“Any thoughts you’d like to share, sir?”

I tear my gaze away from the window of the town car and meet Dave’s eyes in the rearview mirror. He’s been my driver for over a decade, since the days when he’d have to come into clubs around the city and haul me out with my arm thrown over his shoulder, dragging me through back doors and secret entrances meant for people like me to be able to avoid the paparazzi. A curl of irritation flexes in my chest, but it’s my own damn fault I’m so transparent. We normally keep up a regular chatter while he drives me to the day’s appointments.

Not today. I’ve been staring out the window, silent, still trying to figure out why Juliet James wouldn’t even agree to go on a date with me.

“Just trying to work something out.”

Dave nods, just once, and returns his eyes to the road as the light turns green. “I’m always available.” He used to say that to me—I’m always available—when I was pissed off at my parents, or when things at school took an ugly turn. I’ve taken him up on it about half of the time. 

He gives good advice, but I’m not in the mood this morning to hear any of it. There’s no way I can admit out loud that a cocktail waitress gave me the cold shoulder without sounding like a complete idiot.

But that’s what’s on my mind, as much as I’ve tried to shake it off over the past four days. I’ve spent hours in the gym I had installed on the floor below my penthouse. I’ve made appointments with the most brutal personal trainers in the city just to wear down my mind.

None of it has worked. My muscles are still on fire from four days of unceasing exercise followed by relentless outings with every friend of mine who was free—which is just about everyone I texted. Most people are happy to spend time with me, even if it’s not a romantic outing on par with what I was hoping to have with Juliet.

I was ready to do anything for Juliet. She could have mentioned some dive bar worse than the one Gideon started us out at the other night, and I’d have been there in a heartbeat.

But Juliet James didn’t want anything to do with me. My jaw tightens, the city blocks whizzing by outside the window. It’s a city where something is always happening, but today none of it registers. All I see is Juliet James in that tight black dress, the satiny fabric reflecting in the lights of the Rose and spilling down her curves. Her red lips, curving upward into a smile that I have to believe is hiding a secret that I’d like to know. Her hair, swept back so flawlessly that my hands still ache to set it free and watch it spill down over her bare shoulders.

Several blocks go by before Dave speaks again. “Do you have everything you need for your lecture?”

I can’t help but laugh at that. “It’s not much of a lecture. More of a speech. I don’t know what they could possibly get out of it, anyway.”

“You’re a successful businessman.”

“That doesn’t have much to do with becoming a successful lawyer.”

Dave’s eyes sparkle in the rearview mirror. “Being a successful businessman involves working with successful lawyers.”

I roll my eyes. “Next time this kind of thing comes up, I’ll just haul my father out of retirement.”

Dave’s eyes crinkle at the corners in humor. “Your father will never retire.”

“He’s more than happy to make all his executive board decisions from Europe. I don’t think one trip to talk to the students at the law college he founded and funded the construction of would be too much to ask.”

“Best of luck to you, sir.”

I sigh. “I’ll need it.”

Five blocks later, Dave steers the car to the curb, stopping in front of an understated three-story building in Midtown. My father might have donated the money, but it was my mother’s idea. Her mother, one Marie Anderson, had dreamed of being a lawyer in a time—and, frankly, with a father—who wanted nothing to do with women having high-powered careers. Thus Anderson Law was born.

And here I am, walking in to make a speech about the important work that lawyers do to the school’s first-year law students. This kind of shit is not the type of thing I want to spend my time doing, but if it wasn’t for my parents, I wouldn’t be at the head of a pharmaceutical company with incredible worldwide reach and a reputation for turning good health into pure gold. It’s mostly been my doing, but my dad has steered me away from making more than one blunder since I graduated. The least I can do is make this speech.

As much as it irritates me.

I step out onto the curb, the humid heat settling over my shoulders and stuffing my throat. The President of the college, Evelyn Wilson, is waiting outside the building’s large glass doors to meet me. She treks quickly over to me, appearing as immaculate as ever in a black dress with a tasteful floral pattern and a short-sleeved blazer. She beams at me as she shakes my hand. “Mr. Grant,” she gushes, her auburn hair glinting in the sun. “We’re so happy to have you here this morning.”

I smile back at her, watching the blush spread across her cheeks. “I hope I can be of some use.”

“Oh, of course you will be. Of course you will be,” she says, then straightens the front of her blazer with a quick snap. “Do you need a few minutes to prepare before you go on? We’ve got everyone in the main auditorium, but they’ll be happy to wait if you need time.”

“I’m ready to go,” I tell her, a trickle of sweat running down my back. I’m ready to get into the air conditioning. And then I’m ready to get back into my car. And then I’m going to figure out a way to stop thinking about Juliet James.

I follow President Wilson into the building, the blast of cool air a welcome relief on my skin. She asks innocuous question after innocuous question, and it takes no mental energy to answer them. How was the ride? Do you remember it ever being so hot in the city?

So hot in the city is right. So hot that it’s permanently burned a woman into my mind.

We enter the auditorium through a side door, and in the darkness of the wings, she turns to me one more time. “Ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Next thing I know, she’s striding out to the podium and introducing me after listing off a string of accomplishments. All meaningless, if the one woman I want to see doesn’t care about any of them. “Please give a warm welcome to our benefactor, Weston Grant.”

I step out into the applause, meet President Wilson, and shake her hand. She lingers a second too long on the shake, then seats herself elegantly in one of two chairs set off to the side of the podium.

“Thank you, President Wilson, for the kind introduction,” I say, cutting my gaze over to her, then looking out over the crowd.

And that’s when the rest of my speech gets caught in my throat.