Yeah, well, she knew him now. And practically hated him. Or…not hated him. But she had his number…along with way too many women in Fantom who continued to call and leave him voicemails asking him for “one more date”. Life would be easier if he could hook up with one of them…or several of them. But the dates with anyone other than Lily only left him feeling empty.

Which he did not understand. Thinking with his dick had worked fine and dandy up until he met the infuriating redhead. And now he was like some sort of lovesick puppy. And if that wasn’t pathetic enough, now his best friend knew.

“Just stick with the plan, Clive.” He was not talking about this. Not now. Not ever.

His buddy rolled a shoulder, unfazed as usual. It was impossible to intimidate the guy who’d known him since he was a gangly thirteen-year-old.

“I don’t know, man.” Clive looked through the window at Lily again. “You may not be able to scare her off, costumes or no.”

“She’s a prima donna.” Marcus admired the wave of her long hair, and the open, inviting smile on her face, even in the dimness. God. He was screwed. May as well return his man card along with his balls on a keychain. Some playboy he’d turned out to be. “The moment she breaks a nail, she’s out of there,” he grumbled, his insult not sounding the least bit genuine.

Harmless insults had become the norm between him and Lily over the two and a half years they’d worked together. He used to do it to get her to sling one back at him, because he loved the feisty spark that lit her eyes when she was busting his balls. She’d answered the call, mouthing off to him with fervor. But really, he’d never been able to truly relegate her to role of prima donna or diva.

First of all, it wasn’t true. She worked as hard, if not harder, than any of them. She cared about her work, and she was a perfectionist who often achieved her goals. Secondly, he had gone from simply thinking she was sexy to respecting the hell out of her. His admiration for her work trumped the admiration he had for her sweet backside. And that was bad. He didn’t want to change. Liked his eat-and-run style with women. Liked being the cad who kept things simple. But Lily… Nothing kept her from his mind. Not other women, not sex with other women… Nothing.

Resistance was futile.

“She’s hardier than she looks,” Clive said in her defense. “You remember the breakup with Andy.”

Marcus ground his molars at the mention of Andy Lipnicky, King of the Douchebags. He didn’t deserve someone as smart and funny and attractive as Lily McIntire. Marcus didn’t think he deserved her, either, but he’d at least like the chance to prove himself. He’d burned that bridge by asking her out too soon…and had followed it up by severely bending the rules of the new account contest and taking the win for himself. Not his brightest move.

“She’s a princess.” But she wasn’t. And even Marcus could hear the lack of conviction in his words. Wednesday night he’d had been shocked to learn that she was coming out to celebrate with them. It was the first time he’d ever been around her outside of work or an offsite meeting. It was like she purposefully avoided hanging out anywhere he was unless it was at work. He knew she had a social life, was dating a guy with a big nose and a stupid hybrid car, but he doubted she’d ever been to a rundown pub with a bartender named Curly. He’d looked forward to her reaction to the Shot Spot, where Marcus was a regular. Surely, Lily would turn tail and flee the moment she laid eyes on the fleet of mismatched chairs, and got a whiff of the smell of stale beer permeating the air.

So. He’d thought he knew what to expect when she strode in behind Joanie and Clive on Wednesday night, looking out of place in her fitted blazer, her heels sticking to the tacky linoleum. Instead, when she’d spotted him, she’d flipped her strawberry-blond hair over one shoulder and sent him a derisive look down that pert little nose of hers. About then, he’d given her a smile of bald admiration and made it his evening’s mission to get her hammered.

He’d seen Lily in control, competitive, and icy, but never sloppy and unkempt. He’d fill his tab with as many frou-frou girlie drinks like purple hooters or buttery nipples as she could drink, then kick back and enjoy the show. He’d like to see the rigidity slide out of her spine, maybe get one of those loose laughs she liked to give him every once in a while when she let her guard down. Then he’d ordered a tequila shot and she held up two fingers.

“You drink tequila?” He’d been unable to hide his shock.

“No, but we are celebrating, right?” Ah, Lily the competitor, alive and well.

She’d arched a reddish brow and his thoughts had dropped to her skirt and into the gutter. Did the carpet match the drapes? God. What he’d give to know the answer to that question.

He’d eased her into the shot using old school salt-and-lime training wheels rather than just chucking the tequila back like he normally did. She’d followed his lead when he licked the salt and sucked the lime, while he’d taken a bit too much pleasure in watching her pink tongue lap the granules from her hand. And when her perfectly glossed lips wrapped around the lime wedge, he’d had a stern talking-to with the parts of him residing south of his belt buckle.

Pain in the ass, he’d reminded himself, tossing back his second shot. But that thought brought with it reminders of the way her skirt rounded snugly over her perfect butt each time she bent over to take her turn at the pool table.

He’d sparred with her all evening, figuring arguing would keep the hound in his pants at bay. But each time he jabbed, she’d had a sassy comeback. He couldn’t help but admire her for it. Like he admired her at work. He’d always known she had talent—no one gave a confident presentation like Lily—but he hadn’t known until that night that she could be so much damn fun.

Clive’s cell phone rang to the tune of Marvin Gaye. Marcus dragged him down from the window and out of sight, scowling over at him as he answered. It was Joanie’s ringtone. Clive shrugged an apology and answered with a hushed hello. Marcus gave him another pointed glare before risking peeking into the house again.

Lily must not have heard the sound, her attention focused on the screen in her lap. And she was drinking—good God, was that wine? He should have made more rules. Limited her to only the most basic provisions like water and bread. And maybe some peanut butter. Protein was important.

His frown deepened. She’d be a lot harder to spook while pleasantly buzzed on red wine, her stomach full of gourmet food. “I’m screwed,” he grumbled.

“So am I.” Clive waggled his phone. “Gotta go.”

“Why? Wife gonna ground you if you don’t?” He sent his friend a smug smile.

Clive shot him a self-assured grin of his own. “Joanie called to tell me she’s drawing a very hot bath, lighting candles, and—”

“Fine,” Marcus growled under his breath, not wanting to hear any more. “Wuss.”

Clive clapped Marcus’s shoulder. “Let’s go, man. You wouldn’t have won anyway. And hey, maybe she’ll take pity on you and invite you to Hawaii with her. There are two tickets.”

The image of Lily in a white bikini, pale, freckled skin on display, tiny triangles covering her most sensitive parts while she splashed in clear blue water, flooded his brain. He’d just lapsed into a daydream about applying sunscreen to every inch of her smooth, fair back when he noticed Clive heading down the hill. His buddy raised his arms as if to ask, are you coming?

Marcus waved him off, annoyed that Lily now crashed his waking dreams in addition to the pornographic ones he had while asleep. He returned to his perch by the window.

Clive trekked back to Marcus, tripping over a branch and stumbling. He was more Mr. Bean than Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon. Stealthy, his friend was not.