“Peter, I don’t want to have this discussion a thousand times. Move the assets to wherever you think they’ll have the greatest return on investment, and then report back to me on how it’s going. If we need to make adjustments, we’ll make adjustments.”

I need to make a different kind of adjustment right now, because while Peter, the new CFO I moved into the position last month, has been droning on about some minor changes he wants to make to some of Hawke Entertainment’s financial structure, my mind wandered back to Kennedy.

It’s a good thing I’m sitting at my desk, because I’m rock-hard and the tent pole in my pants would be all too obvious if I was standing up.

This has been the longest Monday of my life, and it’s not even one o’clock yet.

“I want to confirm with you one more time that—”

“Peter. Do what you need to do. I’m ending the call now.” I stab at the button on my phone that disconnects the call, then I drop the receiver back into place. I don’t have a reputation for being a tyrant at the office—at least, nobody has said that to my face—but today, of all days, I don’t have the patience for people like Peter.

For one thing, I’m busy cancelling the trip I’d planned to the Amalfi Coast.

For another, I’m waiting on the outcome of something far more important than Peter’s lack of confidence in his own decisions. I make a mental note to review his performance after the next quarter, and then I let myself get back to the real task of the day: making contact with Kennedy.

I spent all day yesterday thinking about what to do with the scrap of information her friend gave me outside the car, when Kennedy was still so close I could practically smell the scent of her shampoo, my muscles tingling with the urge to reach into the car and drag her back out, rush her back to my penthouse on the Upper East Side, and—

My executive secretary, Dahlia, knocks gently on the door to my office. “I received confirmation on the delivery.”

“Thank you. If she calls, put her through.”

Dahlia narrows her eyes at me, pursing her lips. “Did you get into trouble over the weekend?”

I shake my head in a parody of disapproval. Dahlia has been with me since I graduated from college and started Hawke Entertainment, which has benefitted—heavily—from its association with my father. She enjoys a salary well above market rates, and I have a secretary who isn’t awestruck by the fact that my personal worth is well over a billion dollars. “That’s an awfully personal question.”

“Oh, stop. You never send anyone flowers.”

“It’s not like I can send anything else to someone’s office.”

“You could send chocolates.”

“There are still options on the table. But flowers seemed appropriate.” More than appropriate. Kennedy, who took convincing to even step onto the dance floor, will appreciate flowers. At least I hope she will.

“So what are you apologizing for?”

I look at her with narrowed eyes. “What makes you think I have something to apologize for?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she says, tapping the side of her cheek and glancing up at the ceiling. “The endless parade of women you normally hit and quit while you’re traveling all over the globe?”

“Every single one of those women loved the time we spent together.”

“I’m sure they did. But they didn’t love it when you dropped them like hot potatoes. I’ve sent too many parting gifts, Gideon. I thought you weren’t going to start in on women in the city for a while.”

By “for a while,” Dahlia means ever. The last woman I took seriously in New York City was a mistake of colossal proportions, and we’re tiptoeing dangerously close to actually discussing her.

“It’s not like that.”

“You sure?”

“Don’t you have work to do?”

“Harwood from accounting has updated division reports. Thought you should know—they’ll be up shortly.”

“Thanks.”

Dahlia disappears back through the doorframe, and I stare at the phone like a lovesick teenager from the 1950s.

I’m not lovesick. Not in the least. I can’t stop thinking about Kennedy, but so what? She’s an adventure that I can’t pass up, and to ignore the way she’s making me feel—even now, a day and a half after meeting her—would be to go against my No. 1 cardinal rule: always have a good time.

Today, a good time includes sending her flowers.

Her friend looked at me for a long moment as we stood next to the open door of the waiting car. I’d leaned in and let my grin slide into a half smile that ladies fall for every time. “Do I deserve her number? I don’t know.” I raised one shoulder an inch in a languid shrug. “But I could tell by the look on her face that she didn’t want us to be interrupted, but you did it anyway. You should give me her number. As a favor. To her.”

The brunette had laughed out loud. “I don’t know how she’d feel about that. She’s very protective about private details.” I stopped myself from saying something dirty about private details and waited. “No, I don’t think she’d like for me to give you her number.”

I’d shaken my head, though my heart sank right down to the concrete beneath my shoes. I had other options, of course, but they would take time and be more difficult to explain if I did find her information another way, and—

“Leah! Come on! The champagne!” One of the other girls called through the door, and Leah turned and gave her a scolding look.

“I’ll be right there.” Then she fixed her dark eyes on me again. “I’m not going to give you her number, but I’ll give you a clue.”

“What is this, the third grade?”

“Take it or leave it, rich boy.” A playful grin stretched across her face.

“I’ll take it.” It was a struggle to keep my voice casual, because everything in me was being drawn toward Kennedy, like a shooting star being sucked into a planet’s orbit.

“Ruby Reservations.” Then she’d turned and climbed into the car, pulling the door shut behind her. As the car pulled away, I could hear the women cheering inside.

The phone on my desk rings, jolting me out of the memory. It’s a call from Dahlia’s desk.

“Yes?”

“I have a call from Kennedy Carlisle at Ruby Reservations on line one.”