Work drags on forever. By the time I collapse on the subway, my ankle is throbbing.

Two people squeeze onto the bench next to me, a woman and a man in their 30s.

He wraps his arms around her waist.

She climbs into his lap.

The two of them mash their mouths together like they're competing in some sort of face-eating contest.

I scoot to the edge of the bench, but it doesn't help me escape their groans.

It's almost sweet how badly they want each other. It must be nice to need someone so badly you're willing to dry hump on the L train.

Is Blake into that kind of thing?

No. He's far too polite to screw in public.

But then, it's always the quiet ones…

I let my head fill with ideas about the stoic CEO. Images form in my mind. A short comic strip.

A sketch of him standing there in that suit. Blake stepping onto the subway, his eyes streaked with confidence. Blake ordering some pretty woman to strip out of her coat and plant on the bench.

It's been forever since a comic has floated into my mind. Since any image has floated into my mind.

Once upon a time, I spent all my free time drawing. I wanted to be an artist.

But that was before the accident.

That was back when I had the time and space to think about things like hobbies and guys and sex.

I'm so lost in thought I nearly miss my stop.

The horny travelers are still going at it.

I fight the jealousy that rises in my throat. I want to lose myself like that.

I step onto the platform as lightly as possible. My work shoes—thick, black, non-slip sneakers—soften the blow. But not enough to ease the ache.

Usually, I relish my walk home. The Manhattan skyline is gorgeous against the dark sky. Silver steel and yellow fluorescent bulbs against a brilliant blue. It's a color that belongs only to New York City.

I pass rows and rows of brownstones. A few trendy restaurants. People smoking on their stoops. Cars circling the block for a space.

It's quiet by our apartment. I climb the porch and check the mailbox. Angry red letters read past due. The bill for the mortgage.

It's a steal compared to rent anywhere nearby—our parents bought this place before Brooklyn was an It Spot—but it's still too much. I could afford it if I got a job like the one I lost out on today. I could even help Lizzy with school.

Right now…

Ankle first. Then my future.

There's a bunch more junk mail. Electricity bill. From New York University.

Lizzy's letter.

It's thick. Legal-pad sized.

She got in.

This must mean she got in.

I rush inside even though I'm limping. "Lizzy!"

Her bedroom light flicks on. She pulls the door open, and wipes her sleepy eyes. "You're supposed to be the one who warns me it's a school night."

I wave the letter.

"What? Hold on." She steps into her room and returns wearing her trendy black glasses. Her eyes go wide. "I can't open that."

"You have to." This is the best news in forever. Lizzy got in. That means she can stay here. With me. My best friend, the one person I trust, can stick around.

"No." Her eyes pass over the return address. Her lips press together. "You open it. Please, Kat." She presses her palms together. "I can't. I can't even think."

"Are you sure?"

"Have I ever asked for your help when I wasn't sure?"

"Have you ever asked for my help?"

She laughs. "I never have to."

It's true. I'm a little… overbearing. I know that. But I can't help it. Lizzy almost died that day three years ago.

It's cheesy, yeah, but I really do feel lucky she's alive.

Alive and ready for an awesome future.

She deserves it.

I tear the envelope open and unfold the letter. Dear Ms. Wilder; We are proud to offer you acceptance—

My heart swells. Warmth spreads out through my body.

She got in.

Everything is going to be okay.

We'll make it work. Somehow.

"You're not saying anything." Her fingers curl around my wrist. "Is it bad? Tell me it's not bad."

I shake my head. "It's good. Really good."

She scans it carefully. "Oh my God." A smile creeps onto her face. "Kat! I… I can't believe it!"

"I can." I wrap my arms around my little sister. She works so hard. She deserves it.

"But we can't afford this. Not unless they're offering a full ride. And NYU doesn't do that. It's not like if I got into Columbia."

"We'll find a way to afford it."

"Will we?" She stares back at me, studying my expression. It must be obvious I've got nothing, because she sighs and crushes the letter into a tiny ball. "I still have Stanford and USC. And there are bunch of SUNYs."

And other schools far, far away. "We'll find a way to cover your tuition."

"It's not the end of the world. The school in Albany is great and only a few hours on the train." She moves towards her bedroom. "It's okay, Kat."

My heart sinks. It's not okay. Nothing about it is.

One of us is going places.

One of us is destined for great things.

Lizzy is going to the best school she gets into. Period.

"There's a way. We just haven't figured it out yet." I'll do whatever it takes.

* * *

Blake is sitting in my section.

He's in another designer suit.

His blue eyes are still icy. Impenetrable.

He still looks like a guy who can snap his fingers and get anything he wants.

He's here. That makes him yet another rich customer. I can handle that.

I make my way to his table. I'm a little slower than normal. My ankle is still aching.

He looks up at me. "Did you ice your ankle?" His voice is cool, but there's something in it. Compassion.

"And rested all day yesterday." Not that it's any of his business. "Can I get you something?"

"Whiskey. Rocks."

"You'll get that faster at the bar."

"I prefer here."

"Sure. I'll have that right up." I step back with my best customer-service smile.

His lip corners turn down.

His eyes go to his watch. Then to his cell phone.

Okay…

I guess he doesn't like smiles. Fair enough. I don't like smiling at assholes all day either.

I punch his order into the Aloha and stay busy rearranging salt and pepper shakers. The place is dead this time of day. There are only a few other people here.

And Blake is looking at me.

There's something in his eyes. Like he wants something from me. Like he's sure he's going to get it.

I head to the bar, grab his drink, and drop it off. "Enjoy."

"Wait." His voice is demanding. Sure.

"I have—"

"I'm the only person here." He pulls out the chair next to him. "Have a seat."

"This isn't Hooters. Waitresses don't sit with customers."

"Should I have a word with your manager?"

"And say?"

"That you're kind enough to sit to help a poor, confused patron navigate the lunch menu."

"Yeah? Do you not know the difference between filet mignon and ribeye?"

"Say I don't."

"Okay." I swallow hard. That chair is inviting. My ankle is killing me. And his gaze is intoxicating. "I only have a few minutes."

He nods.

I take a seat. Cross my legs. Smooth my black jeans.

"How's your ankle?"

"Fine." It will be fine. Eventually. "I appreciate your concern, but I don't need your help."

Those piercing eyes find mine. "You don't know how I can help."

His voice is low and deep and impossible to read.

I'd ask who the hell he thinks he is, but he's a tech mogul. He knows exactly who he is.

His hand brushes mine. "I have an offer for you."

"What kind of offer?"

His fingers curl around my wrist.

It feels so good.

I want that hand everywhere.

I want his touch everywhere.

I take a deep breath and exhale slowly.

This guy has a sway over me. I don't understand it. But I'm not going to give into it.

Not right now.

He draws his other arm over the side of his chair. "You were interviewing for a job the other day."

I clear my throat. "Keep that to yourself."

He nods. "Is this a profession you enjoy—waiting tables?"

"We can't all be tech CEOs."

"True." He leans a little closer. Those piercing eyes find mine. "You're a very beautiful girl."

There's a flutter in my stomach. Then somewhere below it. "Thank you."

"And polite."

"Uh… Thanks?" What's he getting at?

"I'm looking for someone like you."

What? "For…"

"It's a job. Unorthodox—"

"I'm not a whore."

"And I'm not a john. I don't pay for sex."

"What? You'd pay for the time and we'd happen to sleep together? I wasn't born yesterday. I know how this goes."

His grip around my wrist tightens. "No."

The word stops me in my tracks. It's strong. Confident. Sure. I feel it in my bones.

No. He doesn't want to pay me to sleep with him.

I shouldn't believe him, but I do.

He stares back into my eyes. "I want to fuck you, Kat. But I'm not going to pay you for that. It's going to be because you want me."

My cheeks flush. "I…"

"It wasn't a question." He lowers his voice to a whisper. "That other restaurant is a nicer place. You'd make more."

I nod.

"You need money?"

"You could say that."

"I have money." His voice lifts. Back to that confident, unshakable tone. "And I want you. For six months. A year maybe."

"You want me to what?"

"I want you to marry me."