“You never did tell me what Mr. B said to you in his office,” Lucy reminds me with a coy smile a couple of nights later. She was hired on the spot for a marketing position at a company specializing in gym clothes for every body type. Considering she didn’t think she’d ever get a job again after FuckGate 2017, it’s a big deal that we wanted to celebrate. “Care to share?”

“Nope.” I drink her shot of tequila and bow my shoulders forward. Simply thinking about Bailon’s words is enough to heat me to my core, and I’m not sure I can translate for Lucy without my body catching fire. Since Wednesday night, I’ve worked overtime to scrub the man’s existence from my brain. It doesn’t exactly help that the motherfucker still has my coat—I was so eager to get away from him that I left it behind in the lounge. He has yet to respond to the text I sent yesterday, so I’m chalking it up to a two-hundred-dollar loss.

He’s probably pissed off I shot down his distraction line and didn’t laugh like an idiot at that irritating shaving remark, and he’s decided to punish me by doing away with my belongings. The dick. “I’ll be thirty in two years, Luce,” I say ruefully.

I’m surprised she doesn’t point out that I’ll be thirty in a year and forty-five days since my birthday is at the end of next month, but a text from Jace Exley snags her attention and her thoughts scatter in the opposite direction. They go back and forth for a few minutes, and when he shows up at the bar less than half an hour later, her wide grin is contagious.

I want to be that happy.

Shoving money for our drinks—enough to also cover the rowdy BU girls celebrating one of their twenty-first birthdays nearby—across the counter, Jace cocks an eyebrow at me. “Would you mind—”

“Take her,” I say quickly, and Lucy makes a face as she scoots off the barstool and zips her jacket. “I mean, I have other plans tonight, so I promise it’s fine.”

I don’t have plans, other than a steamy rendezvous with my bed and the new pillows I bought at Bed Bath & Beyond this afternoon, but they don’t need to know that. Lucy’s fretted nonstop over Jace for the last few weeks, so if they’re ready to hash out their issues, who am I to stand in the way?

Waving them off, I nurse my shot—the tequila is cheap and not the top shelf Bailon ordered to show off his massive wealth—for a long time. When my purse starts vibrating, I break my staring war with the shot glass and toss it back quickly before I pull my phone out of my bag. Normally, I turn off my cell when I go out, but I’ve been on edge about Baby R—the preemie who came into the NICU early this week. Knots have formed in my belly every time my phone rang over the last couple of days, my days off, and they don’t go away until long after I’ve confirmed that Baby R is still fighting. While I’m relieved to discover this call isn’t from my friend on duty, knots loop around the pit of my stomach nonetheless.

Because one letter flashes on my screen.

B.

I accept his call before I can stop myself. “Do you still have my coat?” I demand, and he laughs softly in my ear. Stupid son of a bitch and his sexy laugh. “Mateo?”

“Where are you, Jamila? It’s loud and…”

Scowling down at the screen, I see the failed call alert. I signal the bartender. While I wait for him to collect the money Jace left behind, I schedule a ride to pick me up. A couple of minutes later, I step out onto the curb, wrapping my light jacket tightly around me to combat the chilly April night.

Mateo answers his phone on the first ring when I call him back. “Me terminaste la llamada,” he drawls.

“I did not hang up on you. I was in a bar, and the service was shit in there,” I say through clenched teeth. Since it’s still early in the evening and Beacon Hill is swarming with bar-hoppers and tourists, I determine it’s safe enough to pace along the sidewalk while I wait for the text from the driver. “You didn’t toss out my coat, did you?”

“I have it right here.” Where the hell here is, I have no idea, and I’m afraid to ask. “Where are you? I’ll bring it to you now.”

“I’m waiting on a car.”

“Then have your car bring you to me.” At the sound of disapproval that rips from the back of my throat, he drops his voice to a murmur. One that’s meant to seduce and conquer. “You want your coat, don’t you?”

“Is getting my coat back contingent upon me meeting you tonight?” He doesn’t reply, and I feel my blood reach a boiling point. Right about now, I put this guy up there with Lucy’s ex-husband, Tom, and that’s saying something. There’s a part of me tempted to tell Bailon to take the coat and shove it up his ass, but then I remember the price tag. My salary is something I’m proud of, but I don’t make enough money to brush off leaving behind a two-hundred-dollar coat in a bar.

“All right, Bailon,” I growl. “Where do I meet you?”

* * *

Thankfully, the destination my Uber driver reaches fifteen minutes after he picks me up turns out to be a restaurant and not another sexy lounge or, God forbid, a private home. “Fifteen minutes,” I promise my driver after I fork up the money for him to park in the paid garage a quarter mile from the restaurant. “I swear it will only take me fifteen minutes, so don’t leave me. I’ll text you when I’m done.”

Since that’s likely what half his Friday night passengers say before they go score coke, he rolls his eyes but says he won’t take off without me. I shoot him a grateful smile then hop out of his Prius when he rolls up to the door of the restaurant.

Just as he promised in his last text, Bailon is waiting for me on the far side of the lobby that looks like something out of a movie from Hollywood’s golden age with its ornate archways and cream and blush color scheme. Maneuvering through the crowd waiting to be seated, I approach him and he rises from the velvet wingback chair.

The look he gives me—it’s fire. And I am like gasoline. “Do you like Italian?” he asks.

“Yes, but I’m not here to eat with you.” I glance around him, to the chair he was just sitting in. When I see no sign of the black trench coat that brought my ass to this side of town, I poke my tongue in my cheek and tap my nails against my hips. “Bailon, do you actually have my coat?”

“We started off on the wrong foot. I want to make it up to you.” My lips part in protest, but he touches the tip of his finger to them. His hands smell like his cologne. His cologne and leather.

Oh dear God, keep me from melting right here in front of this man.

“Have dinner with me,” he implores, stepping closer to me. He breathes me in and presses his lips together, wetting the center with the tip of his tongue. “I can’t promise I’ll be a gentleman—my thoughts about you, Jamila, are anything but gentlemanly—but I promise not to expect anything from you tonight. After we’re done, I’ll give you your coat.”

He drops his finger from my mouth, dragging a shuddering sigh from my lungs. “Did they teach you this in law school?” I ask evenly. His dark eyebrows curve upward, so I continue, “You’re holding my coat hostage, so I’ll have dinner with you.”

“You can say no,” he says. “I’ll still give you your coat, but just imagine the possibilities if you just say yes.” When I suck in my cheeks and cast a look at the front door of the restaurant, he whispers, “Estás asustada de que puedas disfrutar de mi compañía?”

He’s wondering if I’m afraid of enjoying his company. I bite the inside of my lip, sucking on the tender flesh for a second before I turn my face to his. “No,” I answer. “No, I’m not.”

“Good. Contact your driver and let him know you don’t need him.”

“I could have just bought a new coat for all the money I’ll spend on cars tonight,” I point out, but I text the driver then swipe the red end trip bar. The little voice of reason in the back of my mind tells me what a fool I am. How I’m setting myself up for a letdown. How I should call the driver right now and let him know I changed my mind. I drop my phone in my purse and hoist the strap up on my shoulder. “I can’t stay long because I work tomorrow night, and I need to get to bed at a reasonable time.”

His grin is beautiful, a tease that promises something more, so I mentally prepare myself for whatever filthy things will come out of his mouth. He surprises me. “I promise not to keep you out all night.” His hand races down my spine, finally settling on the small of my back. “I’m sure our table’s ready by now.”

I shift a curious gaze his way as we head for the hostess. “You were so sure I’d have dinner with you that you already had reservations?”

“Perks of douchebaggery,” he states with a smirk. “I represent the owner, so I always have a seat.”

He goes silent as we’re led to our table, an intimate affair in the center of the restaurant, complete with candles and an excellent view of the live big band musicians. “This place is gorgeous,” I say as he shrugs me out of my jacket. He starts to hand it to the hostess, but I close my hand around his arm. The sly look he gives me makes me roll my eyes. “Not tonight, Bailon.”

“Not all my intentions are bad,” he argues, but the amber gaze cruising over my figure tells another story. If he thinks I’m underdressed in dark wash jeans, a sleeveless black peplum top, and high-heeled booties, he doesn’t voice his objections. He sits across from me, his thumb and forefinger skimming back and forth over the open collar of his shirt, and looks at me long and hard. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. I’d planned to have your coat delivered to the hospital so you wouldn’t have to see me again, but …”

“But what?” I whisper.

“I’m a persistent bastard,” he admits just before the waiter arrives at our table. “And I couldn’t get you off my mind.”

Wrenching my eyes from him, I smile up at the waiter, thankful for his interruption. I order a water, and as Mateo skims the drink menu, I take a moment to catch my breath. How did this happen? How the hell had my night shifted from celebratory drinks with Lucy to sitting across from Mateo Bailon—the man I swore to myself I wouldn’t think about—and listening to him admit he’s thought of me? I press my hand to the pit of my stomach and inhale deeply. The exhale catches, though, because he clears his throat across the table.

I meet the heat of his stare and falter. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because I’m thinking of ways to get you in my bed. Not tonight—because I said I’d be good and I mean what I say—but soon.”

Dipping my head to my lap, I pluck at the hem of my peplum top, my fingers trembling nervously. I nod up at the stage where the band is playing the opening bars of “Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps.” My high school drama teacher was a huge Baz Luhrmann fan and she’d dedicated an entire week to his films—from Moulin Rouge! to Strictly Ballroom. I still remember swooning like a lovesick idiot when this song played during a pivotal romance scene in the latter.

“I didn’t take you as the big band sort,” I finally say. The soft laugh he releases tickles my senses. “But I love it.”

He accepts the change of subject without an argument, revealing that his client is a Grammy winner who wanted to pay homage to his favorite genre. To my relief, we move out of dangerous, dirty territory and spend the next hour talking about music. While I learn he’s fiercely loyal to his clients, and I’d never expect him to reveal anything confidential, I also discover he’s just started representing an artist that I secretly listen to.

“I didn’t take you as the Arrow Kendall sort,” he snorts after I tell him I’m a fan of the popstar. He takes a bite of his steak then shrugs. “But if that’s what does it for you.”

“Shh.” I press my finger to my lips and give him an exaggerated stern look. “It’s a secret.” Biting on my lip to suppress my smile, I twirl fettuccine around my fork, then tentatively ask, “Do your clients know you don’t like half their music?”

“I think the correct term is fucking loathe,” he corrects and tilts his dark head to one side. “And I don’t care if they do. They want to make money. I get them money—even photos of naked women in my house won’t change that.” He scoots his chair up to the table, and he bends his head so that it’s closer to mine. “Now … tell me a real secret because listening to Arrow’s garbage isn’t exactly groundbreaking.”

Avoiding his stare, I chew the bite of food in my mouth slowly. I can tell myself all night not to give him anything more, but my attraction to the man is so strong, my brain fizzles whenever I look at him. It’s wrong—so wrong—because he’s had no trouble telling me he’s not the one for permanent. For what I want. So, I blurt out the first words that creep into my head without apology. “I want kids. I didn’t realize it until a year ago, but it’s strong now—probably because of where I work.”

His expression is unreadable, and I know that I’ve officially ensured Mateo Bailon won’t ever text me again. Which, after I collect my coat from his possession, is probably a good thing. “Now that I’ve told you mine,” I start in a raspy voice, “What’s yours? Your secret?”

His features change. Gone is the frozen, trapped look that playboys get when a woman mentions diamond rings and diapers. Now, it’s replaced by an animalistic grin, and I know he’s about to undress me with only a handful of words.

"I've spent this entire evening wondering what you taste like. Whether you're as tight as I imagined you’d be the first time I laid eyes on you. What you'll call me when I’m inside you. What you'll ask me to…"

"You can stop now." Butterflies swirl through my stomach, so I press my hand to my belly button, hoping to still them. "That’s not a secret, Mateo. Tell me a real one."

Amber brown eyes lower to the table and the plates of food that separate our bodies. Silently, I watch the emotions pass over his face. Irritation and conflict then something else that brings the butterflies back.

Only these flutters—they hurt.

The pain is there for just a split second when he lifts his gaze to mine, but then that self-assured grin snaps back in place. He bends his head even closer to mine, like he's about to share something controversial, so I do the same.

Our foreheads touch.

He reaches out then, brushing a curl from my cheek before he frames the side of my face in his hand. Flames devour me.

"Yours isn't a secret either, but talking about wanting a family isn't appropriate for a second date, Jamie." He brushes his thumb over my cheek, reducing my breath to nothing. "Admitting that I want to touch you—that I don't like this game you're playing with my dick because I can already promise we’re going to fuck and I’m going to teach your body so many things—well, that is appropriate.”