The building is small and unassuming. Its brick exterior and single flower pot would be great touches if this were one of the many best-kept secrets that really aren’t secrets in downtown Chicago. Those places dot our city with silent prestige. But this doesn’t have the buzz or waitlist to allow the simplicity that’s verging on plainness, guaranteeing me more work than I’m ready to consider.

I head up the cement stairs, noting the lack of a railing, and stand in front of a large glass door. Inside, chandeliers dimly shine above a carpeted floor. I’m sweating, my fears compounding. I know very little about bars, but this place is far more than eight weeks from being ready for a grand opening. I knock twice. When no one appears, I pull the door open, releasing the sounds of Pearl Jam. “Hello?” I call. My voice barely competes with the current riff played over the speakers. I step farther inside and call out louder.

As I wander farther inside, I turn, taking in more of the building and all of its pain-inducing details. I stop when I see a man half-hidden beneath a counter. The dull clink of metal is barely audible above the music.

“Excuse me. Have you seen Mr. Westbrook?” My voice disappears into the chorus. I expel a deep breath and reach forward, tapping the man on the leg. He jumps, hitting his head on something below the cabinet. He murmurs a train of quiet curses before pulling his upper body free and rubbing his forehead.

My eyes round and my pulse heightens as he stands. He’s wearing a bright red T-shirt that closely follows every line and bulge of his abs and biceps, accentuating the width of his shoulders and chest. The red color signifying “stop” and the way it fits him, which welcomes a “go,” are a complete contradiction.

“Brooke?” The same deep rumble that’s been plaguing my thoughts breaks over the music. Then he fishes a small remote from his pocket, and the music, my focus, and my heartbeat cease.”

I stare at him, desperate to find an excuse for why he’s here.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“Mr. Westbrook?” I ask, my voice as timid as my thoughts. I pray he says no. I need him to shake his head and give me a look of utter confusion.

“Yes…” Levi says instead, knitting his eyebrows at my formality.

“You’re Mr. Westbrook?”

“Yes…” Recognition dawns, his eyes widening with understanding. “You work at Glitter and Gold?”

“You’re my boss’s son.”

Levi smiles. It’s charming and demure. “What a small world.”

I shake my head. It’s not small—it’s evil. “This is…”

His face falls. Maybe he’s finally connected the dots. Maybe he reads my distress. Maybe he’s seeing the same red flashing lights going off. “This doesn’t… This shouldn’t change anything. This is just work.”

I shake my head. “You’re my boss’s son.” I repeat the revelation, the shock hitting me in waves. “I had no idea. You look nothing alike.” I put a hand to my face, attempting to fill the empty space that was created this weekend when he touched me, branding my skin. “I had no idea…”

“I didn’t either. She just told me she was going to send her best associate.”

“We…” I pause, straightening. “We didn’t know. It’s fine.”

Levi tilts his head, his brow creasing. “You’re saying it’s fine, but it doesn’t sound like you think it’s fine.” He takes a step closer to me.

I hold my ground, attempting to act unaffected. “I just mean we obviously had no idea we couldn’t be anything but professional acquaintances when we met.”

“Professional acquaintances?” He sounds borderline offended. “Why can we only be professional acquaintances?”

“Your mom is my boss.”

Levi shrugs.

“Your mom’s my boss! I kissed my boss’s son!” I place a hand to my forehead in an attempt to balance the weight of my thoughts.

“Why is this such a big deal?”

“How do I know your mother’s gardeners, personal accountant, hairdresser, and nail tech but not you? I know her food allergies. I know her damn bra size, and I had no idea you were her son.” I shake my head. “I’ve been in her house dozens of times. I would have remembered seeing you.”

“If you’ve been in the house, then you’ve seen me. There’s a five-foot painting of me in the foyer.”

I pause, working to recall the large painting he’s referring to. “From when you were five!”

“I was eleven and had just won first prize for hurdles with my horse.” Levi holds an imaginary rein with one hand and a trophy in the other, flashing a smile that is both forced and sarcastic. I’ve never focused on the picture we’re discussing, not looking enough to see the similarities behind the pose he’s struck.

“That doesn’t explain how I didn’t know about you!”

“Are you upset because you wish you’d met me sooner?” He flashes a flirty smile, one that’s been rehearsed and that I’m betting he knows the typical outcome of.

I shake my head, ignoring his smile and dimple and clear, blue eyes, which become brighter as he teases me. “This. Us...” I wave a hand between us. “We can’t… I mean, we can only be friends.”

Levi’s eyebrows soar. “Because you work for my mom?”

“Among other things.”

“What things?” he challenges, taking another step closer to me. “I had no idea you had curly hair.”

Distracted, I run a hand over a section of my locks, hoping they’re not resembling cotton candy—poofy and frizzy.

“You don’t like it.” He states this like he knows me. Like my mannerisms and actions have a voice he understands, which is impossible since we’ve only known each other for a few days and have spent mere hours together. “I think it’s beautiful.”

I shake my head again. “That’s only because you haven’t seen it in the humidity. Or heat. Or rain. Or wind. It only behaves indoors with controlled temperatures.”

Levi smiles again and closes the gap between us with another stride. “You could say the same about me.”

I take a step back, desperate to recreate spacing. “It would be completely unprofessional and inappropriate for us to be anything more than professional acquaintances, and your mom definitely wouldn’t approve. In addition, you were right. I was in a long-term relationship, and I’m not ready to date. Not yet. It’s too soon.” I shake my head to add emphasis.

“And you’ve realized that just now?”

“Actually, I’ve been questioning it since I met you—before I met you. Plus, I’m supposed to be planning a successful grand opening for your bar.”

He shrugs dismissively. “It doesn’t have to be successful.”

My eyes grow, likely twice their normal size, as I stare at him. I have no idea if he’s joking or serious.

“My business partner chose this location. Personally, I think this place is a waste of time and money. We can’t compete in the market over here, and quite frankly, I don’t care to.”

“Then why did you hire someone to help if you don’t care?”

“My business partner takes care of this stuff. Not me. I don’t care about how a place looks; I care about the energy—the heart and soul of the place—and the menu.”

“How it looks contributes to how it feels.”

Levi crinkles his nose and purses his lips, disbelief apparent. “With the right music, lighting, and drinks, you can create any vibe you want.”

I consider the hundreds of weddings I’ve planned and try to imagine them all being in a single location, only changing the music and lighting. “Yeah … no.”

“You don’t think so?”

“Ten years of planning weddings confirms I don’t.” I look around the empty building once more. “Even with Pearl Jam playing, the only vibe I get from this place is confusion. It doesn’t feel like a bar at all. The lighting makes me think of a diner, and the carpet feels like an office space, and the wood paneling on the walls reminds me of an old accountant’s office.” I dismiss the list of details that contradict the space with a shake of my head. “If you don’t take care of this stuff, then why isn’t your business partner planning the grand opening?”

“Apparently, getting married was more important.” His face remains stoic for several seconds, and then he smiles.

Frustration tickles my thoughts. He was able to read my discomfort so easily, and I’m not sure if he’s being sarcastic or serious, stuck between wanting to believe he’s kidding and afraid he’s not. “Maybe I should reassign this to someone else at the office…”

Levi stares at me. My comment doesn’t alter his expression at all. “My mom swears you’re her best employee. That you’d be the best fit for the job.”

“I don’t know anything about restaurants and grand openings,” I confess.

“Would this change your position on us dating?”

I shake my head. “We can’t.”

“Because I’m the son of your boss?”

I nod.

“It could work in your favor. Instead of you asking for vacation time, I could. Think about it—she’d never question if I told her you were sick.” Again, his expression remains unaffected.

Then, he winks.

I don’t remember it being so difficult to read him at the bar or the game. “There would be a conflict of interest.”

He cocks his head to the side. “But you’ll work on the grand opening because you know she’ll be disappointed and wouldn’t accept no regardless…”

The way he assumes this makes me fear he might be just like his mother. “We’re going to need every minute of the next eight weeks,” I tell him rather than admitting he’s right. “I’m not sure I’m the right person to be giving you design advice, but we need to rip out this old carpet, change the lights, and figure out where people are going to sit.” I glance around the outdated space again. “And unless you’re looking for a retro vibe, we need to nix the paneling.”

Levi grins. “But you’ll let me keep the chandeliers, right?”

I glance up at the gold-flecked fixtures. “I’ll use them as bargaining chips. If you want to keep them, you have to agree on changing the outside.”

His lips tip higher. “You really have no faith in my business sense, do you?”

Over the past decade, the one fact I’ve learned is to avoid insulting clients at all cost. If that requires white lies, accepting misplaced blame, or apologizing even when I’m not in the wrong, I do it. I’ve worked with all personality types on the spectrum from control freaks to those who want zero input—yet I’ve never kissed one of my clients or worked so hard to flirt with them. I’ve never had them send me a text message that inflated my heart and ego with hope. I’m at a complete disadvantage here.

“You’re Catherine’s son—there’s no chance you don’t have any business sense. It’s your sense of style I have a little concern for.”

His laughter has me staring at him for too long, admiring those parentheses that stamp into his cheeks near that subtle dimple that makes coherent thoughts wash away. There’s a knock at the door, and we both turn to see a man wearing a pair of jeans and purple polo shirt.

Levi rubs his palms together. “Rest assured. I’ve brought in some professionals. I’d like for you to stay and offer your feedback. Is that okay? Do you have time?”

Catherine’s never asked if I have the time to take on more work or help with another emergency. She rarely asks for my input on things—just assumes I’ll get things done. This stark difference between her and Levi is both welcome and unfortunate. I need him to be more like her so I can classify our kiss and these past few days as a mistake rather than a tragedy.

“Yeah,” I tell him, reaching up to comb a hand through my hair and stopping when I feel the product holding my curls in place. “I set aside a few hours for us to discuss different details we generally cover in the first appointment, but this is fine. We can do that stuff another time.”

Levi waves the man in and then lifts an arm, directing me toward the door. The gesture reminds me so much of Sunday when he led me to the bar it nearly feels like déjà vu. And like that time, he lightly places his hand against my lower back, though this time when he does it, confusion reigns over me. Perhaps this isn’t an intimate gesture. My own brother will sometimes set his hand on my back when we’re walking together. Granted, it’s usually accompanied by him also trying to shove me or give me a noogie or some other obnoxious accompaniment, but not always.

Maybe I need to write an open letter on my new blog about how difficult flirting and reading signals is. How hard it’s always been.