Nina

So first class is . . . something else.

I’ve only ever flown coach, crammed in between snorers and other people’s screaming children, so to have my own bed, as much free booze as I like, gourmet food, and getting waited on hand and foot?

Well, it is pretty damn awesome, thank you very much, and it more than makes up for the annoyance of having to fly across the country because Brock forgot a freaking piece of paper.

I have no idea why he needs the original, but who am I to question my boss? I’m the underling, and I just do as I’m told.

I’m not complaining, not when I get to travel in style to a city where I won’t have to worry about my pesky, stalker ex following me around.

I arrive in the early morning at the swanky hotel where Brock is staying, still in the warm afterglow of free champagne, and head straight to his room.

I knock on the door, and it almost immediately opens. Obviously, he’s been waiting for me.

He looks extremely relieved as he takes the document. He examines it closely like an archaeologist might inspect a priceless Egyptian artifact.

“Thanks so much for doing this,” he says, smiling broadly. Evidently, the document has passed muster. “You really saved my ass.”

“Anything for you, boss,” I say, faux serious. “Oh, and for the extra money. That too.”

Brock’s lips curl up into a bigger, even more charming smile, making my heart start to race the way it used to back when we were younger.

Damn it. Why does it feel so good to see him again?

I cast my glance behind him, wondering if he’s got someone in there, some NYC girlfriend he’s been hiding from everyone.

Then I realize I’m being stupid. He’s been so wrapped up in work he hasn’t even had the presence of mind to pay attention to his surroundings, to the point where he actually forgot to bring an important document to a major meeting.

But why do I care anyway if he has a girl in his hotel room? I’m not actually his fiancée.

I should say something. “So, uh, now that my work here is done . . . do I actually need to be here? You’re not just going to shove me back on the next flight home, are you?”

“No! Uh, of course not!” he says, a little too quickly.

“Really?” I ask, arms crossed. “You were really going to do that?”

“Hey, I said no. I wouldn’t do that.” The guilt that flashes across his face tells me that was probably exactly what he was going to do. Probably expects me to report straight in at work too.

“You’re a terrible liar,” I say. “And a terrible person. Anyway, screw that. I’ve never been to New York before, and I want to do some sightseeing. You can book me a room here and then give me the day off. I’ll consider it the extra favor that I told you about.”

“Well, sure, I guess,” he says. “You did save my ass, so that’s the least I can do.”

He opens the door wider to let me in—no other girl here, for sure, unless she’s hiding in the wardrobe. Brock sits down on the couch and motions for me to join him. Then he picks up the room phone and books me into the room next door.

“Next door?” I ask playfully after the call. “But we’re engaged to be married. Remember, sweetheart? Don’t be such a prude.”

“I’m a decent, traditional man,” he says. “That would be utterly scandalous. My goodness, what would my mother say?”

I place my hand on his chest. “She seemed to like me. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

For a moment, we look into each other’s eyes, silent, and what started as a joke is threatening to get out of control. His chest is warm under my fingers, and I fight the urge to run my hand down to feel the hard ridges of his muscles. I can almost feel his heartbeat if I only press harder . . .

No. I can’t.

Breaking eye contact, I lean back away from him. Brock lets out a cough then silence expands to fill the room. The swanky hotel room where we’re alone, where a plush bed sits just two feet away, staring at us.

Well, this is kind of intense.

Brock shuffles on the spot uncomfortably, looking like he wants to say something but isn’t sure what.

I clear my throat and get up, picking up my bags. “I’m, uh, going to take a shower, have a nap, and head out to see the sights,” I tell him. “Good luck with the meeting or deal or whatever it is you’re doing today.”

“Thanks,” he says, his gaze tracking me every step of the way as I leave the room.

There’s something in his eyes, some expression that I can’t quite put my finger on. Longing, almost. Need. Desire. Whatever it is, it’s dangerous, and I can’t walk down this path with my boss. My life is already complicated enough without any extra shenanigans to deal with.

“Oh, Nina,” he calls out as I’m pulling the door open. “Can you try to be back here around 7-ish? We’re going out for dinner after this deal is done to celebrate. You want to come along?”

“Sounds good,” I say over my shoulder. “I’ll be here.”

I didn’t pack anything to wear to a fancy dinner. But hey, I’m in New York, and I’ve got the whole day to shop.

I spend the day sightseeing, shopping, eating pizza, and generally having a whale of a time.

Denver is a big city, but nothing compares to New York. Manhattan with its dizzying array of skyscrapers is overwhelming. The crowds, sights and smells are all just as I imagined them to be.

I duck into a little boutique at one point and pick out a sexy, little, blue, chiffon dress. It’s expensive as hell, but it’s so pretty. Besides, I’m getting double overtime, right? I’m worth it.

By the time the evening comes, my legs are tired, but I’m happy. I got the chance to play tourist, I got some nice new clothes, and I’m going out for a swanky dinner with a handsome guy. Sure, he’s my boss, which makes him off limits, but I guess you can’t win ‘em all.

Brock knocks on my door around eight, looking devastatingly gorgeous in his tux, a big grin on his face.

“I take it the deal went well?” I ask.

“We got it signed,” he says. “And it’s all thanks to you. Well, not really, but it wouldn’t have happened without that document.”

“Good enough for me,” I say, smiling. His mood is contagious.

He pauses for a moment, his eyes roaming over me, making me shiver a little under his attention. He meets my gaze. “Sorry. You look . . . amazing.”

“Thank you.” Heat creeps up my cheeks.

“You seriously look amazing,” Brock repeats, appreciation in his eyes. “Wow. I’m so glad I took up roller derby, or I never would have met you.”

We laugh together. This feels like the start of a fun night with Not Work Brock.

He offers me his arm, and I take it, curling my fingers around his muscular biceps. We swap stories about our day as we walk together downstairs and hail a cab to the restaurant.

It’s called La Maison, and it’s a swanky French place with actual French waiters. I guess that’s how you know it’s legit.

“Monsieur, madame, please come this way,” our server says with a thick accent. “And, if I may say, madame looks very beautiful this evening. Monsieur is a lucky man.”

“Oh my,” I say, fluttering my hand in front of my face. “Such flattery. You’re making me blush.”

Brock elbows me subtly in the ribs as we follow the French waiter.

“This is a fancy place,” Brock says, laughing, after we’re seated. “No bad jokes or silly puns. You’ll get us kicked out.”

“You’re no fun,” I say, pouting.

We chat for a little while, nibbling on bread, when Luke Alder arrives.

I’ll admit I’m a little star struck when he just comes over all casual, sitting next to Brock.

Luke’s famous. Like, real-deal famous. He’s got the money, the looks, and the column inches in TMZ. And here I am, little old me, having dinner with him in one of the fanciest restaurants in New York.

“Hi, lovebirds,” he says, winking at Brock. “You sure you want me here, cramping your style? I don’t want to be a third wheel or anything.”

“Shut up, Luke,” Brock says. “Anyway, let’s celebrate.”

Brock orders a couple of bottles of eye-wateringly expensive wine while I sneak a look at the menu and wince.

“It’ll go on expenses,” Luke says, laughing. “Don’t worry. Or Brock will pay. Either works for me.”

“I’d be happy with a couple of bottles of Coors Light or something,” I say. “I’m a cheap date. But hey, if you gentlemen want to order the Chateaux-Nerf-du-Pap or whatever it’s called, I’ll drink that too. No problem.”

“A classy lady. I like that.” Brock touches my arm with a grin, and I feel a thrill run through my body at the contact.

He seems much more relaxed, now that the deal is done. I see now that the whole week he’s definitely been tense and stressed about it, which might explain some of his more annoying habits in the office.

I guess I’ll forgive him. I have no idea what it’s like to negotiate million-dollar deals, so I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.

The wine comes, and the waiter dutifully pours a little in each of our glasses, and I gulp mine down immediately. It’s only when I put the empty glass down that I notice the incredulous expression on Brock and Luke’s faces.

“What?” I ask.

“You’re supposed to smell it first and taste a little,” Brock explains. “Not guzzle it down like Diet Coke.”

“Tastes good to me,” I say.

Luke shrugs and does the same to his glass of fancy wine. In a bad British accent, he says, “Me too. It’s just spiffing. Lovely drop.”

The waiter looks on, horrified, but pours another glass for Luke and me before scurrying off to attend to more reasonable tables.

“Poor guy is probably over in the corner hyperventilating,” Brock says, laughing. This wine is 300 bucks a bottle, and you know how seriously the French take their wine.”

“It all drinks the same,” Luke says.

The food comes shortly after, and the wine flows. Luke and Brock banter good-naturedly like the old friends they are, and I think back to when Brock used to hang out with Dean at our place when we were younger.

This reminds me of him then, carefree and happy, and it makes me smile to remember those times, how he used to be then. I feel like that same teenaged girl with a crush as I watch him smile and laugh, tiny butterfly wings fluttering in my belly.

Unfortunately, the night has to come to an end at some point, and we stagger out of the restaurant, all having had maybe one or two more glasses of fancy wine than was strictly necessary.

I feel warm and fuzzy and happy on Brock’s arm. It’s been a really good night.

Luke hails a cab first and jumps in, pulling the door shut without giving us a chance to go with him.

“You two should catch your own one,” he says as he lowers his window, winking. “You know, get some time alone together.”

Before Brock can say anything, the cab speeds away.

That was . . . just a joke, right? A friend ribbing a friend?

Still, I can’t help but feel all too aware that Brock and I are alone now, about to head to a hotel together.