Dressing up two nights in a row felt strange, and I took one last, longing look at my comfortable leggings and sweaters. Normally on a Saturday night, I would put some music on and curl up with a good book and a mug of tea. I couldn’t remember the last time I had gone out. And as much as I didn’t like to admit that Jeri was right, I couldn’t even remember the name of the last guy that I’d dated. Matt or Mark or something generic like that; he hadn’t lasted.

That night when Oliver pulled up outside my apartment building in a chauffeured town car, I was glad that I had dressed up. As he got out, Oliver’s eyes roamed over the sheer black lace neckline and the long sheath, looking impressed.

“You looked beautiful last night, but I daresay you look even more gorgeous tonight,” he murmured, reaching over to kiss my hand.

He was close enough that I could smell his masculine aftershave, and I shivered a little as I felt the barely-there stubble on his chin graze the soft back of my hand. For a second, I couldn’t help imagining what it would be like to have him kissing other parts of my body—but I needed to stop those thoughts right there or I was going to do something that I regretted.

Instead, I started to make some sort of sharp retort about how this wasn’t medieval times and he didn’t have to go around kissing women’s hands and telling them that they were beautiful, but there was something in his eyes when he said the compliment that made me wonder if he was being . . . sincere? It was the first time a man had ever looked at me so appreciatively.

I shook my head and shifted uncomfortably, trying to forget about that. This was just supposed to be fun—a social experiment of sorts. It didn’t matter if Oliver thought I was beautiful, and it mattered even less if he said that I was.

“So where are we going?” I asked. I could practically kick myself the second the words were out of my mouth; out of politeness, I should have complimented him first—said something nice about his charcoal grey suit or the car or something. And I still hadn’t thanked him for the flowers.

Oliver didn’t seem fazed, though. “I know a beautiful place, up at the top of one of these skyscrapers,” he said, winking over at me. “You’ll love it. The view is to die for.”

“Okay,” I said. It definitely didn’t sound like my kind of place. I tried to remind myself that that was part of the reason why I had agreed to this: because it was my one night to find out what it was like to be wined and dined by a millionaire. Billionaire, rather—I had done my research this time.

Those fancy places at the tops of skyscrapers in New York City generally meant small portions of disgustingly fancy food. I only hoped he wasn’t going to try to take me someplace with French cuisine. I muffled a snicker at the very thought.

Oliver raised an eyebrow at me. I shook my head, feeling embarrassed.

“You know, I really didn’t think you were going to call me,” Oliver said with a slight smile.

“Let me get one thing straight—I’m not going to sleep with you tonight,” I told him matter-of-factly. Then I blushed. As usual around him, I seemed to speak without thinking.

Oliver looked amused. “I wouldn’t dare presume that of you,” he said. “Like I said, I’m looking for someone who isn’t like the people that I normally . . . end up with.”

I wanted to ask why, but fortunately that question, at least, remained inside my head. It was none of my business.

At the restaurant, I tried to relax a little. It was difficult, though, when it seemed like everyone was looking curiously over at us. Oliver grimaced. “Sorry, I probably should have picked somewhere with a private room,” he said, “but you were so composed last night at your banquet that I didn’t take you for the kind of person to start feeling shy over a little attention.”

“It’s a different kind of attention,” I pointed out.

“True,” Oliver said, inclining his head towards me. “If you’re too uncomfortable, we can go somewhere else. I’m sure I can find us something equally nice.”

“On a Saturday night in New York?” I pointed out.

“Well, maybe not quite as nice,” Oliver conceded, a small smile on his lips.

I shook my head. “It’s fine. Let’s just order.” What I didn’t want to say was it felt altogether too . . . romantic. There were candles on each table, and the place was dimly lit. I tried to tell myself that it was just so that you could better appreciate the surrounding lights of the city, but even that . . .

I swallowed hard. I knew that Oliver didn’t want to date me—this was a one-time thing that he probably hoped would lead to sex, whatever he had said about not presuming that. But, for a moment, I couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to actually date him, to go out with him like this for candlelight dinners, to get flowers from him at the office . . . to feel those strong hands go to work on my body . . .

I was almost ashamed to find myself thinking about it. I wasn’t one of those shallow girls who was wooed by candles and money. I wanted a guy who was earnest and sweet and passionate—everything that Oliver wasn’t.

As we waited for our food to arrive, I cast around for something to talk about. With all the research that I’d done, I hadn’t managed to come across any shared interests. There was nothing really to talk about between us.

“I know why you got involved in the work that you do, having survived a natural disaster yourself,” Oliver mused, “but how do you pick the projects that you’ll work on? I’ve read through some of your current projects, and they’re all fascinating, but a lot of them are the sorts of projects that people might not automatically think about. There’s definitely a touch of you in all of them.”

“I brainstorm,” I told him. I gave a self-conscious laugh. “Actually, you should see the state of my whiteboard at the moment. We brought in a lot of donations last night, and it means that we really have the opportunity to do a lot in the coming year. Of course, a lot of that money is going to be earmarked for things that might happen later in the year, but…” I trailed off shaking my head. “But you don’t care about any of this stuff, right?”

“Of course I do,” Oliver said, sounding affronted. “Your current project in Japan, helping those children find homes, even temporary ones, after the tsunami—that really speaks to me.”

“Because you lost your parents at a young age,” I surmised.

Oliver looked surprised. “I see you did your research,” he said, his eyes twinkling as he quoted back the words that I’d said to him the previous night.

I shrugged. “The thing is, and no offense, but losing your parents the way that you did, it’s different. You probably don’t even remember your dad, and for your mother to die of cancer—you knew it was coming. I don’t want to say that you were able to prepare for it, and I’m sorry if I sound callous—“

“No, you’re right,” Oliver interrupted. “It’s not exactly the same. I was able to prepare for it, I guess. I was old enough to take care of my younger sister, and of course we had money. But it just speaks to me in a way.” He looked embarrassed, as though he had said too much.

“I didn’t realize you had a sister,” I said, surprised. Maybe I hadn’t done my research as well as I’d thought I had.

“I try to keep the media spotlight away from her,” Oliver said, looking off to the side. There was something pained in his expression. Even though I was curious, I knew that this wasn’t a topic for a first date, and I respectfully let it lie.

I took a sip of my wine as it arrived. “Oh, this is really good!” I said. “You don’t meet many Americans who can appreciate good wine.”

Oliver smiled easily at me, swirling his own wine and then taking a sip. “I’ve been fortunate, with my work, to be able to travel extensively,” he reminded me. “France, Brazil, Korea—you name it, I’ve probably been there.”

“Mongolia?” I asked teasingly.

Oliver laughed. “Haven’t made it there yet,” he admitted.

“Not enough attractive girls there to warrant your attention?” I asked.

Oliver snorted. “Something like that,” he agreed. “Or possibly the fact that I’m not involved in mining or in English-language teaching.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “You know Mongolia is involved in mining, just off the top of your head?”

Oliver shrugged. “I knew an Australian guy who was working with a Mongolian company at one point,” he said. “He was trying to get me to go over there to join him on a ski expedition in the Altai Mountains.” He laughed. “We went to the Alps instead.”

I rolled my eyes. Every time he started to seem like the kind of guy that I could be interested in, I realized exactly how shallow he was. He was probably one of those guys who thought that he’d seen Korea by staying in five-star, all-inclusive resorts the whole time he’d been there.

“For me, it’s important that when I travel, I really get a feel for how the locals live,” I told him. “It informs a lot of my decisions about where our aid money would be most useful.”

“That’s important to me too,” Oliver said. “Although I don’t go to quite the extremes that I used to—I’d like to have a proper bed to sleep in, in a place where I don’t have to worry about walking back at night.”

I frowned at him, trying to picture him “roughing it” in any sense of the term. Before I could say anything, though, our food arrived.

I blinked down at the risotto that I had ordered. It was actually a surprisingly large portion, and it looked tasty. As I took a bite, my eyes widened.

“Good?” Oliver asked, a grin on his face, and I realized he was holding off taking a bite of his own food, until he saw that I was enjoying mine.

I nodded enthusiastically and babbled, “I’m always worried about fancy places like this: you never really know what you’re going to get. I mean, normally . . .” I trailed off, wisely not telling him what I normally thought about places like this: that they just catered to rich assholes who wanted to pretend that they knew a thing or two about food.

Oliver looked amused, like he knew exactly what I was thinking. “You know, there’s a great movement in this city at the moment. People who got tired of those posh, pretentious places, and started opening up places like this that serve some real food—comfort food.” His eyes twinkled. “I wouldn’t dare take a French woman to some pretentious restaurant. I’m sure I’d never hear the end of it.”

I was startled into laughing. “I appreciate that,” I said, wondering again if I had possibly misjudged him slightly. It was probably just the wine going to my head.

“So you were going to tell me how you pick the type of aid projects that you do,” Oliver reminded me.

“Right,” I said, watching for a moment as he expertly spun his fork and took a bite of his pasta. For some reason, even that was attractive. Oh Lord.

There was something almost intimate about watching him. It wasn’t just that I was thinking about other things those long, talented fingers could be doing. No, it was the little things, like the way he occasionally caressed his bottom lip with his thumb. How a crooked smile came to the corners of his lips when he was embarrassed. The absolutely sinful look of pleasure in his eyes as he took a sip of wine. His silver Rolex. His black tie. The glint of his cuff links. It was all far too intimate.

I shook my head. “It’s simple, really,” I told him. “I remember what it was like to be an orphan after the wildfire took my parents. As a kid, you generally have no idea where to even get started in terms of the paperwork and the different agencies. And if you’re in a poor place, there may not even be anywhere for you to stay in foster homes. So that’s why we build more of those. And education—everyone always says that you can pull yourself up by your bootstraps and get a good job if you have an education, but if it’s impossible for you to get an education . . .” I shrugged.

Oliver nodded seriously. “I know what you mean about the paperwork thing,” he said. “It was just as ridiculous trying to go into business at the start. I had to learn all sorts of information about local business laws and everything else.”

“Tell me about your business,” I said, cocking my head to the side. “Investment is a pretty broad umbrella . . .”

“It is,” Oliver agreed. “To be honest, what I do from day to day is pretty boring. I mean, I love what I do, but I imagine it’s probably boring for other people to hear about. It’s pretty similar to what most businessmen do in this city: I get to the office at the crack of dawn, sit through a bunch of meetings, stay back working until it’s dark and then I go home, and then the next day, I do it again.”

He paused. “Personally, it’s the projects that we’re investing in that are of most interest to me, like new medical advances or green energy technology. I guess it’s probably the same thing as with your non-profit.” That was something that I never expected to hear from him, and I stared at him in a new light, wondering if maybe we weren’t as different as I’d thought.

Oliver continued. “But I hate being cooped up in an office, honestly. The best part about my job is that I get to take off in my jet whenever I need to get away.”

I tried to hide a grimace. He began to share funny anecdotes from his travels and the business that he’d done abroad.

“But I’ve talked too much about myself,” Oliver said regretfully as the bill came. He glanced at his watch, giving me a wry smile. “I know I need to get you home, but maybe we could get coffee first?”

I was surprisingly tempted. He had talked a lot about himself, but he’d given me ample time to join the conversation, and it had just flowed, in a way that had surprised me. We didn’t have much in common, but he was not like anyone I had ever met before. He had a charisma that could sweep you up into his conversation, no matter the topic.

But I was already feeling pleasantly flushed from the wine, and I could only imagine that coffee might lead to something more . . . intimate. Even as tipsy as I was, that was a line that I didn’t plan to cross.

With that thought in mind, I reached for the bill. “Let’s split it,” I said.

Oliver looked surprised and then held the folder out of my reach. “Come on, I invited you out and I picked the place,” he said. “Besides, it’s not like I can’t afford it.”

“I can afford it too,” I said peevishly.

“That’s not what I meant,” Oliver said, looking momentarily as though he’d lost his footing. “How about this: if you want to take me out on a date sometime, you can call me up and pick the place and organize it—and then you can be the one to pay.”

I stared at him for a long moment. I had a feeling I wasn’t going to win this battle. “Fine,” I muttered, even though I had no intention of ever going out with him again. Even though this had actually been a surprisingly good first date . . .

I frowned, wondering if I might want to go out with him again. But if the first date hadn’t ended up at his place, I had no doubt that the second one would. It would be expected, after all.

The thought left a sour taste in my mouth, and by the time I got home, I was more than happy to strip off my dress and take a long, hot shower to wash away the evening.