Seven guidelines.
Augustus Evans had prepared seven guidelines for behaving professionally around a woman he'd kissed less than twenty-four hours earlier.
I considered returning to the balcony and asking the harbor to swallow me.
"Are they numbered?" I demanded.
"Technically."
"Do they have subclauses?"
"No."
"That's almost disappointing."
He slid his laptop aside. "They're suggestions, Juliette. Not rules. We can ignore them."
"Excellent. I hereby ignore all seven."
"Noted."
"Stop saying noted."
"Understood."
I marched out of his office determined to behave like a normal, competent executive assistant.
That resolution lasted eleven minutes.
At nine-fifteen, I brought him coffee. Ordinarily, I placed it beside his keyboard. Today, the possibility of our fingers brushing felt more dangerous than a volatile stock market.
I set the cup at the farthest corner of his desk.
Augustus examined it, then reached around his monitor.
"Has the coffee offended you?"
