My second morning waking up in Oliver’s house is nearly as disorienting as the first. There’s a warm, heavy weight against my back. A mild tingle prickles over my face and neck. I rub my cheek and feel the thin powder of the medicated cream. Oh, right. The fucking peanut oil. The trip to the ER. The . . .

The fucking.

I freeze. Oliver is pressed up against me. A very naked Oliver, who fucked me just about senseless last night.

More than once.

A flush spreads over my face, chasing away the last of the allergic prickling. I’m not going to lie. That was some of the best sex I’ve ever had. But in the cold light of day, my post-orgasmic high quickly turns to panic.

This was an epically, awfully, monumentally terrible idea.

What the hell was I thinking? I’m a struggling, broke waitress-slash-actress, and he’s him: producer extraordinaire and all-around playboy. We’re from totally different worlds—the world where he sips champagne while I dance around in a sexy elf outfit for tips. If it wasn’t for that broken-down train, we never would have even spent five minutes together, let alone thirty-six hours.

And now that the snow has melted, he’s about to realize it too. Which means I’m about twenty minutes away from the most awkward morning-after “don’t call us, we’ll call you” of my life.

My heart catches. I can’t face Oliver letting me down gently, my pride won’t take it, not after everything else I’ve put it through. I know we’re completely incompatible, but that doesn’t mean I want him to realize it, too.

I edge out of bed and quickly search for my panties, trying not to make a sound. I slip my clothes back on and grab my coat and scarf. It hardly snowed at all yesterday, so the trains have got to be running again. I’ll just slip out before anyone wakes up and pretend like this didn’t happen.

Twice.

I pause a moment in the doorway and watch him sleep in bed. His blonde hair is ruffled, and his stubble makes him look rakish and oh-so sexy, all tangled in the sheets. For a moment, I want to tear my clothes off again and dive back under the covers, but I hold strong. Sure, I could have another round of amazing sex, but then what? The ending to this story still wouldn’t change.

Cue rejection, awkwardness, and general humiliation. Aka the story of my romantic—and professional—life so far.

I close the bedroom door quietly behind me. It’s still early. No one stirs in the bedrooms as I creep downstairs. I pull on my boots, thinking I’ve made it home free—and then Hallie appears behind me. “Oh, hey, Jill.” She rubs her eyes sleepily. “Where are you going? It’s early.”

“I, umm, have an appointment in the city,” I say, grasping at the first excuse that pops into my head. “I didn’t want to wake everyone on my way out.”

“Oh. Well, it was really great meeting you.” She smiles. “Maybe we can catch up back in the city?”

I gulp. “Maybe,” I agree vaguely, hating the fact that I’m lying—and will probably never see any of these nice people again.

Hallie leans in. “I know it’s none of my business, but I’m really glad you and Oliver found each other,” she says. “I can’t remember the last time I saw him this relaxed. Keep being good to each other, okay?”

A guilty heat floods my face. “Right,” I mumble. “Umm, see you around!” Then, before I do spill the beans in the least elegant way possible, I bolt outside.

* * *

By the time I’m sitting on the train watching the New York suburbs come into view, my guilt has twisted in a different direction.

Maybe I shouldn’t have run. How is Oliver going to react when he wakes up and I’m just gone? What if he would have wanted to cuddle up to me—or at least to dive in for another round?

No. I can’t think like that. Different worlds. Totally incompatible. Wild playboy—remember? But even so, the memories of Oliver haunt me all the way back home. How nice he was to his family, how he took care of me with my allergic reaction.

How he took care of me back in bed . . .

My apartment is waiting for me, and I gladly give up my (ew) three-day-old clothes, and take a hot shower before collapsing back on the couch. Silence. It’s Christmas Eve. Just a couple more days before the world forgets all its forced holiday fun and gets back to normal again.

I can’t wait.

I must have dozed off, because I wake with a damp spot of drool on the couch cushion and my phone buzzing in my bag. I sleepily grab for it, but the call has already gone through to voicemail before I can reach.

It’s my agent. “Jill! Great news. That role in Serendipity? I just got the call. They want you for it. No more callbacks, no extra auditioning—it’s yours. Congratulations, darling! This is the big time now. Broadway! Call me!”

Wait, what?

I sit there on the edge of the sofa cushion, staring at the phone. I have to listen to it three more times through before it sinks in, but it still doesn’t make sense to me.

That trash-fire of an audition where I barely sang three bars and yelled at the room? That’s what won me the most coveted new part in town?

There has to be some mistake.

You’ve earned this.

I stop, dread suddenly making me sick to my stomach. I can only think of one thing that could have tipped the scales in my favor. And the thought of it sets my skin crawling.

How dare he?

I grab my purse and stomp out the door.

* * *

It isn’t hard to figure out which apartment in Manhattan’s flashiest new condo development belongs to Oliver Gage. It’s the top penthouse, of course. If I couldn’t have already guessed as much, his last name is right there in the directory.

One of the residents comes out as I arrive, so I just grab the door and stride on in—past the doorman and straight for the swankiest elevator I’ve ever seen. I jab the top button and tap my foot in a nervous rhythm as it rises.

Is this really what he thinks of me? That I seduced him in the hopes of getting the part in exchange? Or is that how he thinks in general: that everything’s some kind of transaction, and now that I’ve fucked his brains out, I get the role as a reward?

Just thinking that makes me feel gross all over again. And mad.

Boy, am I mad.

I reach the penthouse level and hit the buzzer, fuming. And there I was thinking the worst outcome would be some morning-after awkwardness. Instead, he’s managed to make me feel like a high-class hooker in just a few minutes flat.

Over-achiever.

I hit the buzzer again. No answer. Maybe he’s still with his family, but just as I’m about to go storming back downstairs, the door opens.

“Jill.” Oliver blinks at me in surprise. “Hey.” He starts to smile, but I jab a finger at his chest.

“I didn’t sleep with you looking for some kind of favor!” I explode. “I can’t believe you thought it was a . . . a transaction. Maybe I take shitty waitressing jobs for the cash, but I’m not for sale!”

Oliver arches an eyebrow at me. “I never said you were,” he says slowly.

“Yeah, well, actions speak louder than words, sunshine.” I glare at him so hard, I’m surprised he’s not spontaneously combusting right about now.

Oliver just looks amused. “Why don’t you come in and start from the beginning?”

He turns and saunters inside before I can respond. Fine then. I can yell at him inside, as well as out here.

I march after him—and stop in my tracks, struck by the awesome architecture. The ceiling looms high above our heads, half of it a honeycomb of skylights that let in the crisp December sun. The bright beams streak down over a sofa set that looks both vintage Victorian and in perfect condition. The ebony floorboards under my feet are so smooth and shiny I could probably skate on them. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen an apartment half this gorgeous.

Okay, Jill, that is not the point. Let’s get back on track.

I whirl around to face Oliver, who’s just closed the door behind me. “I don’t know what there is to explain.” I glare—ignoring the fact he looks good enough to eat in dark-wash jeans, bare feet, and hair still wet from the shower. “I don’t do the casting couch. I didn’t expect a role out of last night. I hooked up with you because I wanted to, not out of some scheme!”

“A role,” Oliver repeats. His eyebrows have arched. He looks so serenely amused and devastatingly handsome at the same time that I want to smack him. Or kiss him. Preferably both.

“Serendipity?!” I exclaim. “Don’t try and act dumb. It doesn’t suit you.”

But he’s still acting confused. “You got the part in Serendipity?”

“Yes!” I sigh. “What else would I be talking about?”

“Jill,” he says gently, “I didn’t even know that part had been cast. If you got it, it had nothing to do with me or last night. I promise.”

Now it’s my turn to stare at him in disbelief. He can’t be serious. “The director wasn’t even listening to my audition until I started yelling at him. And the part doesn’t involve a whole lot of yelling, last time I checked.”

“I don’t know what to tell you.” He shrugs. “But it wasn’t my call.”

“Well, however I got it, I don’t want it,” I insist. “I’m not that kind of actress. And now that you’ve . . . we’ve . . . you know. People would assume that’s the reason anyway!”

Oliver opens his mouth, and then closes it. He shrugs. “That’s fine. If you don’t want the part, you don’t have to take it. Look, I’ve got this gala at the Rockefeller Center tonight. Want to come with me?”

I stop. “What?”

“It’s usually a fun event. Festive. What do you say?” Oliver steps closer, and the scent of his aftershave washes over me. Damn my traitor body—my knees go a little weak. Even more so when he traces his fingers up my jaw and leans in for a kiss. His lips find mine, tantalizingly smooth, and before I can think better of it I’m kissing him back.

What can I say? The man is obviously crack in human form. Addictive, thrilling—and bad for my health.

Oliver eases back a few inches, still so close I can almost taste him.

“Why do you want me to come with you?” I ask, still distracted by the kiss.

“Why not?” he asks. “No strings attached. No favors assumed. All I’d like is your company.”

My pulse thumps. I know it’s a bad idea . . . But since when have I ever done the sensible thing?

And one more night with Oliver . . . I can’t turn it down, even though I should.

“Fine,” I tell him, trying to keep my angry glare intact. “I’ll come. But don’t think this gets you off the hook. Whatever the hell is going on with the production, you can leave me out of it.”

And before I can do anything else I regret—like tearing all his clothes off—I stalk out the door.

It’s only when I’m in the elevator heading back down to earth that I realize what his invitation means. A Christmas Eve gala. At the Rockefeller Center.

I’m going to need a fairy godmother about now. And failing that, a friend who wears the same sized clothing—and has a new budget for fancy dresses. I pull out my phone. “McKenna? Where are you? It’s a fashion emergency!”