Cuss words generally aren’t my thing…but, holy fuck, she’s hot.

Maybe this is a bad idea. Clearly, I’m far more suited to have an Ugly Betty type of a Personal Assistant.

Not Goddess Daniella.

“What?” she says as if she can read my thoughts.

But, thank God, she can’t.

“What…what?” I respond—a dismal attempt at being coy. I look away for a minute and push the start button of my car, trying to appear un-captivated. Then my gaze gravitates right back toward her.

She fastens her seat belt and delicately parts her lips. “You had a strange expression on your face.”

“I was merely waiting for you to fasten your seat belt,” I lie. “You know…safety first.”

Seductive cat-shaped eyes glare at me. “Right.”

She smells of flowers, lavender, and butterscotch candy. The same bewitching scent I impulsively inhaled when she was standing next to me this morning on the Metro.

I’m starting to believe I just might be in some serious trouble here.

While cruising along Sunset Blvd, the atmosphere between the two of us is stoic. I’m sure, like me, Daniella’s paralyzed by her own thoughts of how this interview will turn out.

“Is this your car?” she asks, abruptly breaking the silence.

“Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Well, we did collide on the Metro this morning.”

“Yeah…” I run my fingers through my hair. “That was based on a bet.”

She shifts in her seat, now facing me with her arms folded. “A bet?” She lifts a brow.

I let out a subtle chuckle. “Yep. Something called wager-fest. My buddy and I do it every year. This year he bet me I would never ride the Metro. So I did. This morning. And of course, I won the wager.”

Daniella nods. “I see. So our bumping into each other, in that manner, was completely fortuitous.”

“May not have happened any other way.”

“Maybe so. But it would have been far more worthwhile if you weren’t eating that donut.”

“Or if you weren’t texting and walking. They issue tickets for that sort of thing now.” I laugh.

She giggles and it’s the first time I’ve seen her flash a smile.

And it’s utterly breathtaking.

As soon as I pull to a stop in front of Fornaio, a red-vested valet rushes to open the passenger door. He helps Daniella out, and she stands alongside the curb, twirling a strand of her long ebony locks around her finger as she waits for me to join her.

She looks nervous now, which selfishly puts me a little more at ease.

“I’ve never been here,” she reports in a stern voice, now fidgeting with a large envelope.

“What’s in there?”

“Oh.” She looks at the envelope she holds firmly against her chest. “My résumé.”

“Oh, yes.” I nod. “Of course.”

Duh, man. This is a job interview, I remind myself.

Once inside, Domenico, the waiter, seats the two of us at a table toward the far end of the restaurant. I called ahead, requesting a table away from the crowd so Daniella and I can have a decent conversation without distractions.

“This is one of my favorite restaurants.”

She glances up from the menu. “Excellent. Then you shouldn’t have a problem recommending something.”

She’s perfectly sassy.

I cock my head. “Depends on what you’re in the mood for.”

She smirks, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Something superbly fattening. It’s been a most tedious day.”

“Pizza?” I raise a skeptical eyebrow.

“With everything.”

A woman after my own heart.

Domenico drops off two glasses of water and pats me on the back. “Antonio, amico mio, it’s so wonderful to see you here today,” he says, his Italian accent fading after all his years in America. His parents own the restaurant.

“It’s good to be here, Domenico…how’s the family?”

He steals a quick glance at Daniella, who seems impressed I’m known by name. “Uh, they are just fine. Can I bring you the Italian soda you love so much…and one for your uh—friend too?” He looks at Daniella again, and smiles.

“Sure, that sounds fine. And we’ll take a pie with everything.” I wink at Daniella.

“Of course. I’ll return shortly with your sodas and pizza pie, amico mio,” he says before making his way to the kitchen.

“Nice to get the VIP treatment. Do you get that everywhere?” she asks, with little effort in masking her sarcastic tone.

“Everywhere but the Metro,” I fire back, fighting the urge to flirt. “So, Daniella. Tell me about yourself.”

Her eyes quickly narrow—a sure sign I’m about to get scolded again.

“I’m sure you know plenty about me, Mr. Michaels. I would expect nothing less from a man who just showed up at my doorstep. So why don’t you tell me what you know, and I’ll fill in whatever you haven’t uncovered?”

I allow a pause to dance between the two of us as I think of a worthy reply.

“How about you indulge me,” I mutter, my fingertips gently tapping the rim of my water glass. “Pretend I know nothing about you.” I feel a smirk take over my mouth and give myself a mental high-five for delivering such a smooth rebound.

“Fine,” she says, raising her chin as she surrenders to defeat. “Just promise me one thing?”

Uh-oh. This oughta be interesting.

“What’s that?”

“Promise me you’ll give me a chance. Even if you discover I’m not as qualified as other candidates, I possess something that they may not.”

I slip her my most curious glance. “And…what’s that?”

Besides the ability to make me gawk at you as if you’re the only woman in my world.

Settle down, I tell myself.

She takes in a deep breath. “I have an organic passion for all things lingerie. So, in me, not only will you gain an efficiently loyal Personal Assistant, you’ll also gain someone who appreciates the significance of lingerie and its influential effect on someone’s life.”

My mouth falls open as I sit across from her, digesting what I deem to be the most culminating why you should hire me pitch—ever. I’d be a fool if I didn’t give her a chance—little does she realize the job is already hers.

But, for the sake of me carrying on with this…interview, I mustn’t give in so casually.

“And in your opinion”—I clear my throat—“just how does lingerie influence someone’s life?”

She tugs at her diamond-studded earlobe and squares her shoulders. “Lingerie is more than simple fabric we classify as an undergarment. Lingerie is a woman’s alter ego.”

Damn, that’s actually good. So much that I may consider using that as the new tagline. CraveMe Lingerie—A Woman’s Alter Ego.

Domenico delivers a round pan of pizza and props it up between Daniella and me on the table. “Buon appetito,” he says, placing our Italian sodas down before disappearing to the kitchen.

“Ladies first. Dig in,” I command.

She hesitates at first, then leans in, lifts a hefty slice, and takes a bite. “Mmmm,” she says with a gratifying eye roll.

“Best pizza in the 90210,” I say, grabbing a slice of my own.

We eat in silence at first, as I study the way she savors each bite of pizza, peeling off pepperoni slices, entrancingly cramming them into her mouth, one by one.

Then I dive straight back into interview mode—before my mind surges off into more slinky contemplation.

“So, suppose I do decide to hire you. How will that affect your life as a nanny?”

Her eyes flicker with perplexity. “You have done your research. That’s good. And regarding Emma—she’s almost seventeen. She doesn’t need a nanny. I’m more like her older sister at this point. Stacy, my boss—Emma’s mom—is rooting for me to get this job. She gave me a letter of recommendation.” Daniella reaches for the envelope that’s now nestled underneath a pile of napkins. “Would you like to see it?”

I shake my head. “There are a few things I need to point out about the position, and if afterward you feel you’re up for what being my PA entails, then I’ll move on to reviewing your résumé and cover letter.”

She lifts her brows, looking semi-amused. “Fair enough. Do tell all about what being your PA entails.”

Domenico interrupts, by removing the now empty pizza pan and offering dessert.

We both readily decline as we sit across from one another, both giving the other a considerable once-over.

Daniella folds her arms, clearly waiting for me to enlighten her.

I lean back a little more comfortably in my chair. “You’ll be expected to be on call, available via phone—mostly text—in the event I need to get a hold of you outside of regular office hours. You’ll need to attend all meetings with me, taking copious notes, then summarizing them in a follow-up email. You’ll arrange all travel, meetings with clients, and converse with vendors and accountants, on my behalf when I’m not available.” I pause, to allow her a few seconds to digest what’s been said. “And of course, there’s the ever-so-exclusive Fashion Show and Lingerie Ball. In Milan. You’ll be expected to attend,” I finally add.

“Milan? As in, Italy?” Her eyes gleam.

I nod. “Yep. In two weeks. It’s an annual event. CraveMe is usually well-represented.” I lower my head, drifting into panic mode as the realization settles in. Two weeks. And I’m not the least bit prepared. Dottie always took care of planning what CraveMe does each year at the events. But with her gone and my birthday coming up, I’ve been unable to focus on putting anything together.

“And by usually…you mean—”

“Dottie—my last PA—usually took care of it all. And she’s not here so I’ve…fallen a little behind.”

She slurps up the last bit of her soda then slightly tilts her head. “For the last five years, I’ve planned and organized every detail of my boss’s life, been on-call twenty-four hours, seven days a week, and have planned all of Emma’s parties—from holiday to her Sweet Sixteen—albeit I’ll admit none of those are as grandiose as I imagine the Fashion Show and Lingerie Ball to be, but still. The point is, Antonio”—she sits taller in her seat—“I’m your girl. And even though I can almost guarantee I’ll screw up now and then, through trial and error, I will eventually become your new and improved Dottie.”

I stroke my stubble-laced chin and lean in closer to her side of the table. “You’re hired, Miss Daniella Belle. And for the record, you had me with your tenacious snark. You are indeed, my girl.”