Soooooo, apparently “this lovely new pad thai place” is rich people language for Rama, the hottest new restaurant in all of San Francisco, written up in all the magazines with five stars and the kind of glowing terms usually reserved for religious texts. Reservations were supposed to be harder to get than the Holy Grail.

And we were being ushered through the front door right now.

Everywhere I looked there was carved ebony and white marble, gold leaf on Doric columns, spotless white linen tablecloths draped over tables staggering with a rainbow of food—salads, noodles, soups—that could have fed an army, but were currently being used to feed people with faces straight out of Forbes, U.S.A. Today, and Entertainment Weekly. I couldn’t have been more out of place if I were a cat in a dog kennel. I mean, I wasn’t exactly dressed like a bum, but in a room full of suits and chic outfits, ‘underdressed’ didn’t even begin to describe it.

Which didn’t even matter, because the second we were through the door, I might as well have been invisible. Grant had to grab me by the arm—I definitely didn’t notice the strength of his arms, or the elegance of his long fingers, or the heat of his large hands—to keep me from getting swept away by the crowd of fawning employees swamping us, asking if he would have the usual, would he like he table by the window, there was a new red wine in stock that was simply beyond compare, one of only eight bottles in the world…

Before I knew it, we were seated at that table with the window overlooking the street, and huge plates of food were being set in front of us, steam rising from succulent vegetables and spicy meat over noodles, the scent of peanuts, coconut, and ginger making my mouth water.

I tentatively twirled some of the noodles around my fork and lifted it to my mouth to take a bite—and I had to shut my eyes to keep from moaning in delight.. There was a Thai café down the street from me that I’d always thought had pretty good stuff—every once in awhile I consoled myself with one of their milk teas and an order of roast chicken—but compared to this place, they might as well be scraping their food from the bottom of a garbage can. I felt like I’d spent my entire life eating cardboard, only to be suddenly shown what food actually was.

“Ooooh, hello, Mr. Devlin,” a voice breathlessly announced. I opened my eyes to see a waitress hovering at our table. Her blonde hair cascaded around her shoulders, her make-up had a fresh look as if she had just touched up those pouty scarlet lips, and the top four buttons of her uniform had obviously just been hastily undone. “You are always such a sight for sore eyes.”

“I’ll have a bottle of the Domaine de la Romanee-Conti Romanee-Conti Gran Cru, Marie,” he said without looking up from the menu. “The 1959, please, not the 1969 you brought last time. A very inferior year.”

“Anything for you, Mr. Devlin,” she said breathlessly. Then with more emphasis, just in case he had missed the Slut Telegraph the first time around, she added: “Anything.”

“I’ll let you know,” he said, still not looking up, and she finally beat a retreat, casting so many longing looks over her shoulders it was frankly a miracle she didn’t sprain her neck or bump into another waiter on the way to the kitchen.

I decided to take advantage of his inattention by eating all my conflicting feelings—especially since the feelings on offer were in the form of the finest cuisine money could buy. I devoured a papaya salad with a delightfully crunchy topping I couldn’t identify—maybe anise? Yet there was just the hint of bacon, and candied ginger, and the color reminded me of purple lettuce… I just happened to be licking the sauce off my finger when Grant looked back up.

For half a second, heat flashed in his eyes like a tiger spying its prey, and my panties liquefied.

Then like a flash, he was all detached amusement again, a bored god surveying the lowly human and her foibles, and I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d imagined the whole thing.

“I take it you like the food,” he said dryly, the corner of his mouth twitching just a fraction upward, as if the smile were not quite under his control.

I shrugged, trying not to let on how much my mind and pants were still on fire after that first look he’d given me. Holy smolder, Batman! “I figured if I’m going to get fired, might as well enjoy it.”

He looked offended. “Is that what you think you’re here for?”

“Come on,” I rolled my eyes. “After last night, it’s not like I didn’t see the writing on the wall. I didn’t expect you to do it in person though,” I added. “I was expecting Jacinda to do the honors – she would have enjoyed it too.”“Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I have no intention of letting you go.”

“No?” I blinked.

“No.”

I waited for him to reveal the real reason he invited me to lunch, but suddenly, a cry rang across the room like the shriek of a triumphant hawk swooping down on its prey:

“Grant, daaaaahling!”

A woman breezed over to our table—and I do mean ‘breezed,’ she was so thin I wouldn’t have been surprised to find that it really was the wind buffeting her across the room. She rested one silver satin-draped hip on the edge of Grant’s chair, and ran her long red nails down the fabric of his shirt.“You’re looking ravishing, how are you?

“Fine,” he said. “Lacey, meet Jenna Masters. Jenna, this is my colleague Lacey.”

I tried to smile and nod politely but she ignored me, which was just as well, because who wanted to meet international supermodel Jenna Masters while they were trying to cough up the piece of roast duck that had decided to roost in their esophagus?

Not me, and my blood was also definitely not boiling at the possessive way her hand was resting on Grant’s chest.

It was totally out of line, though, the possessive way her hand was resting on Grant’s chest. Everybody who even glanced at the headlines on the supermarket tabloids at checkout knew that they’d had a bad break-up two months ago. Not ‘crying and recriminations’ bad. More like ‘throwing furniture at his head and hiring private detectives to stalk him’ bad.

Is it a little bit pathetic that that still sounds better than my current love life?

“Are you coming to the gala, Grant?” she asked.

Of course she wasn’t going to call it The Modern Ball or even clarify that she meant the gala at the Museum of Modern Art. To people like her and Grant, there was only one ‘the gala,’ and anybody who needed any clarification clearly didn’t belong and should probably be summarily rounded up and quarantined.

“They’re auctioning off some divine pieces, some very exciting dynamic new artists. So…warm-blood. Stimulating. You could even say…dangerous.” She lowered her voice, though she didn’t bother lowering it enough to keep me from hearing. After all, I didn’t exist to her. “You could help me choose one for my bedroom.”

I had just about evicted the roast duck from my throat, but that last sentence made me start to choke on it again.

“I was bored out of my skull last year,” Grant said bluntly. He took a bite of his own papaya salad without looking at her. He chewed slowly and thoughtfully, as if the taste and texture of his meal were a thousand times more interesting than anything any mere mortal could have to say to him.

Jenna paused for a moment, obviously thrown off her game by the existence of a universe in which she didn’t immediately get everything she asked for. She recovered quickly from this puzzling paradox, though, giving a little fake-laugh and backing off with the studied casual air of a cat who doesn’t want you to see that it didn’t land on its feet. “Oh, you kidder! No one can ever guess just what’s going to come out of that gorgeous mouth of yours, can they? Well, let me know if you do decide to join us!”

“I’ll think about it,” Grant said. “Perhaps if I can find company more…stimulating…than last year’s.”

Jenna’s face froze for a second, then with a visible effort she relaxed and gave Grant a smile so fake I was surprised that government inspectors didn’t sweep down on us and arrest her. Continuing to ignore my very existence, she swept away in the same blade-of-grass-being-lightly-tossed-by-the-breeze way she had come to us in the first place.

And I couldn’t help but notice that for all Grant’s declared lack of interest, his eyes followed her lightly swaying and bouncing figure all the way to the door.

So much for not finding her stimulating. Not that I blamed him.

I stabbed my fork at my noodles with the kind of avenging anger usually reserved for blood-feuding families in the Appalachians.

“What did those noodles ever do to you?” Grant said, that exasperating smile right back on his face like it had never left. “I haven’t seen such vicious stabbing since I watched a horror movie.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I muttered, and stabbed them harder.

Grant’s eyes darkened, stormy weather threatening in his gaze. “Don’t lie to me, Lacey. Don’t beat around the bush—you’ve been sitting there avoiding saying a word. You have opinions—well, share them. But don’t stew in your own resentment and act as though it’s my fault you don’t have the courage to speak up.”

That hit a nerve.

“This is why no one takes you seriously!” I snapped. “This is why the company’s in trouble! Today is supposed to be all about damage control, and you’re out eating and flirting with bimbos and accepting party invitations from your crazy ex that will just make things worse!”

He raised an eyebrow. “Did you hear me accept an invitation?”

That brought me up short. “W-well, no,” I stuttered. “But you implied—”

“I didn’t accept the invitation,” he said firmly. “I’ve certainly done some foolish things in the past, and you’re very welcome to bring them up for discussion, but don’t put things at my door that aren’t there.”

He set down his fork and squared his shoulders, looking directly at me like a man facing a firing squad. And after just now and last night, what else could he expect?

My face was burning; I was drowning in shame and regret. “I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” he said lightly, and took a drink of water. “Of course, I did say that I could be persuaded to attend the gala if the right companion were to accompany me…”

I’d also taken the opportunity to take a drink of water, and at these words that water came spurting out of my mouth like Niagara Falls in righteous indignation at his about-face. “You don’t make sense! Don’t you care about this job at all?”

He handed me a napkin and dodged the question. “What about you, Lacey? What do you care about?”

I ignored the tingles racing through me at the way he lingered on my first name. When had he started doing that? Before today, he’d never even used my name. Whatever, this was all just a distraction; my heart was only racing because I was in an argument with my boss.

“I care about doing a good job. I care about following through on my promises, and the promises of the place I work for. I care about doing whatever little tiny things I can to make this world a better place, and even if they’re super tiny, they’re something and I can feel good about that.”

“An unusual attitude,” he said, signaling the waiter to refill the water glass that I’d turning into a Yellowstone geyser, “in this day and age. And particularly in this rather laissez-faire hamlet. Did you grow up around here?”

“I grew up in the Midwest,” I said impatiently, “land of so many damn lakes there was practically no land. I went to Stanford because they gave me some scholarships and some loans where the interest rate was a toe and finger instead of an arm and a leg. After I graduated I decided I wanted to stay in the state for the job opportunities.”

“Just the job opportunities?” He raised an eyebrow. “There weren’t any other…incentives?”

“Ha ha, you caught me,” I said sarcastically, ignoring his obvious implication. I wish there had been some guy worth staying in this state for. “I really stayed for the high cost of living and the thriving avant-garde sushi scene. What does it matter?”

He fixed me with his gaze, and it was like a telescope zooming in on me from miles away, the whole rest of the world disappearing to him, and to me. “It matters a great deal,” he said. “I want to know more about you. Everything, in fact.”

Well, that made an amount of sense that was about zero. Grant Devlin, wanting to know more about a lowly admin assistant? I’d seen Saturday morning cartoons that were more believable. I threw up my hands in exasperation. “Why?”

He looked away abruptly, his face closing off. He fiddled with his fork. “Why not? You’re a dedicated employee.”

“So’s Moneypenny, and James Bond never takes her out to lunch.”

He gave a real smile at that, wider and more sincere than any I’d ever seen on his face before, and turned back to me. “What a revealing metaphor, Lacey. Tell me—do you watch many James Bond movies?

And that was how the rest of the meal went—no matter how I tried to turn it around, he just came up with question after question about me, and eventually, I stopped trying not to answer. All of us want to talk about ourselves sometimes, and the fact that the guy doing the asking in this case looked like he’d stepped off the cover of GQ was certainly not making this any less like catnip for my ego.

I kept waiting for the catch, but he seemed really interested in everything I had to say—not just the important stuff like my ideas for the company, but silly little things like yes, I had watched every single James Bond movie, but I preferred its predecessor, the 1960s Avengers with Steed and Mrs. Peel. Or that my favorite course in college had been Ethics in Modern Capitalism, followed closely by Drawing I. Or that I used to play dress-up as a kid, pretending I was a princess invited to the ball, or a fairy warrior queen presiding over my court.

(Yeah, I couldn’t believe I let that last one slip either. If he ever brought that up around anyone else, I was going to deck him. And then deny everything. And then hopefully be swallowed up by the earth underneath me before anyone could laugh.)

No matter what banality I came back with, he listened to me natter on with an intensity that actually started to freak me out—the sympathetic nods, the wide eyes, the encouraging questions…this was starting to feel a little bit, just a little bit, obviously not more than a little bit, like a—

No. No no no no no. I was not even going to think the word ‘date.’ I didn’t know what the hell it was, but it was not a date; Grant Devlin didn’t go on dates with people like me! Dammit, self, stop thinking about dates. That way lay madness.

In the middle of dessert—glass dishes of mango sorbet garnished with mint, plates of fried bananas hot from the stove and topped with whipped cream and chocolate, bowls of sweet sticky rice balls topped with slices of tropical fruit—I happened to glance at my watch, and my heart stopped. “Oh, fuck me!”

Grant smirked. “Not very ladylike, Lacey.”

“We’ve been here an hour and half! Jacinda is going to have my head.”

Grant waved his hand, dismissive. “I’ll explain it to her—”

“She will literally kill me.”

“I believe you mean figuratively—”

“No, I mean literally!” I snapped, my heart pounding against my ribcage like a drum. “She will literally cut off my head and put it on a pike and stick up a sign that says ‘Admin Assistant Needed’ in front of it written in my blood and spinal fluid and whatever else is going to squirt out when she literally kills me.”

My mouth was running a mile a minute, way too fast, these weren’t the kind of things you said to your boss! But I was panicking, the whole world starting to spin as I realized how much trouble I was going to be in; she could fire me! No job, no chance of getting another one without a reference, I’d have to move back home with my parents—

I stood up quickly.

Too quickly, as it turned out. My open purse fell off my lap, scattering small change, lipstick, and Tylenol across the marble floor with a clatter that got the attention of every single person in the restaurant.

My stomach dropped down to my shoes, and I felt the tears begin to well up in my eyes. It was all over. I’d fucked this up too.

And then Grant’s hand was on my shoulder, warm, firm, comforting. “Don’t worry. Take your time. I’ll pay the bill, and walk you back.”

I rounded the corner into Jacinda’s office before Grant, and nearly ran right into her, her mouth open the very second she saw me. She sucked in a deep breath like a vacuum cleaner and let loose with a scream that would have done a steam locomotive proud.

“Where the hell have you been? I can’t even depend on you for one little thing, the one littlest thing I ask you to do, do you even have one brain cell in your head, even a complete fucking idiot like you—”

“You’re fired.”

Grant’s calm voice cut through the shrieks and dropped the room into deadly silence.

Jacinda gaped at him like a goldfish. “Mr. Devlin. I—you—you can’t—”

“If you speak to HR, I think you’ll find I can.” Grant sauntered into the room, and leveled a calm, contemptuous look at her, as if she were a bit of dirt he had discovered on the bottom of his shoe, inconvenient but easily removed. “Why don’t you run along and ask?”

Jacinda wavered, clearly not sure whether to retreat to HR with her tail between her legs or protest.

Grant sat down in her chair, leaning backwards and examining his fingernails as if he were bored beyond comprehension with the entire affair. “I suppose you could stay, and we could discuss the hostile workplace clause that allows us to reduce or eliminate your severance package…”

Jacinda took off so fast I was surprised I didn’t see skid marks on the carpet, or hear a little ‘beep beep!’ Meanwhile, I was stunned, almost dizzy, bracing myself against the door in disbelief.

When it came to Jacinda, I’d had more mental revenge films playing in my head than Quentin Tarantino had made in his entire life, but somehow, I never thought any of the things she deserved would happen to her. I never thought she’d have to face the consequences of her actions.

I never thought someone would stand up for me.

And I definitely never thought that someone would be Grant Devlin.

“You…you really can’t do that.”

Grant raised an eyebrow. “Can’t I? I was under the impression that this was my company.”

“But—but what about all her work?” I protested weakly.

“Consider this your promotion.”

I gaped at him, and he just nodded, that infuriating sexy smirk playing around his lips. “Congratulations, Lacey.”

Holy shit.