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grouch because this damn report needs to be picture-perfect by five o’clock East Coast time and because I’m on edge about this weekend.
    I’d woken to a text from Rey:
    Changes to contract all approved. You’re good to go. Call me tonight.
    That was a relief, but I find my mind drawn back to Cris Ardmore again and again. What is it about this guy? I’ve had varying degrees of Dom-crushes on these men before we meet, but no matter how hot the picture or tantalizing the contract, I’ve never been so damn distracted. I scrub my fingers over my scalp, humming to myself, and then rinse the suds from my hair, along with thoughts of this diverting man. Down the drain you go, Mr. Ardmore. For now.
    I turn the spray all the way to cold and force myself to stand under it for a full minute. I’m going to need all my wits about me to get out of here alive at the end of the day, and this will be a good wake-up call.
    Not as good as the pounding of a heavy fist at my door, though. That is not Lucy.
    “India!”
    “And a good morning to you, Jack.” A few seconds short of a minute, but I turn off the water.
    “I didn’t give you an office with an en suite so you could be Bathtime Barbie.”
    I open the door as I finish tucking the towel around myself and look up at him. He’s a lot taller when I haven’t got my heels on.
    “I know. It was to up the likelihood for delightful moments of sexual harassment like this one.”
    “Jesus, India. Put some goddamn clothes on!”
    I roll my eyes as I slam the door in his beet-red face. “Will do.”
    When I walk into his office three minutes later, fully clothed as requested in a bright yellow sheath dress with a wide black belt, he’s mellowed some. He looks me up and down. “I preferred the towel.”
    “Sleaze bag.”
    He cocks his head in consideration before shrugging and starting in on his tirade about the latest draft of the report. It’s a short rant, and I feel good about being able to get this in on time. I saw earlier that Janis sent me more of the numbers I need. Hopefully, it’s the last of them. Otherwise, we’re going to have another delightful phone call.
    When Jack’s through with me, I haul ass back to my office and busy myself filling in the blanks, only to look up and see it’s heading on one o’clock. Shit. I have an hour. I need an hour and a half for this to be spit-polished and sparkling, so I pick up my phone.
    “Cooper,” snaps a rude voice.
    “Constance, my love.”
    “Hello, India.” Her snarl turns into a purr in an abrupt about-face. “I thought I wouldn’t be hearing from you for another fifty-nine… Oh, wait, make that fifty-eight minutes.”
    “Would it ruin your day if I had this in your inbox at five thirty?”
    “No. I’m about to leave, and I’m not going to look at it until tomorrow, anyway. Take all night if you want it.”
    “I don’t. I want this off my desk as much as you do. It’ll be there by five thirty.”
    “Can I call you if there are problems? I prefer dealing with you.”
    “Monday. I’ll be in early—ten your time.”
    “Another lost weekend?”
    “Here’s hoping.” The thought of Cris Ardmore slips into my mind. “But, hey, do me a solid? At least keep up appearances. Call Janis first and give her a hard time. I’ll tell her to let me handle you if you get too rough with her, and then we can catch up.”
    “You’re a crafty bitch, Burke. I like it. Now stop flapping your very well-paid gums and finish my damn report. You’re billing us for this, aren’t you?”
    “By the word,” I chirp, and she laughs her throaty laugh.
    “Have a good weekend.”
    “You, too. Tell Glory I say hi. We’ll talk Monday.”
    I hang up in a much better mood. Cooper happens to be our HUD liaison on the LAHA receivership, and everyone involved is terrified of her. Her name— Cooper —strikes fear in the heart of the most seasoned housing administrator. I really think they believe that’s her only name. She even