bite during sex.’”
“I’m afraid to ask,” I begin, but I have to laugh. Brooke has always had a knack for finding the person in the bar that everyone else avoids. “Did he bite you?”
“I swear to God,” Brooke says solemnly, raising her hand. “I’ve heard some strange warnings before sex, but that was new even to me.”
Logan gives up trying not to listen, forgets his coffee, and stares at Brooke. “Tell me he didn’t bite you. Do you realize how many diseases can be transmitted that way?”
“Please,” Brooke scoffs. “Don’t be such a baby. It didn’t even hurt. But that’s not even the point.”
I feel my face getting hotter, but I can’t look away from this disastrous story. “What exactly happened?”
“And then we go to my bedroom, everything’s going well, the clothes come off, and I discover that he—in addition to the wolf and some really questionable tribal motifs—has the entire solar system around his…”
“No,” Logan interrupts her, slamming his cup down on the table. “That’s the limit.”
Brooke completely ignores him. “Anyway, we finally get to the good part. As he warned me, he bites me. And not just a little. Right in the crook of my neck. He calls me his mate and claims that from now on I belong to him. At that point, my cat, who, as you know, hates men anyway, decided that this was a direct challenge and jumped from the top of the bookcase onto Wolf Boy’s bare butt.”
I can’t help but burst out laughing.
“There was blood,” Brooke continues, clearly enjoying her audience. “There was screaming. There was a naked man trying to remove an angry cat from his butt while simultaneously trying to maintain his dignity. And that, kids, is why I now always ask to see ID before anyone comes into my apartment. Because after Wolf Boy carved a dent in my wall and, of course, took off without leaving his contact details, I learned my lesson.”
Even Logan has to laugh, and a rare, radiant smile transforms his otherwise serious face.
“That’s why we can’t take you anywhere,” he says, but the affection in his voice is unmistakable — just like back then, as if Brooke were his little sister.
“Correction,” says Brooke, pointing at him. “That’s why you have to take me everywhere. Who else offers entertainment of this quality? May’s idea of adventure is to use a different colored highlighter in her calendar.”
“Hey!” I protest, still out of breath. “I went paddleboarding last summer.”
“That was almost a year ago. Plus, you fell in the water after thirty seconds and spent the rest of the afternoon organizing my spice rack alphabetically,” Brooke reminds me. “Be honest, Maddison, you’re the responsible one in the group. Logan is the grumpy one. I’m the funny one. That’s our dynamic, and it works.”
She’s right. Our twenty-plus-year friendship has allowed us to grow into these roles so much that I hardly notice them anymore. Logan keeps us grounded, Brooke pushes us out of our comfort zone, and I mediate between their opposing forces. It works.
“Speaking of responsibility,” Logan says, glancing at his watch. “The meeting starts in ten minutes. Whitmore doesn’t like to wait, especially not for…”
“Team B,” I finish his sentence and grab my schedule. “Thanks.”
Brooke jumps down from the counter, her dress swirling around her knees. “God, the way this company pits you two against each other is so unhealthy. In normal companies, departments work together instead of fighting each other, right?”
“Welcome to the Ashmore Group,” Logan and I say in unison. “We make the best of it,” I add, smoothing my blazer. “Besides, a little competition makes things more interesting.”
“Interesting isn’t the word I would use,” Brooke mutters as we walk to the door. “More like toxic. Unnecessarily stressful. Artificial tension.”
“It’s fine,” I insist, even though the thought of the Stevenson job gives me butterflies in my stomach. “Anyway, is tonight still on? Sushi and sake?”
Logan holds the door open for us. “I’ll reserve a table at Tanuki. Seven-thirty?”
“Perfect,” Brooke chirps enthusiastically. “Should we go to the karaoke bar afterwards? Last time was so great!”
That memory makes my stomach clench uncomfortably. Last time, when the sake tasted too good, Logan and I agreed to go to a bar with Brooke for a single tequila shot.
The whole thing ended with me imitating Whitney Houston at karaoke—Brooke still has the recording on her phone—Logan somehow lost a sock and got a Hannah tattoo on his shoulder.
“No karaoke!” Logan warns, as if he can read my mind.
“And no tequila!”
