I wake up with a clanging headache and a stomach full of what feels like a hive of angry bees buzzing around.

It’s partly due to the mild hangover I have from drinking three glasses of wine within the span of a single hour last night, but that’s not the only thing making me feel queasy and anxious.

I drag myself out of bed and into the shower, hoping the hot water can help wash off some of the guilt and regret clinging to my skin like a stubborn stain. I blow-dry my hair, slap on some lipstick, mascara, and just enough under-eye concealer to make myself less reminiscent of a zombie, then head out the door to wait for Ben to pick me up.

As much as I would like to call in sick today and just put off dealing with my problems until tomorrow (who knows, with any luck the world will end before then), I force myself to text and let him know I’m ready to go.

As I stand there on the sidewalk, I go over all the mistakes I’ve made in my head.

My brain won’t stop replaying the way I burst into tears and had to be consoled by my boss in the kitchen in full view of the whole staff, the three glasses of wine I drank, the moment I took Ben’s hand and accepted his offer of a dance in that dimly-lit alleyway.

I can’t stop picturing in my head the look of something akin to real affection shining in his gorgeous brown eyes, the twinge of his lips tugging upward in the corners as he fought a smile. I can vividly recall the sensation of his hand gripping my waist, then sliding around to press at the small of my back.

As the cherry on top of the whole shit sundae, my lips still tingle with the memory of what it felt like to kiss Ben Graham. And just thinking about it sends sparks of electricity straight to the juncture of my legs.

“Oh God,” I groan as I slump back against the brick wall of my apartment building, “what have I done?”

More importantly, how am I ever going to face Ben at work today? He’s not just some random guy— he’s my boss.

He is the one man cradling my long-held dream in the palms of his hands. If I screw things up with him, it’s all over for me. I can kiss my blossoming career as a fine dining chef goodbye.

The worst part is that even though I know I should be ashamed of myself, I can’t help but want to do it all over again. I long to feel his hands on my skin, his lips against mine, his soft voice murmuring my name. And even more shamefully, I crave more than that. I wonder how it would feel to have his weight on me, his hands all over my bare skin, his lips on the bits of me normally hidden behind my clothes.

“Snap out of it, Claire,” I tell myself aloud.

It was all just a big misunderstanding. We got caught up in the moment.

Or at least I did. Maybe I’m remembering it all wrong; maybe I kissed him and he was simply too polite to turn it down.

And as he drove me home last night, I kept thinking that if he asked to come inside my apartment, I would have said yes in a heartbeat. When I sat next to him in the car, I kept wanting to reach over and pull him in for another kiss.

Thinking about it now in the bright light of day, it all seems so obviously inappropriate. But last night it seemed normal. Almost natural.

As Ben’s fancy car pulls up to the sidewalk to collect me, I take a deep breath and reassure myself that it’s all in my head.

No matter what I thought I felt about Ben last night, it’s all a mistake. Just a tipsy slip-up. I don’t really have feelings for him.

And he definitely doesn’t feel the same way about me. I have to keep telling myself that if I’m going to survive the workday.

As I climb into the passenger seat, I decide I’m just going to play it cool and pretend like nothing happened. Otherwise, how the hell can I ever face Ben?

Luckily, he seems to be in a similar mood. He gives me a dazzling smile that makes my heart race, but after some mild attempts at polite conversation, he turns up the radio.

Although I can still feel the awkwardness prickling between us, I just stare out the window all the way to work.

When he parks in the lot, I’m startled by his warmth brushing over me. I move abruptly from his unexpected gesture, and his muscular arm grazes against my chest.

Oh God. Should I say something?

But what?

Oops, I didn’t mean to push my tits up to your arm?

I chance a glance at him, and he gives me a wink.

God. I hope he doesn’t think that was an awkward attempt at seduction.

I mean, this is not something I’m normally proud about, but I had a slutty phase—a pretty long one, too. I know how to lure guys into bed, and this is so not one of my moves.

Maybe it’s best to pretend it didn’t happen, even if Ben’s obviously aware that it did.

I hop out of the car with a quick, “Thanks!” and hurry on my merry way, Ben keeping a safe distance behind me.

Phew. Crisis averted.

Or so I think.

Within a minute of my walking through the entrance, I’m swarmed by the lunch shift maitre d’ and one of the pretty young waitresses, who are chatting animatedly with each other at the front podium. When they lay eyes on me, they both squeal and come rushing over with wide eyes and big smiles. And when Ben comes walking in behind me, they look like they might just explode.

Uh oh. That can’t be a good sign.

“Hey guys,” I greet them awkwardly. “What’s going on? And should I be worried?”

“No! Definitely not!” the waitress, Sandy, blurts out.

“The opposite of worried, actually. It’s great news,” the maitre d’, Lara, says. “You will never guess who called the restaurant this morning just as I was clocking in.”

“You’re right. I will never guess. So why don’t you just tell me?” I ask, smiling expectantly. My poor heart can’t handle any more excitement this morning. It’s going to burst and I’m going to die. Seriously.

They exchange little enthusiastic squeals.

“Okay, so I got a call from that famous food critic from television this morning. You know, Taylor Hersch.” Lara looks up at Ben as he walks over to us, a puzzled look on his face. She bites her lip, waiting for the go-ahead.

“Go on,” he urges her.

“And guess what? He wants to do a feature on Ocotillo! He said he and his crew are interested in coming by for a televised meal and an interview!” Lara bursts, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet.

Ben and I look at each other, astounded.

“Wait. Are you sure it was Taylor Hersch?” Ben asks.

I jump in, “The Taylor Hersch?”

“Yes. Absolutely. It was him,” she confirms. “He said he noticed all the press we’ve gotten lately and wanted to congratulate you on the grand opening . . . and the engagement.”

Ben goes rigid beside me and he nods, looking serious. “Right. Thanks, Lara. You two get back to prep work. I need to speak with Claire for a moment. Alone.”

My heart pounds against my rib cage in frustration. What does he want now? I thought I’d escaped these awkward, tempting, private moments, at least for this morning.

The girls exchange giddy smiles and then scamper off, leaving me alone with Ben.

He turns to me and says in a lowered voice, “Look, I know this is weird, but that kind of publicity . . . well, it’s hard to turn down, if you know what I mean.”

I nod, trying to focus. “Yeah, of course. I mean, Taylor Hersch? Seriously? That guy is famous. An endorsement from someone like him could launch Ocotillo into the stratosphere.”

“Exactly. Listen, Claire. I know we have to get this domestic partnership thing taken care of, but I hesitate to jeopardize our chance of getting national exposure. I don’t know why, but for some reason, the world seems bizarrely invested in whatever we have going on here,” he explains quietly.

“I know,” I tell him, laying a hand on his forearm. I’ve tried all morning not to stare at the veins and the masculine muscles rippling just underneath his golden skin, but I’ve lost the battle now. He feels so good under my fingers, I’m finding it hard not to start caressing him. “I get it. We can’t break off our stupid engagement thing yet. Not with so much at stake. I say we ride this out a little longer, see where it takes us. I want Ocotillo to succeed, Ben. And I want you to succeed. You’ve worked your ass off for this.”

Ben gives me a warm smile that instantly makes my heart melt, and then holds out his hand for me to shake.

I take it, my skin sizzling from the contact.

He murmurs, “Thank you, Claire. This means a lot to me. And don’t forget—you’re a part of this team, too. If Ocotillo does well, that can help your career.”

“I know,” I tell him confidently, even though I’m already nervous about all the inevitable press and awkwardness to come.

Ben gives me a panty-melting smile, then he shifts into full-on business mode.

He claps his hands together and calls for a team meeting. We all gather into the kitchen as he explains that he’ll be throwing everything into overdrive. He starts delegating responsibilities among the staff.

He’s born for this, I realize, as I watch him step into the role of our charismatic, competent leader.

There will be lots of preparations: making sure the place is spotless, revamping some of the less opulent decor, drafting a brand-new special menu for the event of Taylor Hersch’s visit.

Throughout the rest of the day, Ben is a blur of activity, rushing around making checklists and handing out extra chores. A couple times, I try to offer some help by way of suggestions, but he breezes right past them, too caught up in his type-A whirlwind to pay much attention to the likes of little old me.

It’s irritating to be ignored, but at the same time, I can’t help but admit I rather enjoy seeing this side of Ben hard at work. He’s intense, ambitious, and decisive—all traits I might have scoffed at once.

But somehow, it’s different now. I can’t stop looking at him. I can’t stop admiring him from across the room.

What the hell is he doing to me?