He laughs. “We can do both.” He lifts my chin. “I’ve got a mind to spend insane amounts of time with you, in bed and out of it. If you’re up for the challenge. And never fear; Carma time will be absolute business.”

“Can I think about it?”

He glances at his watch. “Fifteen seconds.”

“Oh, come on! Give me a week.”

“You leave in what? Four weeks? That’ll take a week off my time.” He strokes his hand over my leg again. His pupils are dilated as he watches me smoke, as if he enjoys watching me do something naughty.

“It’s not your time. Not yet. Wow, I’ve given you every second of the day this week . . .”

“I want every second of your nights too. I mean to have them.”

“Give me one week, Callan,” I say. “I’m still high from . . . well, the last time.”

He frowns, but leans back on the lounge and spreads out his arm, taking the cigarette I extend, putting it between his lips and drawing a long, deep inhale. He calmly says, his eyes glimmering, “You know you want this as much as I do.”

“Maybe.” I drop my head to hide the smile on my lips. “Give me until Monday. That’s in ten days, not this Monday.”

“You know your weekdays, good for you, Olivia.”

I laugh and nod.

He laughs and pulls me to his chest, and I reach for the box of Marlboros and pull out a second cigarette. Callan takes it and lights it with the last of the first cigarette, then he hands it over and lets me take the first hit.

“I don’t sleep with my bosses,” I say.

“You mean Lincoln. Thank god.”

“Callan.” I laugh. “Nope. Just you, it seems.”

I offer him the cigarette but he doesn’t seem to notice; instead, he stares at my features as he lifts his hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear so that it won’t get in the way of my eyes meeting his. He leaves his thumb on my temple in the smallest caress over my skin and the shell of my ear.

It feels intimate, the way we stare at one another, intimate by saying nothing, just letting him rub his thumb over my ear.

My hands are shaking when I finally extend the cigarette, and he takes it—still watching me.

I watch him.

He inhales as if he has all the time in the world, exhales the smoke out slowly through a slit between his lips, then offers me one last hit, and when I shake my head, he puts it out, neither of us looking away.

God, he looks so handsome right now in black slacks and a wine-colored shirt.

He looks at me with a smile, waiting. Waiting for my answer.

“Let’s start with a date. That’s all I’m asking to start with.”

“You make it sound so simple,” I whisper.

“It’s simple,” he says.

Urgh. Is it?

Why could he not be the mailman like I thought he was? It could be simpler. It could be easier to enjoy a date or two and maybe even hope for a little more if he were the nice, harmless guy I’d thought he was—not my boss, so that everyone can think of me as some office slut; not my brother’s friend, so my brother can see me with new disappointed eyes; not some player whose mere attractiveness turns me into one of those girls. One of those legions of silly little groupies.

I cannot be one of those, damn it, that’d be so pathetic.

I am pathetic! I just caught myself grinning like a fool.

I groan and I hear myself saying, “Okay.” I want it to be simple.

He smiles. A brilliant smile. “Pick you up tomorrow then,” he says, a quiet statement.

I breathe, nodding. “Tomorrow. But Callan, I don’t want anyone to see us—it could get messy and the last thing I need is messy when I’ve been trying so hard to make a name for myself.”

“I understand,” is all he says.

I smile and he leans over and places his hand on my waist, pressing his lips to mine, kissing me.

My body—which had been sort of aching for this—kicks into full speed and every part of me starts to buzz as our tongues meet, mesh, play, in the softest, longest, most delicious kiss of my life.

That night, I text Nana on impulse because I need to tell someone. My parents will tell me it’s not proper. My brother will not be happy I chose him. And my friends wouldn’t understand. Nobody would understand except maybe two people in my life, and I can’t talk to Callan about it, either.

Nana calls me as soon as she reads my text. I exhale when I hear her Betty White voice, and say a little prayer heavenward that she’s free to talk tonight.

So I tell my grandma that I’ve been sort of seeing/not seeing a guy at work and feel confused.

“Do I get a name for this young man?” she prods.

“He’s Callan Carmichael, Nana—”

“Oh my!” Nana says. “My grandson’s friend—and your boss?”

“Nana, don’t judge.”

“I’m not judging.”

“Nana, please don’t tell Tahoe.”

“What biz does this have to do with Tahoe?”

“He’s just protective. Callan and he are friends.”

“Then he can’t be that bad.”

“Yes, but he’s a notorious womanizer and . . .” I begin listing all the reasons why I shouldn’t like him to my nana. “He’s really not as adorable as he seems, he’s been running me to the ground. He takes over companies that don’t want him to take over and squashes them, selling the parts or simply robbing them from the owners to absorb into his other companies and become even richer.”