I mostly wallowed in the strange familiarity of my apartment, barring an aimless foray to the Plaza Hotel, where Libby, in her well-intended yet futile attempts, tried to unlock my memory through reiki.
But unfortunately, all amounted to naught-not a sniff of recollection of ever having been there.
Nestled amid Manhattan’s concrete zoo, the Quinn & Wolfe Hotel Group HQ is a staggering, seventy-floor strut of glass, ambition, and ego. A steel point juts out aggressively from the top, like a shiny middle finger to the skyline.
Walking into HQ’s reception feels weirdly comforting. Everything’s the same-the suits are in their suits, the creatives are in their jeans and I… well, I’m feeling pretty sexy in my silk blouse.
I smooth down the fabric, feeling like Wonder Woman in her power suit. Still in jeans but the blouse gives it a whole new vibe from my usual checkered shirts.
27-year-old Lucy is a teensy bit more sophisticated. I’m the I’ve-got-an-important-meeting Lucy, not the I-can-devour-an-entire-flock-of-chicken-wings-before-HR-finishes-the-safety-presentation Lucy.
According to my emails and phone marathons with Matty, I’ve got another shot at a promotion in a few months. Amnesia isn’t going to work in my favor, but maybe this style upgrade will get me some brownie points.
The reception area is a flurry of activity as usual. People rush into elevators, eyes glued to their phones as they walk, cursing as they bump into each other.
Everything’s the same, but something feels distinctly off.
Me. There’s a huge arrow over my head screaming LOOK AT THE WEIRDO!
“Lucy!” Abigail from reception chirps. “You’re looking well. Glad you’re feeling better!”
I flash her a smile. “Thanks, Abigail.”
I’m not sure if I’d agree with her assessment of my current state, given I feel like I’ve been transported into the fucking future.
I wave goodbye, my mind already sprinting toward my desk. Fitting in with no memory of the last year won’t be easy but moping at home wasn’t helping. Time to throw myself into work, memory or no memory.
Spotting a few familiar faces, I give a cursory nod and sprint toward the elevators. Quinn & Wolfe is huge, and my social circle here, comparatively tiny. Andy has a point. I’ve been living in my little bubble, too shy to venture out.
“Hi, beautiful!” A burly security guard saunters over. It takes me a minute to realize he means me.
“Er, hi,” I stammer, pasting on a rigid smile as anxiety begins to churn within. Now’s my chance to fess up and tell this guy I have no clue who he is.
I subtly read his name tag. “Logan! Hi! Sorry, I can’t stop. I’ll see you around.”
He winks at me and gives me a thumbs-up. “You’ll kill it, Lucy, you always do.”
I scoot into the elevator, relieved to find it empty. My nerves are fraying, and I haven’t even reached my floor yet.
Just as the elevator is about to close, someone jams their foot in to stop it.
When I look up, JP fucking Wolfe strides in.
You have got to be kidding me. Out of all the possible elevator buddies today, he is the last person I want to see-the dark, brooding, and unreasonably intimidating co-owner. I’d rather be locked in with an actual wolf.
This box suddenly feels claustrophobic. Will there be enough oxygen to reach the fortieth floor?
Would it be weird if I sprinted out?
“Morning, Mr. Wolfe,” I croak. Flashes of that cartoon fiasco are playing in my head-like it was just yesterday.
Cross me again, and you’ll be fired on the spot.
“Lucy,” he greets, his voice sending shivers down my spine.
So he remembers my name.
He gazes at me so intensely I’m sure he can see all my cringey little secrets. My cheeks go from zero to flaming in about a nanosecond.
Without a word, he hits the close button.
The door slides open again.
“It’s full. Take the next one,” he growls at the poor guy who freezes with his foot hanging over the threshold.
“S-s-sorry sir,” the guy sputters, retreating so fast he accidentally stomps on the woman behind him.
My eyes are like saucers. “Should I, um, grab the next one too?” I manage, already edging toward the escape route.
His glower hardens, nostrils flaring, eyes smoldering and suddenly, I’m rooted to the spot. My heart’s going crazy. Oh God, does he still hate me?
“No.” His voice is deep and gravelly and sends my nerves into overdrive.
He hits the close button again, locking us both in our metal box.
We ascend in silence, side by side.
I channel my inner Wonder Woman, staring straight ahead, clinging to my laptop like a lifeline, hyper-aware of his every move-the rise and fall of his chest, the clenching and unclenching of his fists, the impatient sweep of his hand through his hair.
He’s a good head taller than me; my nose is level with his shoulder. He’s wearing the same crisp white shirt as the day he threatened to fire me. His sleeves are rolled up, showing off tanned, muscular forearms.
His cologne’s intoxicating, all earthy and sexy. It’s the kind of scent that fits his whole manly vibe perfectly.
I mentally slap myself, warding off the unwanted thoughts. This, right here, is exactly why I don’t do well at rubbing shoulders with the top dogs. Or wolves, in this case. Taylor would use the airtime with him to metaphorically kiss his ass. Others might try their luck flirting with one of America’s most eligible bachelors.
Me? I’m fighting the urge to repeatedly faceplant into the doors until they release me.
Even with my eyes glued ahead, I can feel his gaze raking over me, burning into my skin.
Get over yourself. Of course it’s not.
“How are you feeling?” His deep voice cuts through the silence, and I nearly jump out of my skin.
Slowly, I pivot to look up at him. Now my mouth is level with his pecs. His jaw clenches as our eyes lock. There’s light stubble shading his jaw.
For a fleeting second, I wonder what it would feel like between my legs and the hairs on my arms stand on end. Those hands everywhere, that growl of a voice murmuring in my ear, telling me what a bad girl I am…
Gah. Get a hold of yourself.
“You know about my accident?” I ask, wondering who ratted me out. HR?
He looks angry. “Of course I do.”
“I’m starting to feel better, thank you.” They really need to crank up the A/C in these elevators. A girl could pass out from the heat.
“Any memories from the past year making their return yet?”
“Uh, still a work in progress, I’m afraid.” I rub the back of my neck. This is not good if news of my accident made its way up the corporate ladder.
A crease appears between his eyebrows. “Have you recovered any data? Texts? Photos?”
My eyes widen. “All my work stuff is backed up, sir. Nothing’s been lost.”
His frown deepens. It could be a headache, or maybe he’s just living up to his reputation. The wolf isn’t known for being Mr. Congeniality.