*You tell Persephone, “Hey, on another topic, you know how I asked you to guest post on my blog about Dragon Epoch? I’m going to need that first column by Friday. Can you do that?”

*Persephone tells you, “Yeah. Sure thing. Hey, I’m going to send you my quest notes on stuff I got done this morning. I think I might be close to finding another clue about the Golden Mountains quest chain.”

I snorted, suppressing a laugh, speaking aloud instead of typing, so she couldn’t see my snarky response. “Yeah, good luck with that one, Kat.” According to Adam, the task was nearly impossible.

After she logged off, I played, but I couldn’t concentrate and my character kept getting killed. I logged off and checked my blog, responding to comments. There were complaints about the fact that I hadn’t done my weekly DE update for two weeks now.

A little while later, my phone chimed with a new text message. It was Adam.

Good morning. How are you feeling?

Not bad. You?

Did you find the key and address?

I keyed back, Yes. What is it for?

Meet me at that address at noon? We can grab a quick lunch afterward.

I still have to go get my car.

Look out your window.

So I did. And there, parked at the curb in its usual spot was my little beat-up 1993 light green Honda Civic. He’d walked back to Jon’s house the night before and driven my car back here?

OMG, I can’t believe you did that.

Would rather you didn’t have to deal with that d-bag again.

Thank you.

Meet me at noon, k?

Ok.

The address, when I checked it out, was actually within walking distance of my little studio—and right smack dab in the middle of the historic Old Towne district, which served as an attraction for just about the entire county. Movies had been filmed there and the entire place was like a time capsule—a glimpse into the early twentieth century, complete with Watson’s, a 1950s-style drugstore and café, which hadn’t changed in over sixty years.

The town centered around the Plaza, one of the last traffic circles in California, with a circular park at the center replete with fountains and centuries-old trees.

Above all the curio shops and trendy eateries, the old red brick buildings housed vintage apartments. And I was standing in a narrow alley at the base of the stairs that would lead me up to one of them.

I was confused. Obviously the key was to the apartment, but what on earth did he mean by giving it to me and telling me to meet him there? Maybe it was his other residence? But I could hardly imagine him having another one, especially one only twelve miles from his home in Newport, where he hardly spent any time.

I climbed the steps and unlocked the door. Since I was a tiny bit late, of course he was already inside, standing by the window with his cell phone to his ear. By the sound of the conversation, it was his administrative assistant. He turned and smiled.

As always, that smile snatched my breath away. He had on suit trousers, a crisp white dress shirt and a thin dark blue tie. Clearly he’d pulled himself away from meetings or something important at work to be here. I exhaled sharply and returned his smile. I wanted nothing more than to launch myself into his arms and press that exquisite mouth to mine. It was like I was addicted to the taste and smell of him.

But I restrained myself—barely.

Adam rattled off a few more orders and clicked the phone off. “How do you feel this morning?” he asked.

“Good. Okay. No hangover, thank God.”

“I’m glad.”

“Thank you. I really didn’t mean to call you last night.”

His expression grew serious. “I’m glad you did anyway.”

“Thanks, too, for getting the car.” He only smiled in reply.

I stepped into the room, glancing around. The outer shell of the building might have been vintage, from the 1920s, but the inside was all modern—stainless steel kitchen appliances with dark granite counters and recessed lighting. Gorgeous crown molding. Beyond the main kitchen and sitting room, a doorway opened into what looked like a sizeable bedroom. It was, however, completely vacant.

His phone chimed. He checked it but tucked it back into his pocket. I quirked a brow at him. “Shouldn’t you be ensconced in your office behind your desk, muttering the twelve steps for workaholics anonymous, right now?”

He grinned. “Even workaholics take a lunch break once every blue moon.”

I moved up beside him and shared his view out the window. “Nice place,” I said. “Yours?”

“Yeah.” Because of course it was. “Recent acquisition. Investment property.”