Andie started her hunt for Damien at his office and found a closed door. She put her ear to it. Nothing. To knock or not to knock? The advantage of surprise had merit, but her upbringing rebelled at the idea of barging in. She settled on the classic “Open the door a crack and rap politely while peeking in with one eye.”

She took the handle cracked, peeked, her hand froze an inch from the door.

Damien Drake III was behind his Master of the Universe desk looking, very master of the universe. If said Master were.. say… having a good old-fashioned sulk.

Dark circles- check.

Mussed hair – check.

Rumpled shirt – check.

Brooding expression on gorgeous face – check.

Cut crystal decanter on desk, matching glass in hand, both items filled with liquor that probably cost more than a she made in a month– check check aaaaand check.

The entire scene was straight out of some angsty romance novel.

It was rather tragic and kind of end of the world-ish.

And quite sad.

Heartbreaking, really.

And Andromeda Adriana Chase decided that was just about enough of that.

She threw the door open.

The sulky Master looked up.

She marched in.

His eyebrows shot up.

She circled the desk.

He opened his mouth, “Andie?”

She picked up the decanter and sheesh, thing weighed a ton. She rested it against her chest and held out her other hand, “Give me the glass.”


“Did I stutter?”

“Uh…”  Now he looked confused. Confused and rumpled Master of the Universe – adorables. No, she would not be distracted. She gave herself a mental slap and snatched the glass from his hand.




Damien Drake the III possessed enough self-awareness to admit he had been having an all in pity party. But dammit, learning the that the girl he couldn’t live without wasn’t so sure she wanted to live with him – hurt. A lot.  Was he indulging in a bit of self-pity? Yes. Mainly due to the fact he had no idea how to deal with this pain that was a lead weight chest. It was suffocating. All encompassing, and it was something he had never before experienced in all of his thirty-one years.

It scared the shit out of him.

And then Andie Chase burst into the room and took his liquor away. And to his utter shock, the weight in his chest – eased.

This mysterious easing continued as he watched her march across the room, set the glass and decanter on the bar with a decisive thunk, and turned to face him. Foot tapping and chin in the air, his girl adopted a stance that said she meant business. This look was somewhat hampered by the ponytail that hung to one side and her borrowed clothes – his. A t-shirt that kept sliding off her shoulder and sweatpants that she had to constantly pull up to keep them from falling to the floor.  

“Look Buster.”

Buster? Oh, this was going to be good. The lightened lead in his chest began to crumble.

“This broody billionaire shtick is not going to fly.”

Broody billionaire? Damien bit his cheek – hard, as another emotion, that until recently, had been as foreign as the pain of rejection, welled up.

“I mean, it’s not like you professed your love only to have me scream, “Get out of my sight, you foul fiend.”

Oh fuck. What remained of the lead in his chest stood no chance. That new feeling flew up, obliterating it on its way out. Somehow, he was able to leash it before it left his mouth, turning that happy to the point of giddy joy into a gasping cough that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

Andie certainly suspected. Her eyes narrowed.

He did more fake coughing. Laughing could derail his girl’s broody billionaire speech and she couldn’t stop handing him his ass now. He was enjoying it too much.

And It struck him then – Andie Chase was both disease and cure. He filed that away to ponder later. For now, he did some minor throat clearing and prompted, “Foul?”

“Fiend. Yes.” Andie’s head bobbed once, sending her lop-sided pony-tail bouncing. “Need I remind you that we’ve known each other barely a month, and in that time your nut-job of an uncle kidnapped me and your crazy ex tried to kill me – three times. We have yet to go on a single date and you pop out with the “I love you” and then you get all moody and broody because I don’t immediately profess my undying love in return? You, of the broody billionaire lair? Really?”

Damien adopted what he hoped was a thoughtful expression, “It does sound ridiculous when you put it that way.”

“You bet it does.” She said, all righteous indignation.

Really, his girl was ridiculously transparent. He’d have to talk her into a game of strip poker in the very near future.  “Perhaps I did overreact.”

“You bet you did.”  

 “We should have make-up sex.”

“You bet we shou – wait what?”