There are so many ways the next few seconds can unfold. I can pretend I don’t know what he is talking about and remain professional, giving him nonverbal cues and hoping he is decent enough to play along.

I can turn around and run screaming from the building.

I can laugh nonchalantly and step forward with grace, offering my hand and telling the story with self-deprecating sophistication and wit so overwhelming that I clinch the deal right here.

Instead, Amanda blurts out, “That’s Hot Guy?”

Declan’s face goes from joyfully amused to ridiculously gorgeous as he tucks his chin in one hand and tries not to laugh. The gray-haired man looks from Declan to me with an annoyed expression, the kind you only see on men who don’t like to be left out of knowing the score, and who are accustomed to having everyone make them the center of attention.

The other brown-haired man takes a step forward and offers his hand to Amanda, who is standing a step closer to them than I am. “Hello. I’m Andrew McCormick, and you are…?”

“Amanda Warrick,” she says with a clipped, professional cadence. The lingering handshake is mutual, though.

He seems to drop her hand with great reluctance, then turns to me. “My brother calls you Toilet Girl, but I’m going to assume that’s a stage name?”

Amanda snickers. Greg looks like I just drop-kicked his Christmas morning puppy out the twenty-second-story window. Declan watches me with deeply curious eyes and a flame of interest that makes the room feel like we’ve moved to the equator, and the gray-haired man clears his throat.

“You look a bit...flushed,” he says to me with a confused smile, but impish eyes. I can see what Declan will look like in thirty years.

The room descends into chaotic laughter.

“Shannon Jacoby,” I say, ignoring the howling monkeys and reaching out to shake what I assume is James McCormick’s hand. The CEO of Anterdec, I’ve researched him thoroughly, but never in a million years put the McCormick name together with Declan. Amanda does the personal background research, and I mentally kick myself for not reading her brief. Then again, I didn’t exactly plan to have Meghan drop nine shops on me in the wee hours of this morning.

“I take it you two have met?” Andrew says to me and Declan, his hard stare at his brother making it clear he expects the full story later.

“Careful, Dad—you don’t want to know where that hand’s been,” Declan says dryly as the elder McCormick and I grasp hands for a quick shake.

“May I speak with you for a moment?” I ask Declan through a gritted-teeth smile. Anger blazes bright in me, turning a heat that had been uncomfortably sultry into a fiery mix of professional offense and uncontrollable lust.

Declan comes over next to me and places his hand on the small of my back as if to guide me to a quiet corner of the room so I can hiss at him while the others introduce themselves.

We both freeze. The touch of his palm, polite but firm, makes my entire body pulse with electricity and groundedness. His hand represents some core I didn’t know I lack. Our breath becomes one, and I will myself not to look at him, because if I do, what will I see in his eyes?

Anything but the same feelings I have right now will destroy me. And the not knowing is easier to live with than certain rejection.

He leans down, hot breath tickling my ear, blowing lightly on the strands of hair that escape my up-do.

“I’ve been thinking about you all morning,” he rasps. A million snappy comebacks flood my mind, but I hold them in check. Deflecting this—this supernova of attraction—can only happen for so long.

Declan and I are at the vanguard of a monumental paradigm shift, all right.

And all the business jargon in the world can’t stop me from what fate has in store.

“Toilet water has that effect on men. They ought to bottle it and sell it at the perfume counter of Neiman Marcus.”

He doesn’t react. At all. No snort of laughter, no eye roll of derision. Just a heat that radiates off him and makes me simmer.

“What were you really doing in that bathroom?” he finally asks, the hand on my back moving in slow circles. It’s the briefest hint of touch, but it makes me lean in to him, and I smell him, a mix of musk, cloves, and sophistication. “You clearly weren’t a student on her way to class.”

“PlentyofFish.com wasn’t doing it for me, so…”

“You’re on the market?” Declan asks. “No boyfriend? What about Mark J.? All that sex in the cooler, next to the salad bins.”

I am going to scream. “You called me Toilet Girl at a business meeting,” I say, remembering my anger. All I want to do is to become a puddle of Shannon at his feet and evaporate magically to reconstitute in his bed. Especially if the sheets smell like him. But I am standing here in professional dress, having added a blazer to the outfit my mom coordinated for me, and Greg is staring at us like two giant dollar signs are popping out of his eyes.

“And I’m Hot Guy?” His voice has a touch of steel behind the amusement.

He’s got me there.

“How about Hot Guy and Toilet Girl get a cup of coffee after this meeting and see what happens?” he asks, pointedly ignoring everyone else in the room.

“You’re asking me out at a client pitch meeting?” I ask, incredulous. My career rests on this account. If Greg doesn’t get this deal, I’m stuck mystery shopping podiatrists and insurance agents forever.

“Would it help if I confess you’re my first?”

“You’re a virgin?” I sputter, just as the senior McCormick clears his throat and Declan and I look up, startled. From the Mr. Bill looks of shock on everyone’s face, they’ve heard my last question.

“If we could get back to business,” James says, motioning all of us to sit at the large oak table. It easily seats twenty and has carved legs thicker than my thigh. And let me tell you, that means it’s nice and big, like something from the Teddy Roosevelt administration.

The entire office reeks of man. Thick, brown leather couches and pub chairs. Ornate Persian rugs bigger than the entire footprint of my parents’ house. Heavy wood fixtures and Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired glass lamps.

Make that original Frank Lloyd Wright designs, most likely.

My face on fire, among other body parts, I sit at the table. Declan takes a seat across from me. My view faces the window, and it’s amazing. And the sky is damn nice looking, too.

Greg rambles for five minutes about marketing crap that used to be important to me, but now all I can do is sneak looks at Declan and wonder how on earth I can put the genie back in the bottle. I don’t want to be attracted to him. I don’t want to be attracted to anyone.

My good nights involve cuddling with Chuckles on the couch while I binge watch seasons of television shows on Netflix with my favorite Crab Rangoon and hot ’n’ sour soup takeout from the place down the street. The guy knows me so well he lets me tip him an extra three bucks to hop over to the convenience store and get my favorite pint of ice cream.

Now that’s love. Even if you have to buy it.

This kind of interest in and from a man is deadly. It kills hope. Because here’s how it works: I like him. He likes me. We bump uglies in bed. I want to talk about emotions. He wants to talk about anything but. I want a future.

He wants another girlfriend.

See? I can write the script and deliver it done. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Steve dumped me because I wanted a future and he wanted the female equivalent of a hood ornament. Which, as I smooth my shirt over my ample hips, I am not—in Steve’s eyes. The woman he turned to after me is poised, well-coiffed, has a master’s in public health from Harvard, and comes from a family that was descended from the original Mayflower passengers.

My Mendon roots can’t compete.

Why am I thinking about Steve right now? I wonder, though as I take in the surroundings as Amanda steps up and recites statistics about new product testing and upselling by clerks in the Anterdec fast-food chains, I realize why.

Because Steve should be sitting at a table like this. Probably is, right now, in fact. Negotiating some business deal with a group of smirking suits who view every woman they work with as a coordinator.

I watch Declan watching Amanda, and really look at him. He’s serious now, eyes tracking the PowerPoint slides as she clicks through, graphs and charts aligned beautifully to nail the entire point of this meeting:

We know our stuff.

You want to improve customer service, cut down on employee theft, help raise retention, and grow your customer base?

Let me lurk in your men’s rooms and report back what I see.

What I saw this morning is suddenly staring back with a wolfish look so deep that I feel raw and vulnerable, like our suits, the rugs, the business paraphernalia is all just a prop to cover up the fact that we’re primal beings who simply want each other.

This is new.

This is too much.

Someone says my name. They say it again. Then I feel a massive pain in my ankle.

“Ow!” I utter. Amanda’s glare is even sharper than her ankle as it crashes into mine again. She’s kicking me.

“It’s your turn, Closer,” she whispers. I look around the table. James, Andrew, and Greg look at me expectantly.

I stand, completely rattled. The deck I prepared is on the same laptop Amanda’s been using, but it’s like I’ve lost all organizational capacity in my mind. Declan won’t stop looking at me like that.

Like that. Like he’s watching me naked and he’s nude and rising up to meet every square inch of my…

James starts to frown while Andrew gives Amanda a knowing look. I clear my throat, but before I can say anything, Declan interrupts.

“We have another meeting to get to,” he says.

“We do?” Andrew exclaims, then, “Ow!” I get the impression Amanda’s not the only one kicking ankles, because Declan gives his brother a fierce look.

“We do. And as the new vice president of marketing, I’m the decision maker here, right?” He looks at James with a hard stare.

All the friendliness drains out of the room. Greg looks like he’s about to throw up, then pastes on a sad smile.

“Is there a reason why you won’t have me finish the presentation?” I ask, my voice spiked with ice. If he’s going to be an asshole and cut me short, and this has all been some kind of game, I’m not leaving without having my say. I’ve been through enough presentations like this to know that if you can get the senior executive on board, even if the other two don’t like it, you have a fighting chance.

“Oh, you’ll finish it.” Declan's voice is dismissive. It makes my jaw ache, and I bite my tongue. “But I can’t now.” He becomes a smartphone zombie, avoiding eye contact. He’s blowing hot and cold like the old heater in Greg’s office.

James stays quiet. I get the sense it’s not his normal state. His eyes flick over me, then back to Declan. “Of course, it’s your call.”

“But my presentation has some hard data that could really affect your decision,” I say. I’m not going without a fighting chance.

“I’d like to reschedule your presentation,” Declan says as he strides toward the door. Andrew follows him, slowly and with the stance of someone who is not accustomed to being the follower.

“When?” Greg asks.

“Tonight. Shannon and I will have a dinner meeting. Seven. Wear something nice,” he says over his shoulder as he walks out.

Fury washes over me and I stand, crossing the big room in seconds. My hand reaches out for his shoulder and he turns around, eyes cold, looking down on me.

“You can’t just order me to go on a date with you!” I cry out. The receptionist cocks her head, listening.

“Who said anything about a date?” His face is inscrutable. “It’s a business meeting. Leave your address with Stacia and she’ll have a driver sent to your home.”

And with that, he stalks out. I start to follow him, but Amanda and Greg appear.

“He can’t do that!” I sputter to Greg. Back me up, dude, I think.

James McCormick comes out, a bemused look on his face as he stares at me. “Ms. Jacoby, I assume you can give a good show for Declan tonight?”

Show? What am I now? Auditioning for The Voice? Who cares about this stupid account? I’ve been turned into a boy toy in seconds by Mr. Asshole in a Suit, and I’m about to give the McCormicks a piece of my mind.

Greg pipes up, finally. Good. Here we go, boss. Defend me.

“Shannon would be delighted. I’m sure Declan will love whatever she shows him tonight.”

And with that, James McCormick leaves us, disappearing back into the football-field office.

I spin in outrage to Greg. “Thanks for pimping me!”

He shrugs. “The guy said business meeting. If that’s what it takes to land this account, you can talk about process flow and customer satisfaction over candlelight, right?”

“You ever been told by a VP of marketing to ‘wear something nice’ and had a limo sent to your home for a business meeting?”

Silence.

“Look at it this way,” Amanda says, slinging her laptop over her shoulder and shooting me a sympathetic look. “It has to be better than the way you met for the first time.”

“And you!” I hiss. “‘Hot Guy’? Seriously? You just…I don’t even know you people. It’s like you’ve become my mother!”

They both shudder. “That’s kind of low, Shannon,” Amanda mutters as we walk to the elevator. Greg scurries over to Stacia the receptionist and I hear him giving her my address. My God. It’s like my mother has been tutoring him.

“And whoring me out to the VP of Anterdec Industries isn’t?”

“I’m sure he won’t do anything inappropriate,” Greg says as he catches up to us.

“Bummer,” Amanda says.

Greg’s turn to look outraged. He’s old enough—barely—to be our father, and while most of the time he acts like a peer, this isn’t one of those moments. A paternalistic air fills the space between the three of us. It’s more what I’d expected back in that meeting, and I would have appreciated it then, but I’ll take what I can get.

“You absolutely do not need to go to this business dinner tonight,” he says, resolute. Amanda’s neck snaps back with surprise at the firmness of his words. “I’ll go instead.”

“Wear something nice,” Amanda chirps.

He scowls. My stomach sinks. I want him to say that, but I don’t want him to follow through. Being alone with Declan on a date—er, business dinner—sounds like heaven. This is my big chance to prove I am more than Toilet Girl. More pragmatically, if we can mix business and pleasure, why not snag a multimillion-dollar account, too, while I am at it?

The entire conversation taking place in my head makes me need a shower to wash off how dirty I feel and to need a shower with Declan. Mmmm, Declan in the shower, soaping me up, and—

“See how distraught she is!” Greg whispers to Amanda. “Look at that blank stare.”

Amanda snorts. “I think she’s drooling, Greg. That’s the look of a woman dreaming about Hot Guy.”

He looks offended. “Why would anyone be…you women are so…I don’t understand…” We climb on the elevator and he pushes the Close Doors button. He’s still sputtering when we hit the parking garage level where his car is parked. “And besides, what do you think your mother would say if she knew?”

“She’d offer me up just like you did, Greg. And go home and cut an extra foot up the slit of any dress I have. She’s a better pimp than you when it comes to dating a billionaire.”

“He’s not a billionaire,” is all Greg can come back with.

“He will be when he inherits his share of Anterdec.” Amanda speaks with the authority of someone who has snooped through every nook and cranny of a man’s Google results.

A dizzy wave of overwhelm makes me cling to the iron-pipe bannister of the concrete steps near Greg’s car. “A billionaire?” Mom would get her Farmington Country Club wedding and more if I…

STOP!

“You feeling faint, Shannon?” Greg pauses, looking at me intently. “You seem fragile today.” A look of sheer horror passes over him while I struggle to keep down my bites of all those early-morning bagel sandwiches. “You’re not…you couldn’t be…you know?” He mimes a basketball in front of his already-basketball-sized belly.

“What? A sumo wrestler?” Amanda mimics with startling brutality.

“Pregnant,” he whispers. The two of them look at each other with twin expressions of shock and dissolve into hooting laughter, the kind where you wipe your eyes and hope you don’t pee your pants.

“Not funny,” I say.

“We know. You can’t be pregnant. It would be the immaculate conception,” Amanda squeaks.

My dizziness passes. “Done making fun of me? Let’s get going.”

They compose themselves and Greg beeps his car to unlock it. We climb in. I take the front seat and Amanda grumbles. I summon a Chuckles-worthy glare and she cowers, climbing in without another peep.

“What’s your rush?” Greg balks as I tap my foot impatiently.

“I have to find something nice to wear tonight.”