Ed and I ride the elevator in silence and then cross the executive floor towards my office without saying a word. Once he’s seated across from my desk, I pour us each a couple of fingers of scotch without bothering to ask if he wants any. I set the crystal tumbler down in front of him, and then slip into the seat behind my desk.

“Logan,” he starts, but I hold up a finger, swallowing a couple of mouthfuls of the ashy amber liquid before I feel ready to talk.

“What are you really doing here, Ed?”

It’s his turn to draw out the moment as he sips on the scotch. “I told you — I had a meeting.”

“About what?”

“Oh, just this and that.”

I lean forward. “You met with my HR department, Ed, I think I have a right to know why.”

“Christine was going over the talent management strategy with me.” The words come easily enough, but then again, Ed has always been smooth. It’s one of the reasons I always liked him. Not so much if he’s using that against me. I still can’t put my finger on what’s going on — does Ed really have my best interests at heart, or is there more to the story?

“Talent management,” I muse. “I could have told you anything you wanted to know. You should have called me.”

He shrugs. “You’re busy. You were supposed to call me about dinner weeks ago.”

“Right.” That drops a stone of guilt into my stomach.

But Ed seems non-plussed.He takes another sip of scotch, and then says casually, “That new assistant you got sure is a pretty one. Best looking man I’ve ever seen, I’ll tell you what.”

Here we go. I stare him down, refusing to give anything away. I’m used to men like Ed. I was born into this business and raised every day of my life to be driven, focused, ruthless. I can handle myself around just about anyone. Except these days, Ed is the closest thing I have to a father, and the way he’s looking at me now is like a father who’s disappointed in his son.

“We hired her by accident,” I mutter. “And I figured it would look worse to fire her than just to keep her on.”

“I won’t ask if you’re sleeping with her,” Ed says.

“Good.”

Something unspoken passes between us. Ed’s fingers tighten around the glass, and he sighs. “Thank you for the drink. I still owe you a dinner. If you can find the time, give me a ring.”

“I will. And dinner is on me.”

He waves off my offer and shuffles out of my office.

I rub my temples, then finish off the scotch. I think about pouring another, but Blake’s face is tickling my mind again, and I feel the need to see her as soon as possible. To make sure she’s okay.

I ride the elevator down to the twenty-seventh floor again and stride over to HR. Georgia’s door is closed. I knock once and then open it without waiting for a response. Both Blake and Georgia spin around to face the door, and I catch Blake dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. Fuck.

Something primal and angry twists inside of me. “Georgia, I need to borrow Blake. Can you two finish up tomorrow?”

Georgia looks questioningly at Blake, who shrugs. “Of course, Mr. Cartwright. I think we’re just about finished here anyway, right, Blake?”

Blake nods. I see she’s already shoved the tissue into the pocket of her jacket. Her eyes are still red, but otherwise her face is a perfect mask of composure. We walk towards the elevator. When I hit the down button instead of the one to go back upstairs, Blake frowns.

“Where are we going?”

“Out of here.”

“What should I do with these notes?” She waves the sheaf of papers at me, the ones with her small, neat handwriting all over them.

I shrug. “Throw them out. We’ll not be doing business with SynthGem going forward.”

“Wait, but didn’t you just close the deal back there? What was the point of that meeting?”

“We did, but I don’t want to work with anyone who would treat … my staff … like that.”

“Oh.”

I point to the recycling bin near the elevator. “File your notes there, please and thank you.”

With a small smile, Blake lets the pages slip into the recycling bin. They make a fluttering noise as they fall, and then they’re gone.

Even though it’s still bright outside, the lights are dim inside my favorite Thai restaurant. Blake’s head whips around wildly, taking in the hanging jasmine, the velvet drapes, the scents and the colors. It’s a magical place, more like an opium den than a restaurant.

“Have you ever been here?” I ask, even though I can tell by how wide her eyes are that she hasn’t. “It’s the place we got delivery from the other day.”

“Never.” She bites her lip. “I’m from Connecticut, you know. We don’t have places like this there.”

I smile. “I remember.”

“You remember?”

“From your resume. Executive assistant to the CEO of Bloomers flower shop in Highfield, Connecticut.”

“Oh. Right.” Her cheeks color. “That’s actually my parents’ store,” she admits.

“I know.”

“You do?”

“I looked it up after I hired you. I was curious about what kind of executive assistant didn’t know how to work a coffee machine.”

Blake’s cheeks are still red, but now she laughs. “I might have exaggerated a tad.”

“A tad.”

There’s something charming about her precociousness. In the past, I would have fired an assistant for less, but there’s something charming and, I don’t know, kind of ballsy about Blake. I like it. I like her, I realize.

“Did you like Connecticut?” I ask, because it seems an easier thing to say than anything else that might come shooting out of my mouth right now.

She looks thoughtful. “I did. It’s quiet, and ... I don’t know, homey.”

“So what made you move to New York?”

She shrugs. “I guess I just wanted to see what else was out there. My sisters both live here, and they always seemed to have these glamorous, fabulous lives, you know? Cool careers, amazing boyfriends, busy social calendars. I was working for my parents, and my social life was getting smaller and smaller, to the point where a lively Friday night was when Netflix got a new season of Orange is the New Black. Plus, when you live in a small town, the dating pool gets really incestuous, really quick.”

I laugh at that, a genuine laugh that seems to take Blake by surprise. Her cheeks color softly, and a small smile spreads over her lips.

“I’m pretty familiar with that, actually,” I tell her. “I grew up in Connecticut.”

“You did? I didn’t know that.”

“Born and raised. My sister Heather and her family still live out there.”

“Heather — that would be Jack and Daisy’s mom?”

“That’s right, yes. She had no interest in relocating to New York. She owns shares in the company, but she had no interest in the day to day management of it. So she attends the annual general meeting, and that’s about it.”

“And you took over?”

“Pretty much. It was always kind of a given. I’ve been working here since I was ... well, legally too young to even be working.” I flash her a grin, and she laughs.

“Child labor. Lovely. I’m surprised you haven’t put Jack to work yet.”

I chuckle. “Now there’s an idea.”

A silence descends between us, but it isn’t awkward or tense, just comfortable. Blake sips her soda water and gazes around the restaurant, and I admire the sleek lines of her profile, the way her braid falls softly down over her shoulder. God, she’s really, really beautiful. And the strange thing is, she doesn’t even seem to realize it. She’s so unselfconscious, the way she twists the end of her plait, the way she gnaws at her bottom lip. It’s more tantalizing than the raunchiest strip tease, more stirring than a great work of art.

She turns to face me again, her chin resting in her hands. Her blue eyes sparkle in the dim restaurant lighting. “Do you ever think about having kids of your own? You know, to shore up the Cartwright labor forces.”

The question catches me off guard, and I shake my head before I even have time to truly consider my answer. “No way. I love my niece and nephew, but that level of responsibility isn’t for me.”

Blake gnaws her lip again. This time she isn’t smiling. “But you were so great with them. You’d be a great dad.”

“That was a weekend. Kids are a lifetime commitment.”

“I know, but don’t you sometimes think it might be nice to have something … I don’t know, more?”

I chuckle. “Not particularly, no.” I try to keep the tone light, but the truth is, this line of questioning is starting to get uncomfortable. Right now, Blake sounds a little too much like Heather and my mother. I think of Heather’s word the other day — stunted. Maybe Blake thinks I’m stunted, too. The thought bothers me more than I’m willing to admit.

She twists her lip so hard, I swear she’s going to bruise it. And I could think of a much more satisfying way to bruise those plump, beautiful lips of hers. When she finally flutters her lashes back up to look at me again, her face is serious.

“Who broke your heart, Logan?”

The question stops me cold. Blake’s blue eyes seem to bore into me. My ribs tighten. I could tell her, I think. Tell her about Laura and about what we went through and about how I’m afraid I’m permanently broken on the inside now.

But then I imagine the piteous way she’d look at me. And I can’t take Blake’s pity.

So instead, I fix her with a frozen glare. “No one,” I say with a half-grin, half-sneer. “I do the heartbreaking around here. You should know that by now.”

“Right.” Blake blinks, once, twice, three times. Her eyes look glassy, but that must be the reflection from the candlelight.

Suddenly, I feel desperate to turn this evening around. “Do you want to get out of here?” I turn my sneer into what I hope is a charming grin.

“And go where?” Blake is leaning back in her chair, folding her napkin, her bottom lip nestled under her teeth again.

“I don’t know. Don’t really care, either. But if you keep chewing on that lip like that, you’re going to drive me criminally insane.”

Blake gives me a weak smile. “Actually, I should probably just get home. I’m feeling pretty tired.”

It’s not the answer I’m expecting. Frankly, no is not an answer I’m ever expecting. “Is everything okay?”

“Fine. Like I said, just tired.”

“Then let me take you home.”

Blake laughs softly. “Logan, I’m fine. Really. I’ll take a cab.”

I want to argue, but I know from experience that there’s no point arguing with Blake. “Well, you’ll put it on the company card, at least?”

“Of course.” A brief smile flits across her beautiful face. “I always do.”

“Let me just settle up the bill then, and I’ll walk you out.”

“Okay.”

As I hail our server over, I catch Blake eyeballing the table next to us. It’s an older couple, maybe twice my age, and they’re finishing up their meal with what looks like the world’s most decadent chocolate cake. Blake rubs her thumb over the corner of her mouth as she watches them eat.

“You want that cake, don’t you?”

“Hmm?” she turns to me in surprise. “Oh, no.”

“Blake, you just wiped away a spot of drool.”

She touches her mouth again, embarrassed but laughing. “Oh God, I did, didn’t I?”

“Yes. Let me at least get you some cake to take home with you.”

“Well...”

“Come on. Don’t fight me on this one.”

“Okay. If you insist.”

Ten minutes later, I put Blake — and three pieces of cake, safely nestled in plastic to-go containers — into a taxi. I stand on the street until long after the cab has driven out of sight, until the chill of the evening air cuts through my suit jacket and I call my own driver to pick me up. We drive aimlessly around Manhattan for awhile, because I can already tell that sleep won’t come easy tonight, and I’m in no hurry to get back to my empty penthouse.