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“Don’t be so judgmental,” I told her with my most charming smile. It was a smile that let me get away with a lot. Usually. “I’m sowing my wild oats.”

“Well, you’re an over-achiever. But did it never occur to you that you’d have to reap what you sow?”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“Not from me, but life tends to find a way.”

“You know, I’d bet they don’t know my name, either.”

“Is that what you tell yourself, to make it better?”

I squinted at her. It was a bit early on for her to be giving me this kind of shit, but I was twisted, so I found it somewhat entertaining, enough so to gamely shout at the redhead to come back.

She seemed the more easygoing of the two.

She came back smiling. “Can I get you something? I’m making eggs for you. And coffee. Devereux, would you like some?”

“No, but thank you, Jennifer,” Devereux replied politely.

“How sweet of you,” I told Red, “but before you get back to it, we had a question for you. Actually, she did. Ask away, Glasses.”

“Do you know his name?” Devereux asked her.

Red grinned wickedly. “His real name or the one we gave him? We’d heard he likes nicknames.”

Devereux shot me a look that tickled me. She didn’t have to roll her eyes for me to see that she wanted to.

“His real one,” Devereux answered.

“I’d like to hear the one you gave me,” I answered at the same time.

Red was sweet enough to answer me first. “Tall boy.”

I caught the reference the second she said it, but Devereux seemed confused to the point that Red felt the need to explain it to her. “You know, like a tall can of beer,” as she spoke she gestured comprehensively, and obscenely, with her hands.

Devereux blushed. Blushed.

I felt myself getting hard.

That was my first inkling that we might have a problem.

I went and sat behind my desk.

“What about my real name?” I asked Red, an attempt at changing the subject, and my current, unproductive, filthy thought process.

“Turner Thorn,” Red spouted out promptly and cheerfully.

Well, dammit. I hadn’t even proven my point.

“Thanks, Red. I like my eggs fried.”

“How many do you want?”

“Three, please and thank you. Now back to these emails, Glasses.”

“No,” my new assistant said firmly, hands on her hips, trying to look intimidating, all five foot three inches of her. “You’re not doing that. It’s dehumanizing. I have a name.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fine, whatever, Dev.”