I won't lie. I went home that night and took myself in hand—literally.

Fuck, what was I thinking? Lizzie wanted me to kiss her—I could read the signals pretty loud and clear—and I chickened out.

Face palm.

Palm cock.

Rinse and repeat.

Was I being too much of a gentleman? Or was I just being a complete fucking idiot? Either way, it left me with a bunch of self-doubt and a hard-on that could probably pound away on a mechanical keyboard.

I still wasn't sure what to make of her response to the question I'd sent her under a fake name, about having a crush on someone at work. Was she for an office romance or against it? I got no clear answer from her.

That frustrating lack of clarity was what dragged her column down.

That was the problem with Miss Behave, I was beginning to realize. It just didn't have any oomph. It had a throwback feel that the editors at Hot Mess had clearly supported for the past couple of years, but now it was running the risk of seeming seriously disconnected from reality. I mean, come on? She was one step away from answering flower-arranging questions.

At least my column dealt with the truth—whether that was sexual fetishes, fears, or real relationship problems. Me, I laid it all out in black and white. Lizzie doled out a lot of gray.

My readers bared their souls to me. I appreciated the hell out of that, and gave mad props to anyone who wrote in to me with that kind of vulnerability.

All of Lizzie's vulnerability seemed to be in her, not in her column—which is why maybe it wasn't getting the clicks that mine was.

She seemed to get more etiquette questions than anything else these days. And here I was, dying to know what she believed her own etiquette should be.

These were the things on my mind when I got the email from Robert Mooney about the plan for Lizzie and I to create online dating profiles for each other.

Holy shit. Cue demonic internal cackling. This could either go really, really well, or be a nuclear explosion of bad judgment.

So I picked a dating website and went to town.

---

“I need to see your profiles,” Mooney said a week later when I was at the offices of Hot Mess.

Lizzie threw me a panicked look. “Um, I’m still working on Ash’s.”

Shrug. “I’m done. I’ll email you the link.” My eyes narrowed at Mooney. “As long as you keep it to yourself.”

I wanted to surprise her with it.

“Why do I have the feeling that this is going to result in me being humiliated?” Lizzie asked to herself.

When I wrapped my pinky finger around hers, a jolt of electricity went up my arm. “Hey, I’m putting a lot of trust in you,” I said softly. “Afford me the same courtesy, okay?”

She stared down at our hands and nodded mutely.

“Great,” the senior editor said. “I’ll set up the date.”

My brow furrowed. “Wait, what?” That wasn’t part of the plan.

He looked a little too pleased with himself. “I’ll set up a double date for you guys, based on your profiles and who matches them, and it can be your column for next week.”

It was Tuesday now, and the column ran on Mondays.

“Isn’t that kind of, uh, quick?” Lizzie said, squeezing my whole hand now.

Mooney waved a hand. “No problem. Get me Ash’s profile link by the end of today. I’ll set you up for Saturday night.”

For a smart man, he sure was making a lot of assumptions—for one, that he’d find matches that were available for a date that weekend. I began to worry. It was one thing to trust Lizzie with my profile, but another altogether to trust a guy I barely knew. I didn’t think Lizzie would throw me under the dating bus. Mooney… I wasn’t so sure about. He might do anything for the right cost-per-click.

In the meantime, Lizzie had been very careful not to spend much time alone with me since our dinner meeting. I hadn’t seen her in person since then, when I read her official online response to my dating question.

I sat back in my chair after I read it, tapping my chin. That helped… not at all.

“Assume nothing?” Well, there went my whole strategy of assuming that she might actually have useful advice.

I compared it to my answer, wondering what she’d thought of it.

I snorted at the disclaimer that Mooney had added—that by publishing this column, the company wasn’t endorsing sexual advances at the workplace.

Maybe there was something in the employee handbook? Did they even have an employee handbook? My next email might have to be to HR, not Miss Behave.

---

On Saturday night, when I showered and dressed, I thought of Lizzie.

Not my blind date.

Recalling the way that Lizzie had checked out the tattoo on my chest, I left the top few buttons of my black shirt undone. The rest of me was pretty standard, though I did put on some nicer shoes.

There was only so far I was willing to upcycle myself for a blind date; either they took me as I was or not at all. Most women, I’d discovered, didn’t have a problem with me.

Except for Lizzie. I really had a hard time figuring out what she thought of me. Normally that kind of thing didn’t matter to me—except that it did. Maybe it was just because I was so damn curious about her… Like tonight, what would she wear? A little black dress? Another tight sweater?

I found myself mentally skimming different fantasy outfits while I waited outside her apartment building. I’d texted to let her know I was here, and she responded that she’d be down in a moment. The sidewalk was the perfect place for people watching, and I leaned against the brick of her building as I waited.

“What’s that?”

Startled, I straightened, the brick scrubbing my leather jacket. I’d been so distracted by the world walking past that she’d gotten the drop on me. And now that I saw her, I was momentarily speechless.

Miss Behave was dressed to misbehave.

At first glance she was demure, even staid. But her long black skirt had a slit that went up her thigh when she moved, and the way her top fell off her creamy shoulders under her shawl made me wonder if she was even wearing a bra.

She’d managed to find the precise intersection between prim and prostitute, and my body reacted immediately. This could get embarrassing very quickly, even before the “blind date” began.

“Is that for me?” She nodded toward the plastic box in my hand.

Oh, right. I handed her the corsage, shrugging. Yeah, I found a flower shop that did that. It seemed to fit her personality.

Her eyes widened with admiration. “That’s incredibly… sweet.”

What every hot-blooded man likes to be called—sweet. But I’d take it. “May I?”

I saw the color spreading down her cheeks to her neck as she shifted her scarf. The cropped peasant top she wore underneath revealed a tempting line of bare flesh at her waist.

Moving closer to her, I raised my hands and carefully pinned the little ribbon-wrapped spray of fragrant white flowers to her blouse. Her breast was warm and soft beneath my knuckles, making me wish I’d chosen looser pants.

Her breath juddered against my neck as I bent over her. Her perfume rose up in my nostrils, sweet and light. My fingers slipped over the flowers. Stupid corsage. It would be helpful if I could stop breathing and seeing and feeling, as well.

“Just a second,” I said, trying to adjust the pin. The last thing I wanted was to stick her—especially there. I’d never forgive myself. It would be like defacing a Picasso.

Her head bent close to mine. “I can try—”

“Done.” There was absolutely nothing wrong with staring at her chest to admire the flowers, right?

Softly, she lay her hand over mine, stilling it, and looking up at me. “Am I going to regret tonight, Ash?”

With one hand still wrapped in hers, I raised the other to her face. “I’d do anything in my power to make sure you have no regrets,” I said honestly. “Ever.”

My thumb rubbed her cheek, close to the corner of her lip. Her skin felt like warm silk under my touch.

“Thank you for the flowers,” she whispered. We were in our own little bubble, the city walking past us, around us.

“You look beautiful, Lizzie. You really do.”

Her cheeks reddened further as her gaze swiftly went over me. Up and down. She wobbled a little on her heels as she stepped back.

Away from me.

She cleared her throat nervously as she looked in her purse for something. “Uh, we need some kind of code,” she said.

“For what?”

“Mutual rescue. Rats on a sinking ship. You know.” She pulled out her phone and frowned at me. “What happens if these people we’re being set up with are psychos?”

“Then it’ll make a great column. But what if they’re not? Maybe we’ll like them.”

She blinked, her forehead creasing. “Ash, please don’t—” Her mouth snapped shut.

“Please don’t what?”

Her hair lifted in the breeze as she looked away from me. “Please take me home before you do anything, okay?”

Oh. It was code for “I know I don’t have the right to ask, but please don’t fuck your blind date tonight.”

Suddenly I was angry. Angry and hurt that she thought I would do that. That I could think about any other woman when she was in front of me, looking like that. Smelling like that, blushing like that.

It was all I could do not to press her up against her own building and test my no-bra theory myself.

“Don’t worry,” I said stiffly. “I’m a gentleman.”

As I hailed us a cab, I realized that I’d made no promises about what might happen after I took Lizzie home.