Chapter One

I have one word for the menu in front of me— fandamntastic.

Honestly, I’m not surprised. The Annual Awards for Advances in the Media has the best dinner of the year. I should know because I attend many. Every time my boss, Donovan Kincaid, declines an invitation, I RSVP in his place because, seriously. Saffron crème br?lée? Sure beats the from-the-box cheesecake at Doug’s Diner on 34th.

Not knocking Doug. He makes most of my meals these days—or his kitchen staff does—but the convenience and affordability rank higher than the taste. He’s open late, does take-out and delivery, and is only a block from my apartment. Plus, he lets me order off-menu, which is not easy to find these days.

And again, by he , I mean the staff . Doug doesn’t know me from Eve, and still he’s the number one man in my life after Donovan.

That probably says more about me than I should admit.

Point being, I will take any chance I can to get a fancy meal for one that doesn’t require a date or using my own credit card. Particularly, when the meal has a dessert as scrumptious as saffron crème br?lée.

I’m already salivating when someone sits in the seat next to me.

This is a good time to mention that I’m not really a people person. Or rather, I’m a specific-people sort of person, meaning I can list the specific people I like on one hand:

1. Donovan.

2. His business partners, Nate and Cade (thank God Weston moved to France because ew).

3. My neighbor Ashish, who waters my plants for me when I need him to. (I return the favor with fairly satisfying casual sex).

4. And Doug of Doug’s Diner, whom I’ve never met and might not even be a real person.

I like my sister, Danelle, most of the time too, but not enough to add her to the list, and besides, family shouldn’t count.

It’s perhaps a bad quality for someone who has a people-facing job, I know, but I’m pretty good at faking it when I have to. I’ve never had any of Donovan’s clients lodge a formal complaint, and as his capital P, Personal, capital A, Assistant—do not call me secretary; I loathe the word—I interact with all of them. Whatever I lack in customer service, I more than make up for with my organization skills. I know how to hide the dead bodies, so to speak, and Donovan has more of those than many of the other rich bastards in this town.

All that to say, I do not come to these functions to socialize.

Obviously, I RSVP’d a plus one, which means that my purse is occupying the seat to my left. We’re given our table number at check-in, so I couldn’t do a speedy online stalk of whoever else is assigned to this round. So far, it’s been tolerable. The older couple across from me are too uptight to engage with anyone ambiguously ethnic. My straight dark hair and light eyes skew more toward my Brazilian Swiss side, but my darker skin, luscious lips, and bone structure give away my Afro-Japanese genes, so I’m doubting the older couple will try to engage. The couple next to them are fellow Millennials and too into posting on Instagram to have noticed me. The Latina next to them seems to be part of their party. I was prepared to ignore whoever sat in the last empty seat to my right, expecting the usual too white, too old, too out-of-touch misogynist to take the spot.

I am not prepared for the six-foot, beardy, dark blond, green-eyed masterpiece that wears a tux better than I wear a grudge—and I’m a Scorpio; I can seriously wear a grudge—that sits beside me. So not prepared that I literally choke on my water.

Thankfully, I’m smooth, and cover it up with a swerve of my head in the opposite direction, along with a subtle cough that I’m sure comes off as a reaction to the circulated air. There’s no way he notices.

“Are you okay, there?” Fuck, his voice is sandpaper. The best of all kinds of voices. “If you need the Heimlich, I’m going to have to pass.”

I almost choke again for a multitude of reasons:

1. He noticed.

2. That voice.

3. He’s going to pass ?

I gather myself as quickly as possible, which is pretty quick. It’s amazing how together I can be when I’m annoyed. “You can’t pass on someone choking. What if I’d been dying?”

He looks at me like I’m an idiot. “You weren’t dying.”

“But what if I had been? You can’t just say pass.”

He leans an elbow on the table and holds up a single finger. “One, it’s not my obligation to know how to do the Heimlich.”

Oh my God, he’s using lists. That’s my language.

His second finger goes up. “Two, it’s not my responsibility to attempt to rescue a stranger who would probably sue me for manhandling.” A third finger. “Three, nothing’s been served but water.” He drops his hand, not bothering with holding up another digit. “Four, you’re talking to me. You’re obviously fine.”

So conceited. Obviously an Aries.

Dammit, that makes him even hotter.

I narrow my eyes, unsure if I should bother with a comeback. On the one hand, I don’t want to encourage conversation. On the other hand, I do love a good sparring match. Especially if it’s followed up with a one-night only tussle in the bedroom. Preferably, his bedroom, since my sheets are due for the laundry.

In the end, I can’t help myself. No one will ever call Simone Lima a quitter.

I lower my voice so as not to invite the others into the conversation before speaking. “Maybe I popped a cough drop in my mouth.”

He leans in, lowering his voice to match mine. “But you didn’t.”

“But you didn’t know that.”

“But I did.”

“How? You just sat down.”

“Because I’ve been watching you for the past ten minutes.”

I’m momentarily speechless. Point to him.

When I find my voice, all I’m able to say is, “Oh.” Then again, “Ohhhh,” drawing out the sound this time, because I see the game now. This is definitely foreplay, and I’m here for it.

Sitting back in my chair, I cross my arms under my breasts, giving them a little needed perk. (They don’t need much.) Then I layer my best purr under my words. “Looking for anything particular during your cross-the-room stalking?”

“Honestly? I was trying to decide if the dinner was worth it, or if I should continue schmoozing in the lounge instead.”

I’m guessing the reason he chose the meal was moi, but I play coy. “The dinner is definitely worth it.”

He shrugs. “Possibly. Worth it enough to have to put up with conversation with strangers?”

God, I’ve never felt so seen.

It’s the exact same question I ask myself every time I decide to attend one of these events. Several invites get tossed immediately after having discovered from experience how not worth conversation with strangers the meals are.

But just as I’m about to express the feeling of kinship, I see that the man has picked up his phone and appears to be scrolling mindlessly.

In other words, the “strangers” he wants to avoid are me.

“You have some nerve.” What I really want to say is fuck you, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing just how riled up I am. “You talked to me first.”

“Only because you were trying to get my attention with that fake choking thing, and I wanted you to know that it wasn’t going to work.”

For fuck’s sake. “One”—I hold up a finger as he did just a few minutes ago to me—“I wasn’t faking. Two, check your ego, why don’t you. Three, if it had been a scheme, it did work, because you haven’t paid attention to much of anything but me since you sat down.”

“That wasn’t faking?” Of all the things I said for him to zero down on. “Are you just awkward or…?”

What I am is about ready to throw my knife at him, but I know I’ll need it for the steak tartare. “I was shocked, you narcissist.”

“Shocked by…?”

I’m so worked up, I almost blurt out the truth and tell him I was shocked by how attractive he is. Fortunately, I catch myself in time. “Never mind. It’s not important.”

“No, I’m interested. Please, tell.”

His eyes have flecks of blue in the green, I realize. They’re mesmerizing, which only makes me more annoyed. “It’s none of your business,” I say, curtly.

Thankfully, the waiters are coming round now, and a glorious caprese salad is placed in front of me. I’m talking chef’s kiss appearance here. I can already taste how good it is.

I cut into the tomato and mozzarella, preparing for my first bite, when Mr. Irritating decides to continue his train-of-thought.

“I had just sat down. Did it have to do with me?” He pauses from slicing into his salad and lifts a tomato-clung fork toward me. “Were you shocked that I was so dashing?”

Just like that, my first sublime bite is ruined.

There must be a god, though, because I flush, but don’t choke.

I set down my fork. “I’m shocked that you’d use the word dashing . Are you British all of a sudden or did you just age forty years?”

“Denial and misdirection. Obviously, it was me.”

“Oh, please. I was shocked that anyone could be so arrogant. I could feel it rolling off you before you even opened your mouth.” I feel good about that save. “Frankly, men who look as good as you are always assholes. I shouldn’t have been surprised.”

“Aha! You do think I’m good-looking.”

Goddammit.

It’s out in the open now. Further denial will only help dig my grave. “You know you’re good-looking.” Somewhere along the way, my voice has risen to a level that attracts the third wheel of the trio. I decide to make use of her attention. “Is he or is he not irrefutably good-looking?”

She looks to both sides before determining that I am indeed talking to her. “Instagrammable, for sure.”

“See?”

But the annoying prick takes advantage of my witness and cross-examines. “Shockingly good-looking?”

“That’s an accurate description,” she says, and fuck her because now her friends are involved and they both agree.

Mr. Irritating smirks like he knows it’s my kryptonite and is intentionally trying to wound me. “I rest my case.”

This is why I only like five people.

“Whatever, your ‘case’. Like I’m on trial. I swallowed my water wrong, okay? That’s all it was. Make nothing more of it.” I stab my fork into my tomato so hard that the table shakes and of course the rose bouquet centerpiece topples because that’s exactly the way this meal is going.

The ass at my side reaches for it at the same time I do. He manages to save it before water spills everywhere. I manage to snag my finger on a thorn, and now I’m bleeding.

“I hate everything,” I mumble, before sticking my finger in my mouth.

“Careful not to choke.”

No “are you okay?” or “let me help you with that.” I’m not as surprised as I am disappointed because I’m still ridiculously attracted to this jackass. He evokes dirty thoughts, whether I want him to or not, and after I take my finger out and wrap my napkin around it, those thoughts shade my next words. “For your information, I only choke on water.”

His eyes darken with undeniable desire. Point to me.

But although there are a million and one innuendos that would perfectly land, he takes things in a completely different direction. “Who are you here with?”

I glance at the empty chair at my side.

“Not who came with you. Obviously, you’re alone.” He doesn’t even give me a chance to be offended. “I mean, what organization? What company?”

There’s a sinking in my chest, and I’m suddenly sure he’s on to me. That he knows somehow that I don’t belong here. “What company are you with?”

“I asked first.”

“I don’t care who asked—”

He cuts me off, seemingly not interested in dragging this out. “Sebastian News Corp. Now you.”

Sebastian? He’s probably just an employee, and not one of the actual Sebastians, but there has been a Holt Sebastian harassing Donovan at work the last couple of weeks. If he’s the same guy…

I don’t have time to dwell on that because he’s waiting for my answer. It makes the most sense to admit I’m with Reach marketing, especially because Donovan’s wife is here as a presenter somewhere. We’re too far from the stage to be worried that she’ll see me, but it would be just my luck that this guy would talk to her and mention me.

And Sabrina’s such a goody-two shoes that there’s no way she won’t make a big deal about it.

Besides, if this is the same guy harassing Donovan, or connected to him, then there’s a good chance my presence here will get reported back to my boss directly.

So instead, I blurt the first name that comes to mind. “I’m a personal assistant with Pierce Industries.”

“Hudson?”

“Mm hm.” I stuff another bite of salad in my mouth.

“Trish isn’t working with him anymore?”

Of course he fucking knows Hudson Pierce’s secretary.

I set my fork down and take a swallow—a careful swallow—of my water before answering. “I thought you were asking if Hudson was the Pierce of Pierce Industries. Which he is. I’m not his personal assistant.”

“Then whose personal assistant are you?”

I should make up a name, but for some reason I’m not thinking as clearly as usual. It’s like half of my blood has traveled south—damn him for being as hot as he is annoying—so I’m not at my best when I say, “Chandler’s.”

I’m an idiot.

It’s the second worst answer I could have given after Hudson, because he’s Hudson’s little brother and almost as well-known. In fact, Chandler is really involved with the media aspect of Pierce Industries, and there’s a fairly good chance he’s here tonight.

So when Mr. Shockingly Irritating opens his mouth to say something that will likely pin me further in my grave, I grab my purse and stand. “Actually, I think I’m at the wrong table.”

As fast as I can, I head out of the ballroom, just as the first presenter takes the stage. The round of applause that bursts as I open the door couldn’t have been better scripted. I escaped. I deserve the acclaim.

But then I hear my name called out from across the lobby. “Simone.”

Karma must have finally caught up with me because when I lock eyes on the person who spoke, it’s none other than my boss, Donovan Kincaid.