I grinned at him over the candle. “I will save you useless questions on any future dates by informing you that I have not been to any local restaurants that have an à la carte menu.”

“That does save time.”

“How many times have you been here?”

“A few. This is probably my third time.”

I scrunched my forehead at him. “It’s quite a romantic place.”

“Yes, it is.”

“You don’t seem like a romantic type. Seems like you would avoid anything that hints of commitment.”

“You’re wrong on that logic. I am very romantic. It’s part of my whole Don Juan persona. It’s much easier to f**k women when you wine and dine them.”

I raised my eyebrows at him while a waiter arrived and poured us chilled glasses of bottled water. “You do seem to be good at the whole wine-and-dine act.”

We ordered drinks and a selection of appetizers, and once the waiter left, I turned back to Brad. “So, is this whole act to try and get lucky later?”

He looked wounded. “I thought part of the whole ‘girlfriend’ deal was that I was guaranteed to get lucky every night.”

“Oh no.” I shook my head at him. “That isn’t part of the deal at all. Mood swings, PMS, grouchiness, you are guaranteed that. But sex is a constantly negotiated perk.”

“That sucks. No wonder I’m a bachelor.”

“Of course, I was going to wait and spring the bad stuff on you later, so I’m thinking you do have a chance at getting lucky tonight.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“No problem.” The pianist started playing a Frank Sinatra tune and a peaceful lull fell over our table. I watched Brad across the table, his features strong and quiet, his eyes watching mine, his mouth twitching. He was in a good mood, but seemed jittery, nervous, which was very odd. He was normally confidently in control, reassuringly so. He checked his watch.

“Something wrong?”

“No. Just wondering where our drinks are.”

I frowned. Impatience was also out of character, as much as nervousness. At that moment the waiter arrived with our drinks. After setting them in front of us, he bent over and whispered something in Brad’s ear. My eyes narrowed as I watched the exchange, watched Brad’s eyes lighten and his chair slide back as he stood.

“Julia, excuse me for one moment.”

“Wha—?” I didn’t get a chance to finish the question, since I was now alone in the alcove, the settling curtains the only sign that he had even been there. I watched their exit, two suits winding through the tables and disappearing down the hall we had originally entered through. Weird.

* * *

THE PALE LORENZI MANAGER stood by the host stand, with Rebecca’s large frame parked beside him, her arms crossed, expression stony. Shit. He had told her not to come. Brad didn’t stop, but nodded with his head to indicate that they should take this outside. He waited until their party of three passed through the heavy swinging doors, then nodded a greeting to them both. Rebecca didn’t allow the jeweler to speak before she launched into a whispered tirade at Brad.

“Do you know how much this ring costs? Jesus, Brad. I negotiated a chunk of it off, but we are still talking about serious cash. For some chick you started boning a few weeks ago?”

He ignored her and addressed the man. “How did it turn out? Let me see it.”

“It turned out fine. I was there, Brad—I made sure it was perfect—but we seriously need to discuss this!” Rebecca was pissed and getting even more worked up, pushing a blond tendril off her forehead and moving closer to him.

He turned to her, silencing her rant with his eyes. “Thank you for your help tonight. You can go now.” Her eyes blazed at his statement, and he knew she would make him pay for it later. She started to talk, but he held up his hand. “Now. Go. I have to go back inside. We’ll discuss this later.”

She threw up her hands and wheeled around, storming over to her car and yanking the door open. Brad focused back on the jeweler, who had a ring box and loupe out. Brad took the box, opened it and examined the ring closely. It was a platinum setting, two thin strips of small diamonds that arched together and held a brilliant three-carat princess-cut diamond. It looked like an estate piece that had been passed down for generations. It was just as he had envisioned and he clapped the pale man on the shoulder, almost knocking him over in his enthusiasm.

“It looks perfect. Thank you. Did Rebecca take care of the payment?”

“Yes, though I feel like I have been through a wood chipper.” The man sniffed disapprovingly.

Brad grinned. “Working with her can do that to you.” He shook the man’s hand and tucked the box into his suit jacket, then nodded goodbye and headed back into the restaurant.

* * *

OUR APPETIZERS ARRIVED while Brad was gone, so I snacked on lamb tenderloin, beef carpaccio and shrimp cocktail. I was on the verge of getting annoyed when he appeared again, ducking under the curtain and giving me a smile.

“Don’t smile at me,” I muttered, my mouth full of lamb.

“What?”

“You can’t just mysteriously disappear mid-romantic meal.”

He reached over and speared a piece of carpaccio with his fork. “No? That’s not part of a traditional romantic meal?”

“No, it’s not. And stop grinning at me. You’re supposed to look remorseful, apologetic.”

He shrugged, his mouth now full of shrimp. “I apparently suck at romantic dinners. It’s good that you’re finding this out early on so the bar can be set low.”

He was so damn disarming it was annoying. I watched as he polished off the rest of the appetizers, glad that I had gotten my portion while he was gone. “So? Where did you scamper off to?”

He wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin and scowled at me, taking a sip from his drink. “I don’t exactly scamper.”

“No, you don’t. My mistake. Where did you lumber off to?”

“Be patient. You’ll find out soon enough.”

“I’m not a very patient person.”

“So I’m finding out.” He was way too cheerful. Something was up. And his nervousness was gone. Whatever the waiter had taken him away for had apparently relieved his tension.

“Do you take drugs?” The question popped out before I could stop it, though, now that it was hanging out there, it seemed like something that I needed to know the answer to.

“Drugs?” He seemed confused.

“You know, coke, heroin, speed, anything deemed illegal in this country?”

“You are the hard-partying college student. I should be asking you that question. I am, how did you put it when we met?...Old.”

“Yes, you are old. Ancient, in fact—but don’t be evasive.”

“No. I don’t do drugs. I am prescribed and take Adderall, if you want to consider that a drug. You?”

I snorted, offended. “No!”

“Your roommates obviously have a strong relationship with weed.”

“My roommates are idiots. Lovable idiots, but still. I’ve smoked weed before, but it doesn’t do anything for me.” He raised his brows. “I mean, I don’t get high.”

“Three weeks ago you didn’t have orgasms either, but that turned out to be false.”

“Oh my Lord, you are never going to let me forget that, are you? Anyway, we—” I broke off when I saw the waiter hovering outside our curtain. I nodded to him and he stepped into our room and began the menu presentation.

The restaurant served veal—which I had never had, so, at Brad’s urging, I ordered that. He, predictably, ordered a steak and a variety of side dishes, and two minutes later we were alone again. The candlelight played on his strong features and he looked at me, waiting for me to continue.

I searched my thoughts, trying to remember what I had been saying. “We need to discuss tomorrow.”

“What about it?”

“I’m going to pretend that your family killing me is not a concern and skip to the next stress point—Burge.”

He shrugged. “What’s stressful about it?”

“Well, to start, I need to convince him that my position is needed, that he shouldn’t drop me as an intern. Plus, I have to fake my way into doing everything that I told him I can do.”

He held up a hand, swallowing a piece of buttered bread. “What do you mean fake?”

I avoided eye contact, reaching for my glass and taking a sip. “Well, I kind of exaggerated what I had been doing for Broward. So that Burge would consider me useful, needed.”

“Kind of exaggerated, or did exaggerate?”

I rolled my eyes at him. “Don’t give me grief. You are the office’s biggest bullshitter.”

“Apparently not. What did you tell him you could do?”

“Operating agreements, basic filings, meeting minutes.”

He shrugged. “Those are basic enough tasks.”

“That I don’t know how to do.” I hated saying the words, but felt that they added credibility to my stress.

He waved off my concern. “Don’t worry about that. He won’t fire you.”

“How do you know that? You were the one harping on me that I needed to make a good impression so he would ignore the inconvenience of taking me on.”

He shrugged, piercing a piece of leftover meat with his fork. “He mentioned you on a call the other day. He likes you. He won’t fire you.”

“Likes me likes me?” I leaned forward over the table.

“What are you, twelve?” He grinned, wiping his mouth. “No, just normal likes you. If I was you, I wouldn’t worry about that.”

Something in his tone, a playful mockery, made me focus on him and I toyed with my bottom lip before taking the bait. “What do you mean?”

“What you look like at the office...” He grimaced, and I bared my teeth at him, causing him to burst out laughing. “Sorry! But you look...”

“Super hot? Sexy? Drop-dead gorgeous?” I helpfully supplied, giving him a lifeline that he didn’t deserve.

“Dorky,” he finished. “Adorably dorky,” he added quickly at my dark face. “It’s a good thing, will help you with your whole ‘faked work experience’ thing.” He was saved by our food, brought by two tuxedoed gentlemen, and our table was quickly filled with large plates and delicious items. When departing, the waiters closed the curtains, cutting off our view of the room and wrapping us in privacy. The showcased view, savory food and sudden seclusion were distracting, and saved me from coming up with a witty response.

We topped off dinner with wine, crème brûlée and flourless chocolate cake. I was absolutely stuffed, and leaned back in the seat with a contented sigh, my eyes closed in bliss.

“Don’t go to sleep on me.” His words sank into my peaceful cocoon, a silky smooth tone that must have dropped half the panties in town at one point or another in time.

“I’m not.”

“Good.” I felt his hand on mine and opened my eyes. He stood, pulling back the curtain and waiting for me.

“We’re leaving?” I hadn’t seen him pay the check.

“Not entirely. Unless you’re tired, I was thinking we’d have champagne on the roof deck.”

I smiled up at him and rose, grabbing my purse. “You know you only have to mention champagne and I’ll be there.”

“I was counting on that.” His hand on the small of my back, I ducked slightly to pass through the curtained opening, and we moved into the main restaurant area. The pianist was now singing “The Way You Look Tonight” and it felt surreal, winding through the tables, glasses chinking, jewels sparkling, Brad’s hand on me, his masculinity invading my senses. He guided me to a discreet elevator that was open, waiting. We entered the industrial space—one not designed for patrons—wide, steel and filthy, smelling of grease and food. I stood close to him, not wanting to get dirty, and he wrapped a hand around my waist.

“Are we on the wrong elevator?” The setting was such a contrast from the splendor of the restaurant that I felt like I had just exited a movie set and was now backstage.

“Just think of it as adding to the exclusivity factor.” The doors opened, and we stepped into a room smaller than my bedroom, with only a wall of electrical boxes and switches. A large machine vaguely resembling a giant air conditioner hummed to the right of us. Brad stepped forward, through an exit door, propping the door open as he held it open for me. I stepped through, and suddenly was out into the night air.

Forty-Nine

We stood on a rooftop. Brad had referred to it as the “roof deck”—but that was a bit of an overstatement. Roofing material was underfoot, and there was no railing to stop us from falling over the edge, pipes and electrical systems surrounded us. But the view was spectacular, huge buildings all around us, a rainbow of a thousand city lights before us. We gingerly moved forward, stepping along a small walkway, through two humming generators, until we stood on empty, unobstructed roof. Ahead, a small table had been set up, complete with a white tablecloth, two place settings and a candle. Next to it sat a silver stand with champagne chilling. To the left was ten-foot-high arched glass, the ceiling of the restaurant. I walked over and looked through the yellow glass, seeing the small round tables, black-coated waiters, and the illuminated pianist, all oblivious of our view. Brad stepped forward, standing beside me, looking down on the scene, difficult to see through the dirty glass. Something caught his eye and he moved down to a crouch, fiddling with a small window on the side of the arch. I started to ask what he was doing when, suddenly, there was movement beneath his hands, and I could hear the piano, hear “What a Wonderful World” softly drifting out from below Brad, through the window he just cracked.