“No.” He clears his throat. “Last night you referred to Beaux as he. Not me.”

“What kind of name is Bo, anyway?”

“The kind that’s spelled B-E-A-U-X,” he says, amusement thick in his tone, and I’m not too thrilled about being mocked. Images of a rough-and-tumble tomboy come to mind, and I hate her out of reflex.

“Isn’t that a guy’s name?”

“I assure you, she’s all woman, all right,” he murmurs, shattering the image I’ve created in my head of her and concurrently pissing me off because he acts as if the fact she has tits and ass will ease the sting of what I feel is his deception. “And it’s on you that you assumed Beaux was a male.” His chuckle grates on my nerves.

“And what? You didn’t correct me because you knew I was going to flip my shit and tell you to go to hell?” My pulse thunders and my hands shake with anger. “What the fuck, man?”

Snapshots of Stella flip through my mind. My promise to never let anything happen to her. Her body covered in blood while chaos swirled all around us. White flowers on her black casket. Having to look her parents in the eye and explain the circumstances and that ultimately it was my fault.

“What’s your problem, Thomas? Male or female… The sex of your photographer shouldn’t affect how you do your job.”

Shouldn’t affect me? He’s crazy.

“That’s bullshit and you know it!” I shout, fist pounding once against the windowsill.

“I beg to differ.” His calm, even tone spurs my anger even further.

“A chick? I have enough of a problem keeping my own ass safe here. I mean after everything that happened with Stella… you’re going to put me back in the same goddamn boat?” My voice hitches, and I hate that it fucking does, hate that after five months I’m still affected. I take a calming breath even though it does nothing for me. At least Stella knew the ground rules, the mistakes not to make – and yet she still ended up dead.

“You wanted to return and get back in the saddle. I told you I didn’t think you were ready.”

“So that’s what this is? Some fucking proving ground?” Fire is in my veins and ice in my voice.

“Having a tough time there, are you? Been back less than forty-eight hours, and you’re just starting to realize that whether you’re there or here in your house, Stella’s still everywhere. Not as easy as you thought, right?”

Is he fucking serious? I wasn’t aware that he ever got a doctorate in psychology. I run a hand through my hair and then lean my forehead to the glass as I recognize that Rafe’s trying to prove a point on which I really don’t feel like being the test subject.

And yes, he’s absolutely right, but hell if I’m going to admit it.

“I’m perfectly fine.” I mutter the words with more conviction than I feel. Fuck if I haven’t gotten good at repeating them over the past few months. I’m so damn sick of people asking how I’m doing. I’m alive. She’s not. End of goddamn story. How do they think I feel?

He laughs loudly into the line, and the sound grates on every frayed nerve that I have. “Keep telling yourself that and maybe one day you will be. But the fact of the matter is that you’re one of my oldest colleagues and friends, and I want to make sure you’re okay. What better way to get you on your feet again than by throwing you right back in the fire you were burned by?” He pauses momentarily to let his comments sink in and burrow tiny little grappling hooks into my nerves, forcing me to see his truth through the pain.

“This is such a crock,” I grit out between my clenched teeth, trying to figure out what’s really going on here. “Since when do I have to prove shit to you, Rafe?”

“You don’t.” He sighs in exasperation. “I don’t make the decisions, Tan. I just make sure they’re carried out.”

“How do those strings feel tied to your hands and feet?” I ask, followed by a circus tune to reinforce my puppet reference.

“Dude, her portfolio is really incredible. Top notch.”

“Uh-huh… Remind me of that when you bitch at me for losing the story because I’m so busy holding her goddamn hand so she doesn’t get us killed. I didn’t come here to put my jacket over puddles to make sure some fresh-out-of-college punk doesn’t get mud on her high heels.”

“Shit, and I packed my Louboutins too.”

The voice at my back has me whirling around, mouth lax, mind trying to catch up and put the pieces together. A sinking feeling hits the pit of my stomach when I see BJ standing with her shoulder against the doorjamb: Arms folded, she’s wearing a tank top with faded blue jeans, an arrogant smirk on those expressive lips of hers, and shoes that are most definitely not of the stiletto variety.

I blame the jet lag for the momentary lapse as the situation hits me full force. Rafe’s voice is in my ear babbling, and my one-night fling stands before me, but now she’s so much more than just that.

How did I not see this coming from a mile away?

“Seriously, Rafe?” They’re the only words I can form as I stare at BJ… well Beaux, I assume. My body reacts viscerally to both the sight and memory of what she feels like, but common sense tells me I’ve been played on so many fucking ends of the field that I might as well sit on the bench and throw in the goddamn towel.

“Ah. She must be there. She’s easy on the eyes, huh?” he asks, trying to use her beauty as a way to soften the blow as I walk back toward the window, not wanting to deal with her just yet.

“No. She’s not hot,” I tell him, damn well knowing she can hear me. She’s far from fucking hot. She’s drop dead gorgeous. Elegant. Sexy. All of the goddamn above.

Pissed off, I hang up on Rafe without another word. My mind reels, I’m questioning my judgment, and I find the world outside the hotel so much easier to focus on than our personalities clashing in here.

“I’m not hot?” The amusement laced with condescension in her tone causes me to roll my shoulders in discomfort, hating being played by her. “Glad to see Rafe makes sure looks are part of the job requirements.”

“No, you’re not hot,” I repeat as I turn and walk toward the conference room door that she’s blocking. “And if that’s what he’s looking at you for, that means your pictures are for shit. So…” I shrug. “Guess you can go back to freelance because you’re not going to be partnered with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” As her glare meets mine, she crosses her arms over her chest in an innocent move that pushes her tits up, so of course I’m reminded of last night. Fool me once and all that. I’m not making this mistake again.

When I take a step toward her, she doesn’t budge an inch. “Yes, you are,” I inform her as I reach out to take her by the shoulders and physically move her to the side. It takes everything I have to force myself to ignore the damn jolt of heat that sears my nerves so that I can leave the conference room.

I’ve got to get the hell away from her. Just from one simple touch of her skin, my body feels like it’s on fire. Her laugh reaches me as I start to walk down the hallway, and on principle, I turn back around, then stride with purpose up to her and get well within her damn personal space. And even though my blood is boiling, the only thing I can focus on is that fucking perfume of hers that tickles my nose.

“Just tell me one thing, Beaux.”

“It’s BJ to you.”

I couldn’t care less what she wants me to call her because it’s not like I’ll be speaking to her again anyway. “Why play me like you did? Because you did play me, right? You slithered up to me at the bar, used your sexy voice and those come-fuck-me eyes to reel me in, and then stayed long enough after I left to ask around and see where I was. So were you waiting in the stairwell? Biding your time until I came down so that you could get in my pants and what? Ensure you’d get my blessing for the position because you researched me enough to know what happened with Stella and knew I was going to freak the fuck out? And then when Rafe called last night, you figured out who it was and bolted in case I put two and two together?” I’m shouting now, hands fisted at my side, and almost nose to nose with her. I don’t care about goddamn protocol now.

Shit, we fucked that over last night the minute my lips touched hers.

My breathing is labored and when I force myself to step back, I can read the look on her face. I swear to all things holy, she must be the best damn actress on the face of the earth. Beaux’s eyes are wide, her bottom lip is trembling, and her eyes are welling with tears.

I love and I hate the sight of her tears all at once. I love them because it means it just might have been a coincidence, and I hate them because it means there is no way in hell she’s tough enough to survive the despair here if she can’t handle my chewing her out.

She wipes her palms on her jeans, and I focus on the motion, because I’m always leery of a woman wielding tears. When she doesn’t speak but just stands her ground, I look up and meet her eyes to find anger and disbelief.

“Rest assured, I knew who you were, Tanner Thomas… but I didn’t know until this morning that you were my new partner.”

I snort at the word partner, crossing my arms over my chest as I lean against the wall. “Yeah. Uh-huh. Convenient.”

“Look, Pulitzer, I don’t need your goddamn chivalry. I can handle myself just fine,” she says with a sneer.