As I’m clearing my desk in preparation to leave, Alex returns from the reception area with a large white box. He pushes it into my arms, then grins at my baffled expression.

“Open it,” he says.

“What is it?” I ask, but don’t wait for a response, pulling off the lid to tear through layers of white tissue paper. Soft, black fabric fills my hands and I lift free a flirty cocktail dress.

“I called Lillian for your size.”

I drag my eyes from the Valentino label. “Where are we going?”

He merely smiles. “Get dressed. There are shoes in the box, too.” I move more tissue paper and find a pair of edgy black stilettos. Christian Louboutin. Of course. He adds wryly, “Just pretend you’re borrowing them.”

I give myself a little shake and remember manners. Be kind. Thoughtful. Precise.

“I’m very flattered, Alex, thank you.”

“I might believe that if you said it without the lemon in your mouth.”

I wince. “Sorry.”

He laughs and leans over the desk to kiss me hard on the lips. “I wouldn’t have you any other way,” he murmurs. “Now get dressed. And the hair stays down.”

Helpless to keep the grin from my face, I grab the gifts (and my cosmetic bag) and hasten to the office restroom. Though the dress is indeed my size, I find out quickly it’s not designed for modesty. Sleeveless and thinly strapped, the low, sculptured neckline exposes two inches more cleavage than I’m used to seeing, while the back displays a good portion of my tattoo. Moreover, the playfully flared skirt ends well above the knee. Thank God I shaved my legs this morning.

There’s no embellishment to the fabric besides quality and cut—not that it’s needed or wanted. I slip on the perfectly sized shoes and twirl before the mirror, reacquainting myself with the decadent feel of wearing a superbly crafted dress.

My eye makeup is mostly intact from the morning, and proximity to Alex supersedes the necessity for blush. I swipe on a fresh coat of mascara and some gloss, gather up my clothes, and leave the restroom.

Alex lounges in my chair, head back and eyes closed. His legs are tossed over a corner of my desk, one foot twitching rhythmically. When he registers the click of my heels, his head lifts and turns.

Yep, no need for blush.

His feet thud against the floor and he rises sinuously. By the time he crosses the space between us, my chest is testing the tenacity of the fabric holding it. Hot fingertips slide over my cleavage.

He says darkly, “I’m rethinking dinner plans.”

“Not a chance. You promised me a date.”

Eyes twinkling, he tugs a tendril of my hair. “You look exquisite.”

“Thank you,” I breathe.

He offers me an arm. “Shall we, Ms. Sands?”

I nod, fighting the urge to grin like a fool. “We shall, Mr. Hughes.”

After depositing my clothes at my desk and retrieving my purse, he leads me out of the office past a smiling Alice. I’m so intent on navigating the outside stairs without tripping, I don’t notice the limo parked in the alley until we’re standing in front of it.

Alex smiles coyly and opens the back door.

“Thebes!” screeches Lillian.

Shocked, I bend forward to peer into the limo. My gaze pings over the smiling faces of Lillian, Adam, Matthew, and his wife, Grace.

Lillian’s wicked laughter rolls over me. “Oh man, you’re about to spill out of that dress. I told you so, Alex!”

I snap upright, in the process catching the top of my head on the doorframe. I gasp in surprised pain, and a chuckling Alex hauls me into his chest to kiss the offended spot.

“Are you okay?” he asks, but he’s humming with laughter.

I scowl up at him. “At least try to sound concerned.”

He grins, unrepentant. “You’re so sexy when you’re mad.”

Lillian yells, “Come on, lovebirds, let’s get rolling!”

Two hours and two bottles of champagne later, the limo deposits us in Santa Monica. Night has fallen during our sojourn north, but though the air is cool against my exposed skin, I’m deliciously warm. Having only had one glass of champagne, I know it’s not the alcohol buffering me. It’s happiness, unfettered and tingling effervescently in my limbs.

Before us, a wall of greenery extends to one side of a cobblestone walkway. From the din of clanking silverware and voices, there’s an extensive outdoor patio. The restaurant is clearly a Friday night hotspot.

I look up at the cursive font on a black awning, then smile at Alex. “Azalea.”

He smirks. “I hear the chef’s outrageously talented.”

Lillian and the others flow around us toward the entrance, chatting excitedly about the design (Matthew and Adam) and the chances of seeing famous faces (Lillian and Grace).

Alex tugs me back when I make to follow. I wrap my arms around his waist and gaze up at him as the limo pulls away. “Thank you, Mr. Hughes.”

A wry brow lifts. “I haven’t done anything yet.”

“You have,” I say softly. The words in my heart boil up to the tip of my tongue. I hold on—barely—to my restraint.

His thumb grazes the indent below my lips. “Are you happy, Thea?”

“Yes.”

Blue eyes crinkle with warmth. “No lemon this time, I’m glad to report.”

The tapping of high heels is accompanied by Lillian’s strident voice, “Alex, the anorexic hostess is giving us trouble. Either you come inside, or you deal with me smacking one of your employees.”

Alex’s expression slackens with astonishment. I burst into laughter, staggering back several steps to grab Lillian’s arm. “She’s kidding,” I gasp.

Lillian snickers. “Yeah, I’m kidding. But not about the first bit. Don’t people eat here? Oh, right—it’s L.A. They only pretend to eat.”

Alex shakes his head chidingly and walks forward, grabbing my hand as he passes. He leads us into Azalea, where a beautiful (and very thin) young woman stands arguing with Adam and Matthew.

“Excuse me.” Alex’s voice isn’t loud, but the commanding tone causes immediate silence in the waiting area, in which several other groups linger. Eyes widen, narrow, and gleam as they assess him.

Adam and Matthew look relieved to see us. The hostess, however, bristles further. Lillian and I trade a glance, then clamp our lips against the impulse to laugh.

Alex asks mildly, “Is there a problem finding us a table?”

The hostess flushes angrily. “As I’ve just told these gentlemen, I’m sorry, but our reservations are booked weeks in advance. We don’t have, nor will we have, a table for six tonight.”

Lillian and I make the mistake of looking at each other again. We start laughing. Alex shoots me a heated glance, which slowly transitions to humor. He sighs, muttering, “Figures.” He then turns his attention back to the hostess. “I’d like to speak with the manager.”

She almost prevents an eye roll. “That won’t be possible. He’s extremely busy, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

By now, several of the patrons in the waiting area have recognized Alex. Postures grow rigid, expressions blank, and gazes patently avoid the doomed hostess.

My laughter fades beneath a wave of discomfort and sympathy. I imagine what her tomorrow looks like: jobless, crying into her pillow. She can’t be more than twenty years old.

Alex lifts my hand to his mouth and kisses my knuckles. “Breathe, Thea,” he whispers, “No narratives.”

I blink in shock as he releases my hand and walks toward the hostess. Pulling his wallet from a back pocket, he opens it to show his ID. When he speaks, his voice is pitched low for privacy, but I can hear the warmth and kindness in it. Emotions speed across the girl’s face as she realizes who she’s speaking to. Tears fill her eyes and she glances, horrified, at the other patrons.

Alex continues speaking softly. The hostess gives him a weak smile, nods once, and then again with more pride. Finally, she walks away from her station, presumably to fetch the manager. Her head is held high, her shoulders squared.

Lillian squeezes my fingers. “Jesus,” she whispers, “now I’m kind of in love with him.”

I just stare at Alex, who glances over his shoulder at me. His brows lift and he mouths, “Okay?”

I nod, and another piece of my heart shears off.

The manager arrives, grovels, and starts issuing orders to various members of the staff, who rush toward the patio. My discomfort increases again as I imagine the servers begging diners to give up their smaller tables for relocation inside. A few loud, annoyed voices filter in through the open french doors.

“It’s my fault,” says Alex softly, as his arm encircles my waist. I tuck my face into his shoulder, trying to tune out the sounds of money moving the world. “I forgot to call ahead.”

His chagrined tone pulls a smile from me. “Isn’t that what you have Lucy and Nicole for?”

He pinches my waist. “I gave them a couple days off. And yes, I realize I’ve made an ass of myself in front of you. Again.”

I look up quickly. “No, Alex,” I say, and his expression softens. “If you’d yelled at the hostess, or berated the manager, then you’d be an ass. You handled it well. Next time, though, make a damned reservation.”

Lifting my palm, he presses a soft kiss to the sensitive skin. The sensation travels my arm and zips down to my center. His eyes, watching my face, dilate and darken.

He whispers, “I can’t wait to taste you again.”

I shiver and twitch closer, sliding across his front until one of my legs is snug between his. A little growl rumbles in his throat as I exert gentle pressure with my thigh. I blink up at him, my head tilted in exaggerated surprise. “Why, Mr. Hughes, what a large—”

His hand clamps over my grinning mouth. “Vixen,” he hisses, but his eyes sparkle.

Just minutes after being seated on the candlelit garden patio, a commotion draws our attention from drink orders. Barreling toward us is a gargantuan, red-cheeked man wearing a stained white apron over jeans and a billowing, patterned shirt.

“Alexander!” he roars, causing diners to yelp and drop silverware. “Tu non mi hai detto che saresti qui stasera! Come ti permetti!”

You didn’t tell me you'd be here tonight! How dare you!

Alex laughs and replies in flawless Italian, “È meglio avere qualcosa di eccellente da offrire. Sto cercando di impressionare una bella signora.”

You’d better have something excellent to offer. I'm trying to impress a beautiful lady.

Felipe’s dark eyes veer to me, taking my measure in seconds. He then grins wickedly at Alex. “Magnifico. Tali occhi. E quei seni, mio Dio!”

Magnificent. Such eyes. And those breasts, my God!

My hands twitch with the need to cover my chest. Demurely, I say, “Non è il mio seno che hanno fame per le vostre abilità, cuoco.” Which I’m almost positive means, It’s not my breasts that are hungry for your skills, chef.

Alex’s head whips toward me, his knee hitting the underside of the table and rattling silverware. Felipe’s already ruddy complexion darkens. He sputters, then erupts with laughter.

“Ah, bella! You’ve stolen my heart. Anything you wish for is yours! Name it!”

Ignoring Alex and the curious gazes of the rest of our party, I smile sweetly, “Just dinner please, signore.”

Felipe rubs his palms together, eyeing the six of us with professional excitement. “No ordering! Leave the menu to me.” Turning his head, he yells into the restaurant, “Martha! Ready the veal!”

“Ohh,” sighs Lillian. “I love veal.”

Felipe grins lustfully at her. “You’ve never tasted my veal, bella! You do not know love of veal until you have eaten mine!” He smacks his lips, slaps Alex hard on the shoulder, and saunters away. After stopping at several tables to compliment or admonish patrons’ eating habits, he disappears, yelling, into the restaurant.

“You know Italian,” states Alex, lips twitching.

I arch a brow. “Don’t we all?”

He laughs and palms the back of my head, drawing my mouth to his. In seconds I’m lost in his taste, the soft heat of his lips.

Matthew clears his throat loudly. “Ahem!”

I grin against Alex’s mouth. “Surrogate big brother.”

He kisses me softly and leans back to smile apologetically at Matthew. Beside her scowling husband, Grace rolls her eyes. “Don’t mind him, you make a beautiful couple.”

Deep inside, I feel a pang. Sand draining through an hourglass. Ignoring the warning, I smile. “Thank you, Grace.”