Nobody warned Sloane that the front desk job would slowly murder her feet.
Six hours in. Heels on. Smile locked. Spine straight. Stella — the bright-eyed receptionist who'd been stationed beside her all morning — had rattled through the unofficial orientation with the cheerful efficiency of someone who had long ago made peace with standing eight hours a day.
Answer before the third ring. Mr. Pierce's calls go straight up, no screening. If someone doesn't have an appointment and looks like trouble, they probably are.
Sloane had nodded through all of it, cataloguing every detail, because this job was temporary and that was fine and everything was absolutely fine and she was not going to think about the fact that somewhere above her, forty-two floors up, the father of her children was prob
