I crumpled up yet another note from Oliver and scowled at the courier as he stood there waiting for me to sign off that I had received whatever it was. It was a routine by now, and after a moment, the courier sighed and left the office, no doubt asking Jeri to sign off on my behalf as he left. As I had every other day that week, and the week before, as soon as the courier was gone, I looked guiltily at the closed door and then fished the envelope out of the trash.

Every day, for two weeks, he’d sent messengers to my office. It was as though he was trying different tacks to try to get me to call him.

There had been “poetry:”

Roses are red, violets are blue, this poem’s old, but maybe it’ll work on you.

And real poetry:

“In some withdrawn, unpublic mead / Let me sigh upon a reed / Or in the woods, with leafy din / Whisper the still evening in / Some still work give me to do / Only—be it near to you!”

(I was amused by that one and wondered if he realized Thoreau had addressed it toward nature rather than a woman. But the more I thought about it, the more I concluded that he’d probably known exactly what he was doing, and he’d expected me to call and correct him. It was devious, certainly. But it didn’t work.)

There had also been random notes about his day:

Long meeting with our marketing reps today. So glad I never went down that career path; I like being the guy doing things, rather than the guy trying to sell to the guy doing things!

And today, one simple message:

Can’t stop thinking about you.

I sighed. I’d been thinking about things since that day at the beach, weighing my options. It was better if I just forgot about him entirely. We wanted two very different things. Otherwise he wouldn’t have gone running off to whatever business he had—either at work, or with some other woman.

I had a feeling it was some other woman. Otherwise, why would Oliver have needed to wander off to answer the call? He could have talked about work right there next to me—it still would have been rude, but it wouldn’t have been quite as bad if I’d known that he was rushing off to deal with some crisis. I would have been able to relate to that.

But running off to see some other woman . . . I shook my head and dropped today’s note in the trash. I needed to quit thinking about him.

My phone buzzed with a message, and I frowned when I saw it was Oliver. I was tempted to delete it without even reading it, but then, it wasn’t like he would know that I had looked at it.

I shot a guilty look towards the door and then quickly opened the message, eyes scanning it.

I know you don’t want to talk with me, but you seem like the kind of woman who has good taste in antiques, and I need some help.

I frowned, staring down at the message. I had so many questions about it. What did he need help with, first and foremost, and why my help? Why did I seem like the kind of woman who would have good taste in antiques? I cast back over everything that we’d talked about, but I couldn’t seem to figure it out. I glanced at my watch and sighed, shutting down my computer for the night. I was going to have to come in to the office the next day and get some paperwork done—my mind had clearly been in other places this week. I should be able to get caught up before Monday.

I pushed back away from my desk and left, nodding at a couple people who were still working but not stopping to talk with any of them like I normally would.

Out in the parking lot, I pulled out my phone, hesitating for only a moment before dialing Oliver’s number. “You need to stop distracting me,” I blurted out as soon as he picked up.

“I’m distracting you?” he asked, sounding pleased. Before I could say anything else, he said, “Seriously, Sophia, I know it’s asking a lot to ask you to come look at antiques with me. I’d normally go with my sister, only I’m shopping for my sister, so that doesn’t really work.”

I frowned. “What makes you think I even know anything about antiques?” I asked.

“You’re French,” Oliver said, as though that were a known fact, that the French knew their antiques.

I burst out laughing, unable to help it. “As a matter of fact, I spent a couple summers during college volunteering at a local auction house,” I admitted. “But it has nothing to do with being French.”

“I know,” Oliver said. He coughed. “Remember, I did my research?”

I blushed, just thinking of that. Oliver had really sat down and delved into my past, finding out whatever he could about me. And why? It couldn’t be just because that mysterious someone had urged him to make a donation to Le Monde Ensemble, could it? Maybe he really was interested in me.

I shook my head. “Oliver, I don’t think it’s such a good idea,” I said, preparing to hang up the phone.

“Wait!” he said, sounding surprisingly desperate. “Sophia, please. You at least know what women like. I have no idea.” He paused and then laughed ruefully. “Well, not no idea, but you know what I mean. I can get a woman off, but that doesn’t mean I know the way into her heart.”

“You’re so dramatic,” I sighed. “This wouldn’t be a date, right?”

Oliver paused for a moment. “If you didn’t want it to be, then no, of course not,” he finally said. He sounded resigned, something that I couldn’t reconcile with the Oliver Lewin I knew.

I wasn’t about to let him think that this was our third date. Even if it wasn’t the adrenaline-filled third date that Jeri had promised me was his usual, I didn’t want him to have even the slightest idea that I’d give in to him. I had made up my mind and knew what I wanted.

“As a friend, I will help you go antiques shopping,” I told him, emphasizing the first part.

“Great,” Oliver said, sounding relieved. “So tomorrow, I’ll pick you up—“

“I can’t do tomorrow,” I said, shaking my head. “I have work that I need to finish.”

“You work too hard,” Oliver said, his voice teasingly fond. “All right, does Sunday work?”

“Okay,” I said, even though, really, I had slacked off enough that week that I should be in both days that weekend. But I deserved at least one day off, didn’t I? Maybe I could make it into just a half day of antiques shopping and come in for a few hours of work anyway.

But why do you want to spend that one day off with Oliver Lewin?

I frowned, knowing that my inner voice had a very good point. I was supposed to be avoiding the man. We just weren’t right for one another.

“Sunday at nine?” Oliver suggested. “We can get brunch first and then—“

“No,” I interrupted firmly. “Just friends, remember?” I didn’t know why I was agreeing to this, even as friends. He really did sound worried, though, and for some reason I felt like I had to give him a chance to apologize.

“Friends can’t get brunch together?” Oliver asked, and I could tell he was close to laughing.

“Oliver,” I said warningly.

“All right. All right, no pancakes then. It’s a shame, because I know this really great place in your neighborhood that I can hardly ever justify driving over to . . .” He paused, like he was waiting for me to change my mind. I was tempted to, but I forced myself to remain silent. “Nine on Sunday,” Oliver said.

“See you then,” I agreed, hanging up before I could change my mind about the brunch thing.

* * *

On Sunday morning, Oliver showed up in front of my building in a shiny black Range Rover. I slipped into the passenger’s seat, raising an eyebrow at him. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for the Range Rover kind of guy,” I told him.

Oliver grimaced. “Yeah,” he admitted. “It’s a bit of bad luck on my part. My SLR and Lamborghini are both in the shop at the same time. Something about the gear box or something . . .”

He paused when he saw my expression. I was looking at him in horror, a reaction to his blatant show of excess.

A mischievous grin slowly appeared on his face.

“I’m kidding! You make it so easy for me,” he laughed as I hit him playfully on the arm. “What sort of guy do you think I am?”

“You’re a rich asshole who drives a Range Rover,” I teased.

“In my defense, this is a rental,” he said. “I wasn’t kidding about my SLR . . .”

I rolled my eyes, settling back in the leather seat. “So, where are we going?”

“I was hoping you could help me with that,” Oliver said, looking sheepish. “I just thought you might know the best places already. Or at least the same places that Google was recommending to me.”

I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling at him. “All right,” I said, already reaching over to program the GPS. “We’ll start at The Barn and go from there.”

“It’s not . . . actually a barn, is it?” Oliver asked, looking worriedly down at his standard slacks and button-down. “I’m not exactly dressed for a farm.”

I laughed and shook my head. “Don’t worry, we’ll see horses closer to us as we drive past them.”

Stepping inside The Barn always relaxed me. The place was enormous—it really had once been a barn, although that was many years ago now. Now, the space was divided up, and different antiques dealers brought their best wares there to sell. There was still the faintest smell of leather, mixed with the musty smell of books and other antiques.

I smiled as my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, and then I realized that Oliver was smiling over at me. “You really love this stuff, don’t you?”

In answer, I led him over to one of my favorite dealers, stroking my fingers lightly along some of the old books, gesturing at some faded photographs in ornate frames. “I just think this is all so beautiful,” I told him. “Relics from the past. Proof that humanity really . . . exists.” I shook my head. “I know that sounds silly; of course we exist. But if anything is proof of our ancestors—and the fact that they were just like us in so many ways—I guess it’s here, in the things that they’ve left behind.”

Oliver watched me, fascinated, as I moved along cabinets full of ornaments and jewelry. I could see in his face that he didn’t really understand—there was a certain bemusement there. But he didn’t comment, just followed wordlessly along for a while.

“So my sister . . .” he finally said.

“Right!” I said, suddenly remembering that we weren’t just there so that I could browse. I gave him a guilty look, and he laughed.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, shaking his head. “Seriously, it’s cute watching you like this.”

I blushed, but I knew I couldn’t let that stand. “Oliver, I’m here as your friend,” I reminded him. So strange, still, to think that Oliver Lewin and I might be . . . friends. It just didn’t sound right.

Not that I thought we should be something more! I just didn’t expect a man like him to give me the time of day at all. It was still flattering, in some sense. And the more he said things like how cute I was, the more I enjoyed this sort of game that we were playing, both of us moving close to the other and then dancing away again. I had never had a relationship that hadn’t been all or nothing. This was something new, and it was . . . challenging. Intriguing.

Sexy, my mind insisted. Just like foreplay. But I forced those thoughts away.

Oliver held up his hands. “Friends can call friends cute,” he maintained. “Lots of people call their dogs cute, and it doesn’t mean they want to . . . you know.”

I snorted but nodded my head to concede the point. “I’m afraid I’m not much help with your sister,” I sighed. “I don’t know her. You must know what she likes better than I would.”

“I want to get her something to brighten up her room,” Oliver said. “Just something colorful. Maybe a little whimsical. I just don’t even know where to start.”

“Okay,” I said slowly. “Are we talking a picture or a painting? Or are we talking statuary? Or something else?”

“I don’t know,” Oliver said helplessly.

“What about this?” I asked, picking up a Mardi Gras mask and putting it over my face, tilting my head to the side in question.

Oliver mimicked me with the matching mask, holding it up to his own face. Then, he burst out laughing. “No, I don’t think so,” he said. “I wouldn’t want her to wake up in the middle of the night to one of these staring down at her.”

“Fair point,” I said, replacing the mask.

We wandered down the aisle for a little while until we came to a carousel horse. “Well?” I asked. “Whimsical and colorful. Maybe a little too big?” I still had no idea what to suggest—basically, I was just trying to see what Oliver’s reactions were to different things.

Oliver cocked his head to the side and frowned. “I like the idea, but it’s a little too big probably,” he finally sighed. “Her place is . . . kind of cramped.”

“Okay,” I said, nodding my head.

A little while later, we came across a large tapestry decorated with elephants playing with colorful balls. “What about this?” I asked. “It’s kind of childish, maybe, but—“

“It’s perfect,” Oliver said, shaking his head like he could hardly believe what he was seeing. He gave a little laugh. “Trust me, you don’t even know how perfect it is.” He looked around, clearly wondering where the shopkeepers were. “How do we . . . get it down?”

I pointed at the little number in the upper corner. “We bring that number to the cashier and they’ll handle the packing for us,” I told him, pulling out my phone so that I could take a photo of the tag. “Need anything else while we’re here?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Oliver said. “Thanks, though. This is so perfect.”

“So you said,” I said, raising an eyebrow at him and wondering if he was going to elaborate on the story.

Oliver laughed. “I guess I should tell you the full story, but it’s pretty long . . .” He trailed off, looking at his watch, and then swore. “I didn’t realize it was getting so late already,” he said. “I actually really need to be somewhere.”

I glanced at my own watch, which was nowhere near as expensive as his—I might not have as much money as him, but I recognized one of those limited edition watches made with the blackest material on earth. Even a quick glance made it look like the hands of his watch were just floating there in nothingness.

To be honest, that was kind of how I felt right now: as though the ground had been swept out from under me. It wasn’t a feeling I liked to admit to, but it had just seemed like everything was going so well between us, and now . . . Well, I felt a flicker of frustration, just like I had when he cut short our time at the beach. I knew he was busy, but he was the one who had dragged me along antiquing with him. Then again, I could see from his expression that he was torn, as though he would have rather stayed there with me.

“I wouldn’t leave in a hurry like this, but it’s important,” Oliver said as he paid and scrawled out directions to have the package delivered, rather than wait for it to be ready.

I frowned, feeling suddenly suspicious. “Got some hot girl waiting for you somewhere?” I asked sarcastically. Of course, I had been the one to insist that we come shopping just as friends, but he didn’t have to rub my nose in it.

Oliver gave me a surprised look. “Why would you say that?” he asked.

I scowled. “Because you’re giving me zero details on what is so important that you have to leave right now? And this isn’t exactly the first time that you’ve disappeared in the middle of a date.” The word slipped out too easily: date. I clapped a hand over my mouth, wishing I could retract the statement. This hadn’t been a date, this had been just friends.

But it had certainly felt like a date, somehow.

Oliver sighed and cupped my cheek in his palm, rubbing his thumb lightly over my cheekbone. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know this is the second time that I’ve run out on you, and I’d give you more details if I could. But I’m not allowed to talk about it. It’s top secret.”

I frowned at him. “You’re, what, afraid I’ll sell all your business secrets to some other company?” I asked.

“In a way,” Oliver said, looking guilty. “I mean, I don’t really think that of you Sophia—I hope you know that. But I have to be careful. Some women aren’t as trustworthy as you.”

I sighed. “All right, all right,” I said, turning towards the doorway and leading the way to his rental car. “I believe you. Just business stuff.” I glanced over at him, wanting to ask if there were other women, but it wasn’t really my place to ask.

Halfway back to my apartment, Oliver reached over and squeezed my hand lightly, offering no reason for it. I couldn’t help but smile, feeling a flicker of warmth bubble inside of me.

As I got out of the car at my front stoop, I suddenly leaned back into the car. “I’m having a little party on Friday night,” I told Oliver. “It’s for work, to thank some of the people who have made large contributions to our various projects.”

“And I guess my invitation got lost in the mail?” Oliver asked, raising an eyebrow at me. But he looked amused.

I still flushed. “I wasn’t sure whether I should invite you,” I admitted. “I mean, you gave such a huge donation, and of course I’m so grateful. But I work really hard to keep my professional life separate from my personal life, and . . .”

“And you were afraid that I’d make a scene in front of everyone?” Oliver asked. This time, his tone was sharper.

“No,” I hurriedly said. How to explain that I was more worried that I would be the one who couldn’t keep my hands off of him? I could only imagine what it would be like to have him there, in my home, sitting on my furniture and eating my food. He might linger at the end, until he was the last one left, and then . . .

Well, there was a limit to what I would let myself imagine during daytime. But suffice it to say, I’d had a pretty naughty dream about the things we might be up to in my living room. That had been the real reason I hadn’t invited him.

“Do you want me to come or not?” Oliver asked, drumming his fingers against the edge of the steering wheel. He smiled crookedly over at me, his dimples on full show. “One of the things I like about you, Sophia, is that you’re infuriatingly good at playing hard to get. But I can’t read your mind, and I don’t want to overstep.”

“I want you there,” I breathed. “Please.”

“Friday night, you said?” Oliver asked.

“At seven.”

“I’ll be there,” Oliver confirmed.

“Good,” I said, slamming his car door shut and moving up to my apartment.