Chapter 1

The fluorescent lights in the open-plan office hummed with that particular late-afternoon monotony that made every minute feel stretched and sticky. Mark leaned back in his chair at the corner desk, the one half-hidden by the tall filing cabinet and the wilting pothos plant someone had abandoned months ago. His monitor displayed a half-finished spreadsheet that had stopped meaning anything twenty minutes earlier. He drummed his fingers on the mouse, then on the edge of the desk, then against his thigh.

Boredom sat in his chest like a warm, restless animal.

He let his gaze drift across the floor. Most people were heads-down, headphones in, or clustered in the far conference rooms. Then movement caught him: Jessica rising from her desk three rows over. She smoothed the front of her blouse, pale blue, slightly wrinkled from sitting, and started toward the hallway that led to the restrooms.

Mark watched the easy sway of her walk. He had noticed her before, the way anyone notices the quiet ones who keep to themselves. Dark hair usually pulled back, soft features, the kind of understated prettiness that didn’t demand attention but rewarded it if you lingered. She disappeared around the corner.

Something in him tightened. A strange, sharp curiosity rose without warning, stronger than the usual idle interest. He stood almost without deciding to, the same restless impulse that had been needling him all afternoon. His own bladder had been nagging him for a while; the timing felt convenient. He pushed his chair in and followed the same path.

The hallway was empty. He turned the corner toward the restrooms...

...and the world inverted.

There was no transition, no sensation of leaving. One moment he was Mark, walking, and the next he was seated, skirt bunched around his thighs, the cool porcelain of a toilet seat under unfamiliar skin. His breath caught in a smaller chest. The air smelled different, floral soap, faint perfume, the sterile cleanliness of the women’s room.

Panic flared first. He looked down.

Soft thighs. Pale blue fabric gathered above the knees. The open V of a blouse, the upper curves of breasts rising and falling with each quick breath. Hands that were not his, slender fingers, neat nails painted a soft neutral, rested on those thighs.

“What the fuck,” he whispered, and the voice that came out was higher, smoother, unmistakably hers.

Jessica’s.

He tried to …