In the morning, I do what I can to prepare for seeing Alex. I have no armor (can’t even remember how to build it) but choose my clothing carefully. Black tights and spiked ankle boots. Fitted, short black dress with a deeply scooping neckline. No sweater to disguise the top of my tattoo, several inches of which are visible.

My hair is drawn back into a high, thick bun. It took twenty minutes to achieve, but the end result is worth it. I look haughty, almost severe. Untouchable.

Lillian wanders into my bathroom as I’m finishing my makeup. “Whoa. Is this San Diego or New York?”

I cap my liquid eyeliner and peer critically at myself. “Did I get the lines even?”

She squints, then nods. “Are you going to tell me why you look like you’re going to Andy Warhol’s funeral?”

I hand her my phone. “Check the text messages.”

She does. As her eyes flicker down the conversation with Alex, they grow progressively rounder. When she finally looks up, there’s a flush in her cheeks. She blows out a noisy breath and begins fanning herself with her free hand.

“Is it hot in here?”

“Nope, that’s your overactive libido.”

She ignores me and reads the last lines again. “Holy shit, is this guy real?” Her head snaps up. “Wait—WAIT! Was he… were you…” I can’t speak, so I nod. She screeches and slaps me on the arm. “You dirty slut! Did you stop? Of course you stopped. Otherwise he’d know.” She giggles and hops from foot to foot.

“Fuck you,” I say, but can’t help smiling at her antics.

She hands me back the phone, grinning hugely. “Are you going to have sex with this man, Thebes? I bet he’s kinky. Good girl? What I wouldn’t give to be a fly on that wall! Is he going to spank you?”

“Stop, stop now!”

I brace my hands on the counter and close my eyes. I count to ten, but it doesn’t help. Opening my eyes, all I see is myself bent forward, Alex behind me. His hand lifting…

“I’m doomed,” I croak, my terrorized eyes meeting Lillian’s sparkling ones.

“No, you’re not,” she says, punctuating the words with little air-jabs of her index finger. “You know why? You’ve never fallen into bed with a man in your life. You’re going to make him work for it. You are not powerless. Even without armor, you’re made of steel.”

“That,” I whisper, “is why you’re my best friend.”

She smirks. “I saw that man’s face last night when he was sitting with you. He was watching you sleep, for fuck’s sake. He looked like a little boy with his first puppy.”

“Bullshit.”

“Not! Remember when he left? He touched your face all tender-like, then wouldn’t look you in the eye. Then, like any man whose ego has been threatened, he regrouped and sent you those texts. Shifting the balance of power back to him.”

I shake my head helplessly. “Freud’s got nothing on you.”

“You’re the one who trained me in voyeurism,” she says, grinning. “You know I’m right. The narrative fits.”

To that, I could only nod. “Lipstick?” I ask.

“Just gloss. Ripe and shiny. And bite your lower lip every once in a while.”

“And no sweater?” I ask hesitantly.

“Hell no. This isn’t New York. It’s seventy and sunny, baby.”

Impulsively, I grab her in a hug. “Love you, Lil.”

“Bring him to his knees, Thebes.”

* * *

The plastic-sheeted entrance of Hemlock parts when I’m half a block away, indicating its exact location. Lucy steps onto the sidewalk, phone to her ear. No hardhat, thank God. If the site were unstable enough to require head protection, my bun would have been its first casualty.

She sees me and waves, still chatting. As I near, I hear the end of her conversation, “It’s all worked out… Price Architects… In-house designer…” She winks at me. “She’s great, you’ll love her… Okay, Mr. Hughes, I’ll pass it along…. You too, see you at the opening. Bye now.”

She ends the call with a dramatic sigh and an eye roll. “Mr. Hughes, Sr.,” she says in explanation. “He’s a randy handful.”

I try not to snort and fail. “That bad?”

Lucy nods, chuckling. Her gaze roams over me and she whistles. “Damn, girl. Poor Alex.”

My cheeks heat. I am at a complete loss as to how one responds to such frankness. I think, This is why Alex hired her, and also decide my mother would hate her for the same reason. Which, of course, makes me like her more.

Thankfully, Lucy takes mercy on me, stepping forward to cup my elbow. Her impish features turn abruptly serious. “The best advice I can give you seems to be what you’ve already figured out. Play hardball, Thea. Can I call you Thea?”

“Y-yes,” I stutter.

She smiles slightly, almost sympathetically. “I like you. Nicole doesn’t. There’s a reason for that. Are you hearing me?”

My gut twists and my mind jumps to: He’s slept with her.

“Loud and clear,” I manage.

“Great!” she chirps, and speeds toward the plastic door. “And you’re right on time, too. Love it! Follow me. Alex is in back. We’ve got coffee and scones. Watch your step. Loose nails.”

I want very much to run in the opposite direction. Instead, I hike my heavy tote on my shoulder and follow the whirlwind that is Lucy Davis, PA.

The moment I step inside, the smells of sawdust and metal assault my nose. And just like that, my anxiety fades away. My steps slow, and soon Lucy disappears around a corner. I tell myself I’ll catch up in a minute. I am already lost in the space.

I set my tote carefully on the ground, my eyes roaming, estimating dimensions and layout. Where the bar will be. The flow of the tables, the types of seating. Communal and private, square or round. I already have colors flashing in my mind. Textures. Surfaces.

I spent yesterday afternoon researching Alex’s other restaurants, all named after various plants or roots that are in some form poisonous: Cassava, Rhubarb, Lupin, Azalea, Hyacinth… To the untrained eye, the restaurants appear unique in design. Nothing at all in common. But I know how to look deeper. Each was designed around the concept of the plant itself.

A good portion of my research was focused on the Tsuga tree, a Japanese conifer whose common name is Hemlock.

“Ms. Sands.”

As I turn, I ask, “It’s the tree, isn’t it?”

Alex stands some ten feet away, hands tucked into the pockets of his black slacks. He wears no tie and his crisp, white dress shirt is unbuttoned at the collar. No jacket today, either.

I haven’t looked at his face yet because my gaze is stuck on one bicep. Over the line of muscle, the shirt is tight against his skin. Through the barrier of fine Italian cotton, there’s an overt impression of color. Vivid and unmistakable.

My eyes track down his arm. Color, more color—all the way to the cuff at his wrist.

It suddenly hits me that I’ve never seen him in anything but long sleeves. And now I know why. Because beneath the shirts, sweaters, and jackets, Alexander Hughes is covered in tattoos.

“Like what you see?”

My mouth is dry, my palms tingling. Lillian’s voice threads through my mind, You are not powerless. Make him work for it.

Tilting my chin, I look him straight in the eye. “It’s the tree, not the poisonous plant. Isn’t it?”

His lips quirk. “Yes. Tsuga.”

“An odd choice for San Diego, don’t you think? An evergreen adapted to cool, moist climates that withers in drought. In case you hadn’t noticed, this is a desert.”

His smile grows as he walks toward me. “You’ve done your research. Good.” I stand my ground as he stops in front of me. With less than two feet between us, the heat of his body radiates onto mine. His smell envelopes me. Soft spice, and a scent that is quintessentially him.

Eyes trailing over my face, he says lightly, “I think you already know the answer to your question.”

I wonder if now’s the time I should bite my lip. I don’t, though—I’m afraid I’ll bite through it. “Unless it’s Japanese cuisine, which would be new for you…” I wait until he shakes his head. “Then I’d say you named it for the irony. An evergreen flourishing in the desert.”

He grins, pleased with me and himself. “Ironic, no?”

“Only if the restaurant succeeds,” I retort.

Dark brows lift in affront. “I haven’t failed yet, Ms. Sands.”

I turn away from him, gazing once more at the skeleton of raw potential. “Not Japanese cuisine, but subtle Asian influence. Aged wood. Steel. Almond white. Toffee.” I glance at him, decide to give him a test of my own. “Warm, neutral, or cool accents?”

“Neutral and cool. It’s an evergreen, after all.”

My lips curve. “Good.”

“Glad you approve,” he says dryly. “Shall I give you the tour?”

“Please, although I wish there were construction sketches. It’s a hot mess in here.”

“I’ll talk you through it,” he says, offering me his hand. I stare at the long fingers with confusion and rising panic. “Come.”

I swallow. “That’s okay. I’m sure I won’t trip.”

“Take my hand,” he says with dangerous quietude. I glance up into his eyes, which is a mistake. But an inevitable one. We all look into the sun occasionally. We just can’t help ourselves.

“Do you play piano?” I blurt, then want to sink into the floor.

(Cue infuriating half-smile.) “Take my hand and I’ll tell you.”

The moment my hand lifts, he finds it with his. His touch—warm and dry—slides along my cool, shaking palm. He doesn’t stop at half-measures, though, but interlocks our fingers. I stare at our joined hands, feeling everything. Too much. I can’t remember the last time a man held my hand.

“Do you know the story of the clinging creatures?” he asks softly.

I look up. “What? No.”

“It’s in Illusions by Richard Bach. I’ll paraphrase—poorly, I’m afraid. It’s a parable about creatures who live in a fast-moving river. All ages, all types… They cling to the reeds at the bottom, knowing nothing else.”

“Sounds familiar,” I whisper.

He hums approval, continuing, “Then, one of the creatures decides he’s tired of clinging. He decides to trust the current of the river—the universe. He lets go. Do you remember what happens?’

I tilt my head. “Doesn’t he get the shit kicked out of him by rocks?”

Alex laughs, a free, boyish sound that makes me smile. “Yes, initially.”

“Please, continue.”

His thumb brushes over the back of my hand, sending tingles of awareness up my arm. I can barely concentrate as he says, “In time, as the creature continues to resist the old life of clinging, he becomes one with the current. He travels far downstream, where more creatures like him witness his passing. They call him a messiah, but he tells them he’s not, that he’s merely dared to let go. To trust and be free.”

The warm, engaging tone of his voice has calmed me. I’m not panicked anymore. I feel safe—safer than I can ever remember feeling. On some deep level, I am also more frightened than I have ever been. But though I try, I can’t hold onto the fear. It slips from my clinging fingers.

“You’re a good storyteller, Mr. Hughes.”

He smiles and squeezes my hand. “I learned from my mother. Now she was a master.”

My breath catches at the past tense. “Was?” I ask gently.

He nods. “She died five years ago. Cancer.”

“I’m so sorry, Alex,” I whisper.

He reads my face with his eyes and whatever he sees brings a quiet focus to his expression. The fingers of his free hand trace my jaw. His thumb slides beneath my lower lip. I don’t notice that I’ve moved forward until my breasts graze his chest. It’s the barest contact, but my nipples instantly harden.

My lungs compress and I can’t breathe—Alex is the sun and he’s stolen all the oxygen. I stare up at him, completely helpless and yet, somehow, I still feel safe. His thumb lifts before descending again onto the flesh of my lip.

“I want to bite this so badly,” he whispers.

I am damp, pulsing, trembling. Overcome by need. I sink my teeth into my lower lip, catching his finger. Darkness flares in his eyes. His head tilts.

He’s going to kiss me. God, please let him kiss me.

“Alex? Where are you?”

I gasp and jerk back at the sound of Nicole’s voice. It’s coming from the entrance of the restaurant. She can’t see us yet, but by the measured clicking of her heels, she’s moments away from spotting us. I take another quick step back. My hand is still joined with Alex’s, and my movement pulls our arms up and taut.

It happens so fast, at first he doesn’t release my hand. He’s frowning. Surprised and possibly annoyed. I flex my fingers and shake them, trying to dislodge his grip.

“Let me go,” I gasp, looking up.

Alex registers the expression on my face—something in the ballpark of horror, most likely. He drops my fingers as if stung.

Nicole’s high heels round a corner. “There you are,” she purrs. “You left this morning before I woke up.”

She can’t see me. I’m hidden by Alex’s body.

A vivid narrative rears up and strikes me in the center of the chest. Blonde hair spread across a pillow. Naked limbs entwined. Tattooed arms. Gasps and moans.

Him—Alex—inside her.

“Thea,” says Alex in warning.

Ice spreads, not so much numbing as piercing. “I thought you didn’t fuck where you work.” Lillian would be proud of my tone. Hell, even my mother would be proud—it’s cold enough to freeze the sun.

“Am I interrupting something?” asks Nicole sweetly.

I hate her.

Alex takes a step forward, reaching out to me.

“Don’t touch me,” I gasp. I skirt around him and walk quickly to where I left my tote. His measured footsteps follow.

Pivoting sharply, I speak before he can, “Once Matthew finishes the construction sketches and you approve, I’ll begin the design work. If you have any firm preferences for flooring, fixtures, paint color, et cetera, let me know via email ASAP. I’m assuming you’ll pay for any rush orders?”

“Damnit, Thea,” he growls.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” I lift my tote to my shoulder. “Have a good day, Mr. Hughes.”

“Don’t do this.”

My brows lift. “Do what? Have self-respect? Thank you for the story, by the way. It was a valuable reminder that appearances can be deceiving.”

The exasperation on his face shifts to something darker, almost savage. I’ve gone too far. I can feel it by how the ground seems to shift beneath my feet. But pride won’t allow me to take the words back.

“That they can, Ms. Sands.” The smooth, sepulchral tone lifts goosebumps all over my body. “Bamboo floors. Vintage grey, wide plank fossilized. I’ll expect hand delivered samples tomorrow.”

“I’ll courier them.”

“No. You’ll bring them yourself.”

“That’s completely unnecessary,” I argue, my voice rising with every word. Gone is the ice; hello, fire. I feel utterly unhinged. “You can’t just order me around!”

“For what Price Architects is charging, I can do whatever I want. Get whatever I want. You. Here. Tomorrow. Do I make myself clear?”

My jaw aches as I unclench my teeth. “Yes, sir,” I spit out.

His smile is cutting, dangerous, and thrilling. “Good. Now get out of here before I do something I regret.”