It’s after one a.m. by the time I press my thumb to the scanner and walk into my penthouse. I call to the voice activated system and turn on the wall sconces, but keep the lights low. I peel off my jacket and tie, and then slip out of my Italian shoes. Behind the bar, I pour myself two fingers of Irish whiskey and pad across the plush carpet on bare feet to the balcony.

I taste the liquor and look over the city, but it doesn’t interest me tonight, because every time I blink, I see her face.

I leave the balcony door open and wander back inside as I unbutton my shirt.

“Play Etta James,” I order the sound system. My apartment isn’t made for comfort, unless you call it comfort to surround myself with beautiful things. The wall of books and blown glass sculpture is painstakingly curated. An interior designer picked out the furniture, with its geometric lines and mid-century modern look. My tech is so good it’s nearly invisible, but if I wanted to watch a movie with the theater experience, I could get close in my own home.

Growing up, I wanted nothing more than a spotlessly clean house. That seemed like the apex of luxury to me. I didn’t start out with a padded trust fund, but I outstripped my business school colleagues who did through sheer smarts. What good are smarts if they won’t get me the woman of my dreams? But half a man’s not good enough for her. Since before I bluffed my way through poker, I had a hard time opening up to people, admitting vulnerability. In telling Emma about my fellowship program, I’ve given her something private. I hope she recognizes the gesture for what it is.

I finish undressing and turn on the shower. My cock is at half-mast, where it’s been since I saw Emma in those skintight black pants and ankle boots. Water washes over me, and I slide a hand down the shaft, bracing the other hand against the shower wall. But after a few strokes I stop. Until I can bury myself in Emma, I’ll wait. I turn the water to cold and stay under it until I’m shivering.

When I cross to my bedroom, I become aware of a persistent chime over the sound of the music. Doorbell.

I half think the building must be burning, so rarely does my doorbell ring unexpectedly. I pull on boxers and a white T-shirt and jog to the door. “Yeah, I’m coming,” I boom, and the knocking stops.

I yank open the door.

I register her eyes first, Emma’s huge, soulful eyes ringed in black. Her jaw is set, and she’s clutching an oversized leather purse.

“Emma?” Her eyes flick up to my wet hair and over the T-shirt and boxers, both clinging slightly to my damp skin.

I know what I hope, but I doubt whether to believe it.

“How did you—how are you here?”

“Pulled some strings to find the address and apartment number,” she replies. “Otherwise, by plane pretty much covers it.” She must have turned the cab around before she even got back to the hotel and taken a shitty midnight flight to get here so soon after I did.

“Okay, so why?” The only thing that matters in the world right now.

She rummages in the bag and holds up the proposal summary. “Do you mean this?”

I scramble for the right mental footing. Business, not personal. Don’t think about her ass. Definitely don’t touch it.

“Of course I do.” My steady voice shows none of my struggle. “You wouldn’t have it in writing otherwise.”

“You want to increase your original offer by fifty percent and keep me on as CEO? That’s not your MO. People don’t do that. You especially don’t do that. Is this a mistake or a sexual bribe? Are you paying me off?”

“Whoa, back off the accusations. This offer is independent of whatever might happen between us. I’m not going to tell you I don’t want you. But I also listened. You are what makes SocialTech work. Your passion, your instincts, and your genius. I don’t want to just pay for the results of your work. I want your leadership. You were right to insist on having input, but I’ll go further. You should keep the reins.”

Her arms fall to her sides, and her mouth closes. She shifts her eyes from side to side as if processing the information.

A breeze from the open balcony door reminds me that I’m standing here talking to her in my underwear. I resolutely ignore it, hoping she’ll be polite and not mention it. Not for the world would I interrupt this conversation.

“Half.” She finally says.

“Uh, could you be more specific?”

“If you do believe in this business, buy in instead of out. Come in as a 50% silent partner. We’ll still ensure vertical integration with your other interests, and reduce my role to half time. Christine and Nick are more than capable of stepping up to fill my shoes otherwise.”

“So I’ll ask the obvious question again—why?”

“I’ve got other projects and businesses bursting to get a shot at life. I can’t leave SocialTech high and dry. It’s my first company, my first baby. But the fire in my gut keeps telling me there’s more out there. I’ve gotta keep moving. Keep pushing myself.”

Yeah. I get that.

“You drive a hard bargain, Ms. Vance,” I say. My grin has gone full dimple.

“Then we have a deal?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.” I pull the pages from her hand and walk to my desk, where I mark out and write in to make the changes she asked for. We initial them and sign. We’ll do the full version later with lawyers and the full entourage, but I want her to know right now that this is done. Whatever happens in the personal realm, this is binding.

She sticks out her hand. We shake on the deal, but then I can’t quite make myself let go. Her hand turns in mine until I’m cradling it in front of us, like I’m about to bring it to my lips.

Heat spreads up my arm from our clasped hands.

“I feel like we should mark the occasion with more than a handshake,” she says. “Fireworks, maybe, or at least a toast.” Her voice shakes, just enough to give it a breathy quality.

“I’ve got just the thing.”