“Hungry?” he asks.

“Yes. But we could have met somewhere less—”

He’s so close.

My thoughts scatter.

“Go on,” he says.

“Well, it’s just that I don’t want you to misinterpret what we have for anything other than business. It seemed imperative I see you, and I thought it best to personally tell you that I was out of line. I’m not interested in dating you, but I really appreciate what you’ve done for me…”

He raises his brow, watching me. His mouth. His face. He’s a complete sex god and once, long ago, he was interested in me. I close my eyes as I remember once, when he tried to kiss me. “Got it,” he says. “But you are here. And from now until the night is over, you’re with me. And I plan to enjoy you.”

“Okay, but don’t think you can change my mind about you.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t even try. I’m as bad as they say.”

His features are completely unreadable as he looks at me, giving me a slow, decadent smile.

Damn him. He looks so gorgeous. I don’t want to feel this compelled to act crazy, but he makes me lose all rationale.

I laugh and glance down at the menu, trying not to notice how my left side feels warmer than my right because he’s sitting next to me.

I won’t go there! I can’t help being attracted but I’m not some animal ruled by lust. I can control it. But I’m afraid how the urge to touch him—even if just playfully—keeps coming, how the stares won’t stop happening, how this craving inside me won’t cease.

“I could tell at the meeting you were upset with me. I didn’t like it,” he says.

“Not upset. It was just difficult to see you after last night.” I exhale, meeting his gaze. “I didn’t expect you to help me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It took me aback after weeks of not knowing. I got overwhelmed. I don’t want you to think I spent the night because you gave me the money, it just…reminded me of you. Years ago. Made feelings come up.”

“Seeing you on edge made feelings come up for me too.”

“Which feelings?”

“The ones I’m pretty sure I was clear about with my tongue.”

“And the rest?”

“It’s complicated.”

He shuts the menu, leaning forward.

“You’re not making things easy for me. I always know what I want. Unfuckingwavering. But then you come along.”

“And.”

“And you change everything.” He drags a hand down his face.

“Nothing changes, Christos. We’re still going to do business—and you can go on with your life as planned.”

“Can I? Really? Let me show you some food while you’re starving, but go ahead, keep starving.”

“Come on,” I laugh.

“Fourteen years starving to kiss you.”

My smile fades.

“Do you feel better now?” I whisper.

“I do. Hungrier. But a little better.” He eyes me. “There’s always been something about you.”

“Please. This is complicated enough as it is. I’m trying to focus on House of Sass. I need it to work, and I don’t want to fail you.”

“You won’t,” he says. “And you’re right. I want you focused.” His eyes trail over my features for three seconds too long, then he shakes his head and opens up his phone calendar to show me some notes.

“We need to look at locations for the physical store. Keep an eye out. I’m having my people send you a list of land and buildings I own. Maybe one of those will work.”

“Thank you, Christos.” I smile shyly. “I found a model in case we require some sort of advertising.”

I proceed to tell him about Sara as well as my hopes to maybe have a store more similar to a “showroom” than an actual department store. “People shop online more and more these days, so we can have a showroom warehouse, which can serve as an office space and storage space, to also sell the merchandise. We can also have the servers down in the basement much like you have in Christos and Co.”

He seems to like my suggestions, and although I’m glad to be talking about business, I can’t help but reach out and occasionally touch his shoulder as I talk, craving the contact.

The rest of the week I scout locations along with some of Christos’s employees, who drive me around town to show me possible sites for the House of Sass offices and headline store. I’m given an invitation from Christos and Co. to the opening of one of his newest real estate developments, a 70-story skyscraper apartment building near Columbus Circle. “Thank you, I’ll try to make it,” I tell her.

“Oh, you’d better. He personalized yours.” She winks, and I turn the invitation to once again see his handwriting with the message:

I expect my little bit to come. C

Whoa, my ovaries just exploded a little, and I’m not even sure he phrased it like that on purpose.

Naturally, I cannot stop looking at the invitation during the week, and Sara and I spend a whole two hours one evening speculating on whether—or not—the word “come” had a double meaning.

“I’m telling you he has a girlfriend,” I say.

Sara says, “Well, they’ve been mysteriously off the social pages for a while, and she appeared alone at an event last weekend.”

She pulls out an image of Miranda and her father at an event, no Christos.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” I say. “I’m still taking Jensen. I really don’t feel like seeing his blonde at his side, rubbing his chest, calling him darling,” I admit, feeling nauseous.