We take the kids to breakfast the next morning at a diner in a renovated train station, with heaping plates of bacon and eggs and a mug full of crayons plunked down on the table between us. Ezra draws a fire-breathing robot on the back of his paper placemat. Lottie beats Cal at tic-tac-toe. “You’re a good sport,” I murmur quietly, forking off a corner of my veggie omelet and chewing thoughtfully.

“What, ’cause of the game?” Cal looks at me oddly. “What can I say, Jules? Lottie is the superior player.”

I make a face. “Not the game,” I tell him, gesturing around at the restaurant’s drop ceilings and ripped diner stools. “I just mean, this is kind of slummin’ it for you, no?”

“Oh, totally,” Cal says. “Normally I like my eggs brought to me in bed on a golden plate, with a side of truffles and caviar.” He makes an exaggerated face at Ezra. “Get on that, will you?” Then he laughs. “Nah, this is our place, right guys?” He turns back to me. “We used to come here with their mom and dad all the time.”

“Daddy liked extra syrup on his pancakes,” Ezra reports.

“He sure did,” Cal says, then reaches for the pitcher and pours a little more onto his own for good measure.

“I’ve got to go into the office for a couple of hours,” he tells me as we’re heading out to the parking lot. He’s traded the clown-sized sports car for a McAdams SUV, which fits all of us comfortably—including Howard.

I raise my eyebrows. “You have to go into the office like you have to go into the office, or you have to go into the office like you’re actually going out to buy another secret mansion?”

Cal makes a face. “I have to go into the office like I’m meeting with our Japanese importer,” he says. “He’s heading back to Tokyo tonight, so this was the only time we could make it work.”

“Fancy,” I tease.

“Top-notch, princess,” he retorts, reaching over and taking a sip of the leftover coffee in my to-go cup, then handing it back. “Anyway, I can drop you guys at home on my way, if that’s cool. Maybe you can break in that trampoline.”

“By all means, help yourself,” I tell him, my heart stuttering a little bit at the casualness of the gesture—it just feels an awful lot like the kind of thing an actual fiancé might do. “But I’m not a babysitter, remember? It’s not that I’m not happy to spend time with them, but if that’s what you’re looking for, I know you can afford one.”

Cal thinks about that one for a moment. “You’re right,” he says. “Hey monsters!” he calls across the parking lot to where the kids are already waiting at the car, impatient. “You wanna go to work?”

---

McAdams HQ is in a huge modern building in Kendall Square, a leafy green campus complete with a gourmet cafeteria, modern art installations, even a dog park. Cal’s office is in a top-level suite full of glass-walled offices and sleek mid-century furniture; vintage ads for the very first McAdams cars line the walls. The common space boasts an air hockey table and a fully stocked beer fridge; the vibe is definitely more “fun start-up” than “hundred-year-old luxury car company,” and I wonder how much of that is Cal’s influence.

It’s a Sunday, and the offices are mostly quiet, just a few assistants clicking busily away at their computers: “Where’s the assembly line?” Ezra asks, looking around curiously.

“They don’t make the cars here, idiot,” Lottie informs him. “They just design them.”

“Easy, tiger,” Cal says, nudging her gently. “Nobody’s an idiot. And you’re both right, actually. We put the first prototype for the new Nitro together right here in the technology center on campus, but now that we’re satisfied with how it works they’ll get made at our manufacturing plant in Detroit.”

“You guys manufacture in Michigan?” I ask, surprised.

“American as apple pie,” Cal says with a grin.

He takes us across campus to see the technology center, a gleaming industrial space full of state-of-the-art machinery and glowing computer bays, their screensavers all bearing the McAdams logo. “This is awesome,” Lottie says, her sharp blue eyes lighting up. She looks more engaged than I've ever seen her; I think again of her Wonder Women book and file that piece of information away for later.

“Cal!” A trim, polished woman in her sixties bustles through the door, all tasteful gold jewelry and sleek gray bob. An assistant in a sport coat hurries along behind her. “I didn’t know you were in today.”

“Meeting with the Noguchi Corp,” Cal reminds her, ducking his head to kiss her on the cheek. “Jules, this is my mom, Diana McAdams.”

“Nice to meet you, Ms. McAdams.” I’m not entirely sure what she knows or doesn’t about our little arrangement, so I smile my widest all-purpose smile as we shake.

“Oh, please, call me Diana,” she says, holding her arms out for a Dior-scented hug. “We’re going to be family, aren’t we?” She turns to Lottie and Ez. “How you doing, you two? Hanging in?”

The kids nod dutifully, and Diana smiles. “I bet if we ask Jason he’ll give you a special tour of the place—including the Kit Kats I’ve got in my desk drawer upstairs.”

“Will do,” the assistant says cheerfully. Then, to Diana: “Just remember that the events people want to chat about some of the final details for the McAdams Cup before you leave this afternoon.”

Diana nods. “We’re sponsoring a big charity race next week,” she explains to me. “We put one on every year, to benefit the Home for Little Wanderers.”

“They do a bunch of great work for at-risk kids and families around Boston,” Cal says. “Therapy, mentoring, even just getting their basic needs taken care of—toiletries, bedding, that kind of thing. We’ve been partnering with them for years.”

“Sounds great,” I say honestly. “Let me know if there's anything I can do to help.”

“Jules is a hot-shot lawyer,” Cal tells his mom. “She’s a rising star at her big firm in New York, but she’s thinking of bailing out of the rat race to start her own practice.”

I glance at him, surprised: it’s not exactly true, but I suppose it's better than she got canned for punching a pervert’s face in and now she’s my hired date. What’s more, it seems to impress Diana: “Really,” she says, tilting her head to the side and looking at me with interest. “What’s the name of your firm?”

Well, shit. “Harper, Wells, and Milstein?” I say, fully aware it sounds like I’m asking a question and praying she won’t go looking for me on the company website.

“Ah, Harper Wells, yes.” Diana nods. “I’ve heard impressive things about their publishing and entertainment division.”

“My buddy Max is trying to convince my mom to do a book,” Cal explains. “How To Be an All-American Lady Badass, by Diana McAdams.”

“It’s more a history of the company,” Diana explains with a smile, “but thank you, Cal. Jules, we should chat when you get a chance. I’m always happy to meet another woman in business.”

“I’d love that,” I say.

She heads off to work on the race details and Cal and I catch up with the kids: we find them with Jason in a huge, brightly lit conference room, watching a promotional video about the development of the Nitro, the newest McAdams race car. Ezra is sitting in the corner putting on a quiet drama starring Howard the badger as an F1 driver, but Lottie is rapt, tongue between her teeth while she scribbles something down in the little notebook she keeps in her backpack.

I turn to Cal. “Is there some kind of program we can sign her up for?” I ask quietly. “Something for young engineers?”

“The company actually runs a camp for girls in the summer and on winter breaks,” he tells me. “To try and, like, get ’em into STEM early.”

I raise my eyebrows, remembering what Olivia told me about progressive new initiatives at the company. “Was that your idea?”

Cal shrugs. “Maybe.” He tilts his head, grinning a little. “Why, are you impressed?”

I roll my eyes at him, but I’m smiling. “Maybe.”

We leave them to watch the rest of the video and I follow Cal up to his office, perching on the arm of an uncomfortable settee while he shows me plans for the sports version of the Nitro, a zippy little outfit that people—albeit extremely, extremely rich people—might actually buy and drive around outside a track. It’s the crown jewel of a new, green line of vehicles they’re rolling out, Cal explains, pulling up a set of plans on a tablet: “It’s electric, but its charge lasts twice as long as, say, a Tesla’s, so you’ll never end up stranded in the middle of nowhere waiting for your car to charge.” He pauses. “Sorry,” he says, a little sheepish. “Is this, like, wicked fucking boring to you?”

I laugh a little at the expression—It’s the most stereotypically Bostonian he’s ever sounded—and shake my head. “No, actually.” It’s a partial truth—I could give a shit about race cars, to be honest—but I like the way he sounds when he talks about them, dark eyes lighting up and hands flying.

“Liar.” Cal smiles, tilting his head to look at me; he leaned over earlier to show me the screen of the tablet, and suddenly I’m way too aware of how close he really is.

“I’m serious,” I insist, clearing my throat a little. “You can tell you really love what you do, and I think that’s great.” There’s something stupidly sexy about it, honestly, although I’m not about to admit that part out loud.

Cal’s not buying. “Mm-hmm,” he says, in a voice like he’s humoring me—and not, I can’t help but notice, making any move to straighten up. This close I can smell him—that same faint, familiar cologne from three years ago, rosemary maybe, something I’d stored away in the recesses of my brain without knowing I was doing it. It makes me want to press my face against his neck.

“Uh, Jules?” Cal says, in a voice like possibly it’s not the first time he’s tried to get my attention; suddenly I realize he’s been talking this whole time, and I’ve been too distracted by the scent of him—and the thought of that night in Vegas—to hear a single word. “You sure I’m not losing you?”

“What? No, no,” I protest. “I’m listening.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Oh yeah?” he asks, not bothering to hide his smile.

“Then what did I just say?”

Crap. I have no clue; I was too busy watching his mouth move. “Something about . . . green engines?” I guess. “And horsepower? And like . . .” I wrack my brain for some other car-related term. “. . . spark plugs?”

Cal snorts. “Spark plugs,” he says, nodding seriously. “Definitely.”

“Whatever.” I can feel myself blushing, knowing he’s onto me. “Spark plugs are a thing.” I should stand up and put some space between us—I am going to stand up and put some space between us, any second now—but when I glance up Cal’s staring back at me, the intent on his face unmistakable.

Hello.

Before I can react, he pulls me closer, and claims my mouth with a hot, sizzling kiss.

I gasp in surprise against him, and Cal pauses, almost like he’s realizing what he’s done. But it’s too late.

I want him.

I kiss him back, hard, and thank heavens, Cal doesn’t need any more invitation. He hauls me to my feet and backs me up against the desk, sliding his tongue deep into my mouth as his hands rove everywhere. I return the favor, exploring the broad plane of his chest and mmmm, that tight ass, thinking wildly about all the flat surfaces in his office we could use. The desk? This godawful settee? I don’t care, just as long as I get him naked and—

“Hey Cal?” A voice breaks the sound of our panting. Someone’s tapping at the door. I leap away from Cal like I’ve been electrocuted just before his assistant walks in. “The Noguchi folks are waiting for you in the—oh, I’m sorry.” Jason stops, eyes darting from me to Cal and back again. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s fine,” I exclaim brightly. My face feels like it’s on fire. “We were just, um, discussing business.”

Real smooth.

“I’m going to see what the kids are up to,” I continue, backing away. I quickly smooth down my shirt. “Bye!”

I dart past Jason and down the hallway, then duck into a stairwell to catch my breath. That was a close one.

And hot.

Close, and hot, and definitely not part of the program.

I sink back against the wall, cringing. I know the whole point of this crazy scheme is to make it look like we’re engaged, and getting caught sucking face wouldn’t be a big deal to his employees. But it felt like a big deal to me.

And I would know, I was pressed up against him.

Ahem.

 All at once a million vivid memories of the night Cal and I spent together in Vegas come barreling at me, faster and more powerfully than any top-of-the-line racecar ever could.

“Fuck,” I mutter, banging my head softly against the cinderblock wall of the staircase. “Fuck.”

Which: yeah. That’s pretty much what happened.