Shit. I know Sarah has no reason to take my calls, but I was really hoping that she’d pick up just this once. Even if she never answers me ever again, she needs to hear this.

She probably thinks I’m just casually calling because I’m looking for sex, and I can’t blame her for that. What kind of a moron strings along a woman like Sarah with a cockamamie fake identity? Then I got to the point where I couldn’t think of a way out and I was completely stuck, and I ended up looking like I was hiding a double life—which I guess I was. How long did I think I’d be able to string her along down that ridiculous road?

Like Nathan said, I done fucked up big time. That particular line could be nominated for the Understatement of the Century award.

But she really needs to listen to me right now!

I run a hand over the stubble on my cheeks, and the odor from my armpit reminds me that I haven’t showered yet today. Normally I’m a stickler for personal hygiene, but I barely slept last night after I came across Darryl Lawrence’s name in the minutes of PinkBook’s last board meeting. That set off my alarms, so I started digging, and anyone who knows me knows that, once I get on the trail of something, I don’t stop until I’ve got it cornered.

Next thing I know, it’s 4 a.m., sunlight is creeping onto the eastern horizon outside the windows of my penthouse, and the low-battery light on my laptop is flashing.

Sarah is smart—maybe the smartest woman I’ve ever known—but she lacks experience, which means she probably doesn’t see the snake under Lawrence’s suit. Even if she does, she might not realize what he’s up to until it’s too late.

It’s not just because I can’t stand the guy, or because I want to take him down. This is about Sarah, not me. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since she closed the door on me. Her smile, the taste of her lips, the way she called me on my bullshit—well, the bullshit she knew about, anyway. I never even knew I was capable of feeling like this. Every other woman I’ve ever been with was after something, but not Sarah. She has everything she could ever want, and she sure as hell doesn’t need me to make her dreams come true.

And that’s why I’m so crazy about her.

Should I text her? Maybe she wasn’t able to answer my call. Maybe she wanted to but she was in a meeting and she couldn’t.

Who am I kidding? I know damn well why she didn’t answer. But I have to warn her about Lawrence for the sake of her company.

And, let’s be honest, if I ever want a shot at being with her again, I need to come clean about who I am. Even if it means I never see her again, I need her to know that the guy she got to know was the real me. I didn’t even realize it myself until she sent me away. I’ve been putting on a front for so long that I actually started believing my own bullshit.

I push myself up from the sofa that runs the width of the wall in my living room and press the heels of my palms into my lower back. Maybe some sleep will help me see things better, so I shuffle off to my bedroom. I plug in my phone on the nightstand next to my bed, and before I realize I’m doing it, I’m texting Sarah: You were right: I haven’t been honest with you. My name’s not Ben, and I’m not a software designer. Also, PinkBook is in danger. We need to talk. Please.

I read it again, and then one more time. It’s crazy. No one in their right mind would respond to a message like that.

Then I take a deep breath and hit “send.” As the little circle twirls next to the message, I offer up a little prayer to any gods out there that she’s crazy enough to do as I ask.

* * *

The sound of Beyonce’s Run The World blares from my phone and I practically jump out of bed. My mouth tastes like dirt and I’ve got a kink in my neck thanks to the ridiculous positon I fell asleep in, but even in my addled state, I know not to let it go to voice-mail: it’s Sarah’s special ringtone.

My heart jumps a bit as I see that go-to-hell grin on my screen. I slide the answer button and take a breath.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt. My brain isn’t functioning properly, so I have no choice but to just follow what comes out of my mouth. “My real name is Justin, and I’m not unemployed. I’ve got a big company and a lot of money, and I was worried if you knew that, it would change things between us.” I wait a beat, and when she doesn’t say anything, I add: “I’m an idiot, and I understand if you never want to see me again, but I have to talk to you about Darryl Lawrence. PinkBook’s future might depend on it.”

She’s silent for so long that I begin to think she hung up on me. When she finally speaks, it washes through me like music.

“I’ll give you an hour,” she says. “Somewhere on neutral ground.”

The words feel like a huge weight has been lifted off my chest.

“Thank you,” I breathe. “Can you meet me for lunch?”

Another pause. “It’s 3 in the afternoon.”

I blink stupidly and look at the clock on the nightstand. She’s right. I must have practically have been in a coma.

“Tomorrow then?”

“Where? And don’t say one of those out-of-the-way places again.”

“How about the Blackthorn?”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

I text her the address. “One o’clock work for you?”

“I’ll make it work.”

I realize that my breathing has been shallow the whole time I’ve been on the phone with her, so I take a deep breath.

“Thank you, Sarah. It means a lot to me that you’re willing to do this.”

What she says next prompts a sharp twinge in my gut: “You better make it good, Ben. Or I guess I should say Justin, shouldn’t I?”

She disconnects without another word, and I take another deep breath. I glance again at the clock. I’ve got 22 hours to make it good. I better get started.

* * *

I usually just go straight to my table at the Blackthorn—it’s a standing reservation that comes with my Diamond-Level membership—but instead I wait in the lobby for Sarah to arrive. Normally, I’m meeting clients and I make them come to me as a power move. This is the exact opposite of that. For the first time in my life, I’m coming to someone else, and if I have to crawl, then I guess I’m going to crawl.

Not that I hope it comes to that. I’m just saying.

The lobby of the building that houses the Brentwood Club and the Blackthorn restaurant is all burnished mahogany paneling and ornate carpets, with a doorman who still wears the old school long coat and captain’s hat. According to the older members, old Osbourne has held the job for over fifty years, and makes enough in tips from the discreet gentlemen of the Brentwood Club to afford a three-bedroom apartment in the Village. Also, none of them seems to know whether Osbourne is his first name or his last one.

He props open the heavy old door, allowing the midday sun and some welcome fresh air into the lobby as I wait.

“May I ask whom you’re meeting, Mr. Lucas?”

“It’s a lady today, Osbourne.”

The crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes fan out as he grins.

“Do I dare hope, sir?” he asks.

I chuckle. “I don’t know if I dare hope, let alone you.”

“Let me guess: tall, blonde, brown eyes. Looks like she played volleyball in college, but still has the curves that you just can’t resist when she walks by?”

I give him a sidelong look.

“How’d you know that?”

He lifts his hand to the brim of his cap as a silhouette appears in the doorway. His grin is wide and bright in his dark face.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” he says. “Mr. Lucas has been waiting for you.”

Sarah steps into the cool darkness of the lobby, but the polite smile she flashed for Osbourne disappears when she looks at me.

“Should we get started?” she asks, her tone all business.

“Sure,” I say. “Of course.”

The maître d’ plucks a pair of menus and motions towards the dining room. It’s been less than two weeks since I’ve seen Sarah, but I drink her in like desert rain. Even in a business suit, with her hair pulled back in a severe bun, makes my pulse quicken. I glance over at Osbourne as Sarah steps in front of me.

“Dare away, sir,” he says quietly. “I sure as hell would.”

I give him a half-smile and follow her towards our table. Once we’re in the dining room, Sarah’s attention turns to the 15-foot ceilings, which are lined with pressed tin tiles that are well over a hundred years old. She’s trying to look all business, but I imagine it’s not easy for someone who appreciates architecture the way she does. The Blackthorn is an impressive establishment, even in a city full of them, which is why you have to be a member of the Brentwood Club to dine here. To be a member, you have to be invited, and have fifty thousand a month lying around to pay your dues. Or in my case, seventy-five thousand for the Diamond upgrade.

It’s the kind of place I could only have dreamed about as a kid, where people don’t just have money, they have power. Funny thing is, I used to think this was what I wanted out of life. Then I sit across the table from Sarah, and I realize that none of it means anything if she’s not there to share the experience with me.

The maître d’ disappears, and now that we’re alone, Sarah fixes me with a look that has no sympathy in it. I’m on probation right now, and I know it.

“I’m an idiot,” I sigh.

She doesn’t give an inch. “So you said on the phone yesterday. Do you have anything to add to that, or should we just wrap this up now?”

“I do. First of all, you’ve obviously Googled me by now, so you know what I do for a living.”

She raises an eyebrow but says nothing. I’m really going to have to work for this.

“I admit it,” I say. “You could call me a corporate raider. I buy companies that are struggling for pennies on the dollar, take them apart, and sell off the component parts for a profit. I’m a billionaire several times over because of it.”

“And you lie to the women you date,” she says. Her face is expressionless, but her eyes are blazing. “Don’t forget that part.”

“I don’t want this to come out the wrong way, but you’re the one who told your parents I was your fiancé. I just kept my lie going longer than you did.”

“That was different!” she protests. “I was lying to them, not you!”

“You’re right, and again, I’m sorry. But I didn’t know anything about you when you approached me in the bar. Sarah, I’m a billionaire bachelor; I never know if women are just trying to get at my money when they come on to me.”

“Came on to you? You have an awfully high opinion of yourself, buster.”

She’s stopped scowling, which is a good sign, but I can tell I still have a long way to go. The wine steward appears with a bottle and pours us each a glass, then disappears.

“You get wine without ordering?” she asks.

“I always have the same thing. There’s a case of it in their cellar.”

She takes a sip and her eyes go wide.

“My God, this is amazing. What is it?”

“Domaine Leroy Musigny, 2012. It’s a favorite.”

“How much is it?”

That’s one of the things I love about Sarah: even though she’s a high-powered executive and a multi-millionaire herself, she’s still Amish at heart and always concerned about cost.

“I honestly don’t know,” I say. “My broker mentioned something about a bidding war. Thirty thousand, maybe?”

I probably should’ve waited until she was done her second sip, because she almost chokes.

“Thirty thousand dollars a bottle?”

I shrug. “It’s my favorite.”

“Wait, you have a wine broker? I didn’t even know that was a thing!” She’s recovered her composure. “Now I see why we never went back to your place. It’s probably a mansion.”

“Penthouse,” I say. “But that’s not important.”

“No, it’s not,” she says. “And, to be honest, I didn’t have to Google you, Justin. I already knew who you really were before you sent me that text.”

Okay, I wasn’t expecting that.

“How did you know?”

“That’s… a long story.”

“I don’t understand,” I say. “Why did you come here if you already knew who I was?”

Her eyes soften a bit, or maybe that’s just my hopeful imagination. Either way, the edge in her voice seems to have faded.

“I wanted to see whether you’d tell me the truth on your own,” she says. “Without me confronting you with it. And that’s what you did, so I thought I’d give you a chance to say your piece.”

I mull that over for a moment. It makes sense—if she’d forced my hand, I would have been confessing out of desperation. This was more of an act of contrition, I guess, even though I was honestly desperate to se her again.

Look at me being all relationship-y. Nathan would be proud.

“I truly am sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have let things get so far before coming clean with you. Things just seemed to snowball and the next thing I knew, I was too far in, and I thought if I told you, I’d lose you.” I let out a low chuckle. “Look how that worked out for me.”

Sarah smiles, and the sudden hope makes my heart feel like it just caught an updraft.

“Is there any way we could start over?”

She peers at me intently for what seems like an eon, as if she’s weighing the fate of mankind. No one has made me feel like this since I was a kid—wondering whether I measured up, whether I was good enough for what I was being given. I wouldn’t allow anyone else on Earth to look at me that way, except maybe Nathan, but I wouldn’t put up with it for long from him.

“I have a couple of question,” she says finally. “What happens after that depends on your answers.”

I swallow hard, hoping she doesn’t see. “Go ahead.”

“Were you lying when you told me about your childhood? The way you grew up?”

“No. Everything I told you about myself was true, except for my name and my work.”

Sarah ponders that for a while, too. She’s thoughtful, which reminds me of her father (though I’d sooner run naked through Yankee Stadium than ever tell her that).

“One more,” she says. “And I guess this is the big one.”

“Go ahead.” I steel myself for whatever it may be.

“Are you trying to take over PinkBook?”

At first I think she must be joking, but her steely gaze tells me otherwise. She’s honestly worried that I might be after her company. It makes answering the question a lot easier than I expected it to be.

“Of course not,” I say. “What on earth would make you think that? We met by sheer coincidence, remember?”

Sarah sighs and bites her lip. I’ve never seen her look so confused, and it’s the last thing I want for her. When it comes to me, I want her to be sure of everything.

“Look,” I say. “You know my MO: I go after companies that have been run into the ground. PinkBook is a success; why would I be interested in it?”

She tells me about the board meeting where the members recognized me from the contact pic on her phone. Then she mentions the name Darryl Lawrence, and I feel my lips curl into a snarl.

“Lawrence is the reason I asked you to meet me in the first place. “Believe me, if there’s a threat to your company, it’s from him, not me. Yes, I wanted to apologize, but it was more important that I warn you not to turn your back on that snake for a second.”

Sarah nods, and I realize I’m not telling her anything she doesn’t already know. That seems to happen a lot with her. But she seems relieved as well.

“So that’s what you meant about PinkBook being in danger,” she says. “Don’t worry, I definitely don’t trust Darryl.” Her eyes soften “But I do appreciate the fact that you wanted to warn me, and that you did it before you knew what had happened at the meeting.”

“Your trust means a lot to me, Sarah. I want you to know that I’d never deliberately hurt you. And if you ever need anything from me, you only need to ask and it’s yours.”

She opens her mouth to speak, but I stop her with a raised hand and a smile.

“Not that you would ever need my help,” I say quickly. “I’m just saying, I’m a billionaire and all my resources are at your disposal. Even the Amish don’t raise barns by themselves, right?”

Sarah smiles again and pours herself another glass of wine.

“As long as you know that, I suppose it’s okay,” she says. “As for your resources, I’ll start by having some more of your $30,000 grape juice and letting you buy my lunch. After that, we’ll see.”

I grin and lift my glass in a toast.

“That’s all I can ask for,” I say, my heart lighter than it’s been in weeks.