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Where were you at office parties?”
    “In hen groups, mostly,” she said. “We discussed clothing topics. Or I’d seek out interesting people. Your dad knows all the mountain trails.”
    The way his gaze lingered on her mouth before returning to her eyes stroked heat down to her toes. “My dad used to hike up to the year-round creek.”
    “He explained the route. It leads to an amazing hot spring.”
    “Up there, he didn’t swim in his underwear.”
    “Skinny dipping?” Something weird happened to her again. Was it fear or was it want? “I’m not the fashion police. Truly.”
    “Nope, you’re a fashion designer.” A corner of his mouth twitched, and for the space of a heartbeat, everything in his office faded except this man.
    “Thank you for remembering.” Drat, she was a mess, craving touch while facing fear.
    His eyes focused somewhere in middle distance and then back to her. “You’re the little design engine that could.”
    “I think I can, I think I can.” She loved that story. “Don’t worry. It stays in my sewing room.” She tried to watch her breathing. It seemed too loud, and yet if she didn’t breathe, she’d pass out.
    “It’s all good.” Back to all-business, Finn furrowed his brow.
    “At my second interview,” she said, “I met with your accountant.” She wasn’t sure about the chain of command. “Will I report to Brad Rosenberg?”
    “I’m your boss. I might deliver instructions through Brad, but you’ll answer to me. If you have any questions, approach me. Anything else?” he asked with slight impatience.
    “Just one thing.” She met his gaze, about to deliver a crafty reason to postpone his canning of her. Braced for a fat turn-down, she said, “If you fire me, I want a month’s pay.”
    He blinked. “Why request that?”
    “What happened to your last bookkeeper?”
    “It’s confidential.” He furrowed his brow. “How is your work ethic?”
    “If I don’t understand something, I ask. I work harder than the high-IQ people you might know. I try to like everyone, and I’m a team player.”
    “In other words, it’d take murder for you to hate someone.”
    “Something like that,” she said.
    He creased his brow. “I’ll meet your conditions if you meet mine. Before quitting, give me a month’s warning. You’re bringing your sportswear company back to life.”
    “Fair enough,” she said, but his words, back to life, made her think the opposite. Lester’s open casket was a mistake.
    “We’ve got a deal.”
    Ignoring the constriction in her chest, she handed him the manila envelope. “This popped up like an evil Jack-in-a-box.”
    Pushing a pile of papers off to a corner, he asked, “Photos?” Taking the envelope with both hands, he dumped the contents onto his massive desk.
    “There’s just one photo, Lester’s, on a fake driver’s license.” She rose from her chair and pointed to it.
    Finn grabbed the license and brought it close to his eyes. “Les’ photo carries the name of Edward Smithson. Les and I bought this man’s company, Edward Smithson Incorporated.”
    “His, rather Les’, California license with the hologram passes for genuine. Not that it makes you feel any better.” Seeing Finn stoop over it, she empathized with his anxiety. Pain deepened across her forehead.
    “When and where did you find this stuff?” Lowering his chin, he regarded her beneath his arched brows.
    “Last night in my sewing room,” she said. “I decided to look in one of my pattern files. Found this between sizes six and eight.”
    “Not in the home office, then?” he asked.
    “Correct,” she said. “I’d gone through all the paperwork there.”
    “What the hell? Your slick boyfriend misfiled this on purpose.”
    “Les or someone else. He had some visitors.” As she pictured rough people she didn’t know, she tried to slow her agitated heart by taking deep, long breaths.
    “Visitors,” Finn said. “What were they after? Did he