From the moment we step back out into the crowd, I can tell Ryan’s loosening up. His shoulders have settled. He’s relaxed his glass-shattering death grip on his cocktail. And he’s wearing the first real smile I’ve seen out of him since I got here. We approach another group of suits, and this time, instead of fumbling his intro, he reaches out with a firm handshake.

“Ryan Callahan,” he says, flashing his trademark smile. “CEO of PowerBar, great to meet you.”

“Holy shit, I’m a fan,” the guy replies, eyes widening.

“Oh yeah? That’s great to hear,” Ryan replies smoothly. “But let me tell you, training for a Super Bowl has nothing on the boot camp I went through prepping to pitch my big idea. I don’t know how you guys do it every day.”

The guy puffs up, with hero worship in his eyes. “Thanks, man. So what’s this PowerBar venture?”

“Well, let me tell you . . .” Ryan launches into his spiel, with zero hesitation this time.

I let out an invisible sigh of relief. Now we’re talking. Ryan kills the elevator pitch with this guy, and trades cards before moving on. Before I know it, he’s got Mason Dubeck himself cracking up with a story about some of his old teammates accidentally wandering into a male strip club on amateur night in New Orleans.

“I’m not saying we didn’t wind up on stage taking home the prize, but let’s just say those Magic Mike guys have nothing on us.”

The group laughs heartily, and none louder than Dubeck. He’s a short, balding man in his sixties, but he radiates total confidence and power—which I guess comes easy when you’re worth a couple billion and were an early investor in Uber, Snapchat, and YouTube. “That sounds like one hell of a party,” Dubeck chuckles.

“Yes, sir,” Ryan grins. “But don’t get me wrong, we had hell to pay come training the next morning. That’s one thing I learned playing pro—there’s no replacement for good old-fashioned practice. You need to put the hours in if you’re going to perform right, which is why I’ve waited to recruit outside investment until PowerBar is more than just an idea; it’s a proven concept.”

“PowerBar, huh?” Dubeck looks thoughtful. “You know, I’ve been looking for something in the food space . . .”

He’s briefly distracted by a passing tray of sliders, and I take the chance to give Ryan’s arm a squeeze.

“Nice job, QB,” I whisper, impressed by the smooth pivot to business.

“Thanks, boss,” he winks back.

“Does this fine hunk of a man belong to you?” asks a woman’s voice behind me. I turn to find a tall, tailored southern belle in a brightly colored Lilly Pulitzer dress. She’s probably in her early fifties, but looks younger, with a sleek copper bob and smooth, unblemished skin. I wonder who does her Botox.

“He does,” I say with a smile. I put a hand out. “Olivia Danvers.”

“Arianna Dubeck,” she says as we shake.

“Oh! Lovely to meet you,” I say, acting surprised. The truth is I’ve already researched her, and have been watching out of the corner of my eye for her all night. “Mason’s wife.”

“Guilty as charged,” she says. She motions to my wine glass. “Shall we go get you a refill?”

Ryan doesn’t need my babysitting anymore, and besides, Arianna is going to be a great source of info about her husband, so I follow her over to the bar. “It’s so nice to find another woman to chat to. I get so bored with all that dick-measuring,” she says, flagging down the bartender. “I mean, of course it’s part of the culture, bragging about who closed what deal, but they’re all just little boys, really, showing off their toys. Except Mason, of course. And your Callahan,” she adds with a smirk. “He looks like a real man.”

I blink. “He’s . . . great,” I answer finally. “A really good guy.”

“And easy on the eye,” she winks. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m old enough not to give a fuck, playing polite. Life’s so much easier without all the proper small talk, don’t you think?”

“Sounds good to me.” I like her already, even though I’m still on my best behavior. We take our drinks and make ourselves comfortable on a cushioned wicker sofa on the far side of the rooftop. Arianna is easy to talk to, and we chat for a while about her work in the children’s hospital in Miami, and all the salacious gossip from last year’s retreat. “Look at them, panting for Mason’s attention,” she says fondly, watching the scrum. “I have an MBA from Princeton too, but you don’t see me whipping it out and rubbing it on the table at every available opportunity.”

I snort into my wine glass.

“That’s how I met Mason,” she continues. “I was one of the only women in the program back then, so I made it my mission to leave him in the dust at every available opportunity. Lucky for us both, he’s always been up for a challenge.”

“Sounds like a great partnership,” I say, meaning it. I’ve always loved the idea of a partner who could push me to be my best—and not get threatened by my successes.

“What about you and Ryan?” Arianna asks, raising her elegant eyebrows over the bowl of her wine glass. “We’re quite the football fans in our house, so I was excited when Mason told me he might be investing in a former player. Especially, forgive me, one who looks your beau over there.”

“He’s a catch,” I agree, following her gaze and taking a moment to appreciate the curve of his ass inside those suit pants. Ahem, boundaries.

“How did you meet?”

“Oh, just through mutual friends,” I reply. He may have a truly fantastic tight end, but I’m grateful Ryan’s not over here to make up some charming story about me flashing my tits in the end zone or showing up at his hotel room wearing nothing but a Callahan jersey and stilettos.

Which is probably exactly the kind of thing that would get him off, actually.

For one truly demented second I imagine it, then push the thought out of my mind. What does or does not get Ryan off is the last thing I need to be thinking about right now.

“It’s still pretty new,” I admit, turning my attention back to Arianna, “but we have a great time together.” It’s not until the words are out of my mouth that I realize I’m not lying for her benefit—I have been having a good time with Ryan the last couple of days. “And I’m really impressed by his plans for PowerBar.”

Arianna nods. “Mason told me a bit about that,” she says. “Food kiosks, right?”

“Oh, it’s way more than your average joint.” I pull my phone out of my clutch to show her the mockups of the restaurant Ryan sent me, guessing—correctly, it turns out—that the way to sell Arianna is with the design. We spend the next ten minutes debating logo design and paint colors, and by the time the Ryan and Mason wander over to join us, I’ve got her talking as if the whole thing is already a done deal—which, spoiler alert, was my secret plan all along.

“Glad to see you two are getting acquainted,” Mason says, rubbing a familiar hand over his wife’s back.

“Oh, we’re old friends,” Arianna says warmly. She looks at Ryan. “Your girlfriend’s taste is impeccable.”

“That’s what I keep telling her,” Ryan agrees. I scoot over so he can sit down beside me, his warm, muscular thigh pressed against my bare one. Mason pulls up a chair and the four of us chat for a while longer about the best restaurants in Miami, the places we should be sure not to miss while we’re here. I like them, I realize—they’re warm and funny and generous, and seem to have a genuine partnership. It’s the kind of marriage my parents had, actually, back when my mom was alive.

Finally, Mason claps a hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “All right,” he says, “us old folks have got to be heading out, but, but we should talk some more about the project before this week is out.”

“Why don’t the two of you come out on the boat later this week?” Arianna pipes up, giving me a smile. “We can have some lunch, get into some of the details.”

“That sounds great,” Ryan says, and though he keeps it together, I can tell he’s barely containing the world’s cheesiest touchdown dance. And it’s not like I can blame him—I’m hardly holding back a fist pump myself.

A one-on-one with Mason Dubeck? That’s like scoring the winning touchdown in the Super Bowl, in investor terms.

Ryan just nailed this event.

We keep it together long enough to say our goodbyes and head down to the street, but once we’re on the sidewalk—and out of sight—Ryan turns to me and scoops me up off my feet, twirling me around. “Holy shit,” he cries, “that was amazing.”

“They love you,” I laugh, flustered by the feel of him—and trying not to be.

“They love us,” he counters. “Seriously, Olivia, I couldn’t have done it without you.” He loosens his tie and undoes his top shirt button, visibly relaxing for the first time all night. “Damn, all that schmoozing really works up an appetite. I’m starving.”

“Success makes you hungry?” I tease.

“Yep.” Ryan grins a little wolfishly, and my stomach flips over. I’m suddenly hungry too, but in a whole different way. “You wanna get some real food?”

I know I shouldn’t, we’re already on shaky ground with all the touching and ass-checking-out, but I don’t want this night to end. I nod, slipping my hand into his and squeezing before I can stop myself. “Let’s do it.”

We hop in a cab and he takes me to a Cuban place a buddy of his recommended, a tiny dive with a live band and mojitos so deliciously strong they make my eyes water. We sit at a table in the corner that’s barely bigger than a dinner plate, Ryan’s knee brushing my bare one. A candle flickers in a green glass votive between us, the light casting shadows over his chiseled face.

“Thanks again for your help back there,” he says, once we’ve toasted to tonight’s success. “I don’t know why I choked so hard. You’d think by now I’d be over getting my panties in a wad over rich guys, but honestly I don’t think I’ll ever be totally comfortable around people like that.”

“Didn’t grow up with a silver spoon in your mouth, huh?” I ask, curious to know more. I have the background file that Alice compiles on all our clients—she’s like Miss Moneypenny with that stuff—but it doesn’t have more than the basics, and all his charming interviews.

“No, not exactly.” Ryan grins. “I’m from rural Michigan, remember? The only thing we had a lot of was snow.” He shrugs, pulling the cocktail straw out of his glass before taking a sip. “When I got drafted back in college I couldn’t even imagine that kind of money. I was almost a little bit scared of it at first, you know?”

I nod. I remember reading that about him, that while all his teammates were buying yachts and Maseratis he was living in a modest condo and driving the same SUV he’d had in undergrad. His one big indulgence was buying his mom a house.

“I mean, I’m not saying I never partied or spent money on stupid stuff,” Ryan admits with a smile. “But some of the guys I played with acted like they were going to get that kind of payout every year for the rest of their lives, which obviously isn’t true. The thing about a football career is that you never know how long it’s going to be. It’s idiotic not to plan for whatever might be around the corner.” He motions down at himself. “I mean, I’m a pretty glaring example of that, right? One bad tackle, and my Achilles is fucked so bad I couldn’t play again.”

“It must have been hard,” I say, taking a sip of my mojito. “Working so hard for something and then having it cut short like that.”

“Not as hard as you think,” he admits. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it totally sucked at the time. But I think there was a part of me that was also a tiny bit relieved.”

That surprises me. “Really?”

He nods. “I loved playing football. And I had a pretty good run. But I could already see where it was headed, you know? The guys who play for years and years, it winds up being so hard on their bodies—not to mention their brains—that by the time they retire it’s almost impossible for them to have any kind of life. They’re holding on so long, they almost don’t know how not to be a player.”

I nod. “I can see that.”

“I feel for those guys, honestly,” Ryan says, “but I knew I didn’t want to be one. So when the injury happened, I figured it was a sign. I could have tried a comeback, done the training, but maybe that wasn’t my path anymore.” He grins. “Do I sound like your woo-woo future step-mother right now?”

“A little.” I grin. “But not in a bad way.”

“Anyway.” Ryan shrugs again, stealing a forkful of fried plantain off my plate. “That’s how I wound up here. I started with the easy stuff: sports drinks, commentating. Building on my profile. But now it’s time for the next phase, a real business, with real money involved. Sorry.” He stops abruptly. “I feel like I’m talking about myself a lot.”

“I don’t mind,” I say, and it’s the truth. The more time Ryan and I spend together the more I realize there’s way more to him than just a charming jock. He’s thoughtful, and smart, and hot as hell—

Nope. Down, girl. Bad Olivia.

I have to hide a smile. All this time, I’ve been so strict about reading the riot act—to my clients and their matches alike. I tell them that lines get blurred, and spending an intense few days with someone can make you feel all kinds of emotions.

But here I am, sitting in a dark, romantic corner, having those feelings myself. Hallie would be saying a great big “told you so” if she could see me now.

It’s just a natural part of the job, I tell myself. You get close, you act like boyfriend and girlfriend, and soon, that’s easy to believe. I just need to stay focused on the job, and soon it’ll all be over.

But just as I’m about to suggest an early night—alone—back at the hotel, Ryan nods at the crowded dance floor. You want to?”

“What, dance?”

“Yeah, princess.” Ryan smirks. “Dance.”

I shouldn’t. After all, there’s nobody here we have to show off for, nobody we have to convince of our shiny happy coupledom. But it would be rude to turn him down, wouldn’t it?

Friends dance, all the time. Colleagues. Co-workers.

“Sure,” I say, pushing my chair back and fitting my hand into his. At the very least it’s practice for the wedding, right? It’s not like it has to mean anything.

We hit the floor, and I find that Ryan’s a surprisingly capable dancer, quick and nimble and good on his feet. “They teach you this in the NFL?” I ask as he twirls me around during the fast song.

“A variation,” he teases, and lowers me into a dip. I try to catch my breath, but he’s already whirling me into the next one. We dance for another song, and then another, all my usual worries slipping away as my hips swing and the blood thrums in my veins. The dancefloor is full: of older couples and young, hot dates, and everyone is just letting loose and having a great time, not worrying about what anybody thinks. Including me.

For the first time in a long while, I’m having fun.

I’m breathless by the time the music switches to a slow song. I’m thinking we’ll sit down again, maybe order some more drinks, but instead Ryan pulls me closer, pressing me against the broad, hard width of his chest. “One more?” he asks with a crooked grin, and I’m powerless to resist.

Just one more song.

Ryan slips his hands around my waist, and I rest my head against his shoulder.

For a moment we just sway to the slow, sultry sound of the horns, the bare skin of my back prickling under Ryan’s warm touch. Our bodies are pressing gently, and my whole body lights up at the contact like a pinball machine in a boardwalk arcade. “This is pretty,” he murmurs, gently reaching to twist the simple gold ring I wear on my index finger.

I swallow. “It was my mom’s,” I tell him softly, close enough to murmur in his ear. “Her wedding ring.”

Ryan closes his hand around mine, and traces a soft circle in my palm. It’s just a touch, but it feels like every last nerve ending in my body is concentrated in that one tiny spot.

We’re somehow even closer now, though I don’t remember either one of us moving. I can smell him, clean sweat and the faintest hint of lime. Our pace slows until what we’re doing could barely be called dancing, the two of us pressed hotly together from chest to thigh, swaying to the music. I glance up and find him gazing back at me, his blue eyes gone ocean-dark. “Ryan,” I say, swallowing thickly. “Are we—?”

And then he kisses me.

His mouth is hot on mine. Hot, and slow, and intoxicating. I shiver against him, pressing closer without thinking, parting my lips to taste him. It’s pure instinct, not a single shred of rational thought in my mind, because who could think when a man like this has his hands on you? It goes from zero to sixty all at once, the whole world disappearing and the air burning up between us. Ryan sinks his hands into my hair. I wind my arms around his neck as our tongues tangle together, gasping as he slides a knee between my thighs.

I don’t care who’s watching, I don’t care about anything at all except this fire suddenly raging in my bloodstream, a sharp desire demanding more.

Then Ryan’s eyes fly open.

“Fuck,” he curses, pulling back suddenly. I let out a noise of disappointment, but then he’s tugging me off the dance floor and around the side of the restaurant, to some dark, blissfully secluded alley where he pushes me up against the wall.

“Better,” he says decisively, and kisses me again.

God, yes.

I close my eyes and sink into it, my whole body combusting. I can feel the music—or maybe it’s just my own heartbeat—thumping away in the base of my spine. Ryan grazes my breast through the thin fabric of the dress, and I muffle a soft moan against his shoulder. “You like that?” he asks, and the intent in his voice makes me shiver.

“Yes,” I admit, my hands sliding down his back to squeeze that truly glorious ass, feeling totally shameless. I’ve never done anything like this—well, ever. But the last thing I want to do is stop.

His mouth is searing hot, dropping kisses on my collarbone, and his hands rove further now, possessively sliding over my hips and then back to palm my breasts again. It’s dark back here, giving us the illusion of privacy, but the truth is that right now I want him so badly that I wouldn’t care if the whole world could see. I arch against him eagerly, loving the feel of his taut body, and the hardness I can feel pressed against my thigh.

It’s that move—my own base instinct, the way my body seems to respond to him all on its own—that makes me freeze.

Holy shit, what am I doing?

Ryan is my client. We’re in public, for fuck’s sake. This is hands down the most unprofessional thing I’ve ever done.

I duck out of his embrace, my cheeks flaming.

Way to go, Olivia. Ruin your reputation in one single kiss. OK, two, or three of the hottest kisses I’ve ever had the pleasure of surrendering to, but still!

“I, um—” I gasp for air. “We can’t.”

Ryan seems to snap back to reality, just like me. He clears his throat and puts his hands into his pockets. “Right,” he says. Both of us are breathing hard. “Sorry, I—”

“No, I’m sorry!” I blurt. My face is on fire. My panties are drenched. “I didn’t . . . I mean . . .” I gulp. “We should probably get back—”

“Uh-huh.” Ryan nods quickly. “Absolutely.”

Ryan finds the waiter and pays the check while I head outside to call an Uber, my heart still pounding. But the moment away from him is exactly what I need to get my shit together. There’s no way I’m doing this, not when I’ve staked my whole business on being discreet and totally above-board. He’s a client! And we have days of this ahead of us.

Days together, pretending like we do this kind of red-hot makeout all the time. I groan in frustration.

“What was that?” Ryan appears behind me.

“Nothing!” I flush. “The car should be right here. Oh, there it is!” I flag it down with relief, and we ride back to the hotel in silence—staring out opposite windows.

“About what happened . . .” I start, when we pull up outside the entrance. “I’m sorry I got carried away. I don’t want to give you the wrong idea.”

“I get it.” Ryan gives me a wry smile. “Let’s just chalk it up to the mojitos and the music.”

I nod. “Great. Perfect.”

I should be relieved. After all, the last thing I want is for things to be awkward between us with the rest of the week still to come. But a tiny part of me can’t help wishing he felt as upside down as I do right now.

Because fuck, that man can kiss.