I walk into work Monday morning with every expectation of being fired.

I'm going to go about it gracefully, I've decided. I spent all weekend working out how my departure will go. Tory will cry into my commemorative Disney mug that I will graciously gift her, and Elektra will look on with disapproval as I gather my sparse belongings up in the cardboard box that I will soon be living out of.

Oh, shit. I forgot the box in my car.

I keep walking, although I can't help slowing my pace as I near my office. I can't help remembering how I found Daniel there the night of the Christmas party. I am absolutely positive that I left my laptop open when Stewart carried me out of the room—and I'm positive that Daniel must have seen my manuscript. Just thinking about that cool gaze of his reading over my hot, illicit fantasies is enough to confirm what I already suspect: by the end of today, I'm going to be out of a job. The fiasco with Stewart might have been forgivable as an accident, but there's nothing accidental about what I wrote in my novel. He's got to think by now that I'm some kind of sexual deviant, and worst of all, there's the chance he recognized some of his own traits, purloined and penned into the character of my male lead.

But I'm still kidding myself. It isn't just 'some' of Daniels' characteristics I used to inform my novel's hero; it’s all of them.

I drop my purse onto my desk, hang my coat on the back of my chair, and look around desperately for something that might occupy my attention. I'm early to work; there were no other cars in the garage.

Daniel doesn't always park his Rolls Royce in the company garage. When I asked the valet posted up at the front entrance of the building if Mister Stone was already in, he answered: "Oh, yes. Mister Stone has been here for an hour at least already."

I'm so fucked.

I take a moment alone in my office to straighten my blouse and smooth my skirt. I compose myself to the best of my ability. I even dig around in my purse for my compact, only to discover the screen lit up on my phone. I glance at it and see a series of text messages from Stewart.

Stewart: Hey, babe. Everything okay?

Stewart: I didn't hear from you all weekend. Figured you were still pissed about the dress.

Stewart: If you need help paying for the damage, you know I'll be good for it in about a month or so.

Stewart: I still want to talk about us. Call me when you can. ;)

No apology about what happened, but I didn’t really expect one. Still, it would be nice if Stewart realizes on his own that my latest radio silence is, and has never been, about the dress. I’m still furious with him for showing up drunk to an event that he knew was important to me. Not only that—I didn't even invite him to begin with! He must have heard about it from Tory.

Well, at least there are no more potentially embarrassing work parties in my future. That's about the only silver lining to all this that I can come up with.

I finally square my shoulders and venture down the hallway to Daniel's office. I knock on the door. I hear a faint 'come in' and enter.

"Shut the door behind you please, and sit down." He gestures to the plush leather chair in front of his massive desk.

I do as he asks. No sooner than I sit down than he gets down to business, but the business he begins to discuss is not what I imagined.

“Your characters are relatable. There's almost something familiar about them."

His words raise every hair on my body. Confirmation. He read my manuscript. My mouth feels dry. My heart pounds violently. Any moment now the other shoe is going to drop. Any moment now. "Yes, well," I stammer. "I try to write characters as if they’re people, since it's people who will be reading and relating to my characters."

I cringe. If this is my elevator pitch, it's already off the cables. I try to summon the right words and start over. "I especially think it's important to make them relatable… or as you put it, familiar… considering… well. Considering."

"Especially considering the subject matter," Daniel offers.

I nod in agreement. What can I say?

"I don't need to tell you that bondage fiction is a niche, Miss Shiels. A very profitable niche, especially for a writer with your talent."

A blush warms my cheeks. I look up at him as he rises from his desk and crosses to look out his floor-to-ceiling window. Of all the words he could have used to describe me, 'talented' is the last one I expected.

"… but it's a niche that suffers from a lack of accessibility," he continues. "I find your manuscript very accessible."

"Thank you." I want to ask him if he's finished reading it all the way through, but I hold my tongue. "I… that means a lot coming from you."

"I know."

He turns from the window to look me directly in the eyes once more. I force myself to hold his gaze.

"Miss Shiels, I didn't invite you up to my office to compliment you. I want Pen and Quill to publish your book."

My jaw drops. I pull myself together and curtail my emotions. Oh, but it’s so hard. He wants to publish my book? How—he leans against the window and crosses his arms over his chest, studying my reaction with just the hint of a smile.

"Is that a 'yes'?"

I nod.

"You know you aren't beholden to what I want just because I'm the CEO. You may work for me, but what you write is yours and yours alone. All I'm offering you is a platform and the opportunity to publish with the biggest independent company in the country."

"And would you advise me to turn down that opportunity?" I ask him, recovering with admirable confidence, if I do say so myself.

"There's more to my terms. I want to personally represent you."

My heart skips a beat. "But if… say my book is a success." Just thinking it is was exhilarating, let alone saying it out loud. "Say I decide to become an author full-time. You'll lose an editorial assistant."

"I'll lose a damn good one," he agrees. "But hopefully I'll have gained a client. One eager to continue repeating her successes."

"If my book is a success."

"I don't think you understand what you're sitting on, Miss Shiels."

He pushes himself away from the window and walks behind my chair. I try to follow him with my eyes, but wind up facing forward as he pauses directly behind my chair. His hands come to a rest on my shoulders, so close the knuckles of each thumb brush against the skin of my neck. I barely quell an excited shudder.

Is he trying to seduce me? That's what my intrepid heroine would ask, but I can't bring myself to form the question.

"No. You don't understand." Daniel crouches down behind my chair and his voice drops to an almost-whisper. "But you will."

I shiver as his breath warms the back of my neck. "I'm sorry?"

"You're a talented editorial assistant, Miss, Shiels, and it shows through your writing."

He withdraws his hands and moves to my side. I sink back into the chair, heart pounding in my chest.

"But there are still places in the book where your research falls short," Daniel concludes as he sits down in his chair.

I study him, not sure what he's getting at. "Such as?"

He grins. "A few scenes come to mind."

I find it difficult to swallow. Judging by his expression, I think I know exactly the scenes he means. I'm certainly not going to argue that I have any firsthand knowledge of the bondage lifestyle. His next words could knock me over with a feather.

"I want you to have lunch with me tomorrow."

"I'm sorry?" I ask. Obviously, it's not the response I intend, but the only one I can manage at this point. I'm sure I mishear him… or maybe my lust-addled brain fails to compute his request the way he means it.

Daniel looks faintly annoyed at having to repeat himself, but I swear, there's an amused twist to his normally reserved smile that I've never seen before.

"I said, would you like to have lunch with me tomorrow, Miss Shiels?"

That's not what you said at all, I realize. The first version of his invitation wasn't an invitation: it was a command. A thrill of excitement shudders through me. It’s probably just my imagination… Anyway, Daniel is doubtless used to giving orders, considering he's the CEO. It’s probably second nature for him to frame his invite that way.

"I'm sorry…" I clear my throat. "Yes, of course, I would love to have lunch with you tomorrow, Daniel. Mister Stone… Daniel." Why does every version of his name suddenly sound like an intimacy I haven't earned yet? I blame the way he's looking at me. There's no way a girl can hope to feel platonic or professional with those gorgeous green eyes of his fixed on her. I wish my body didn't interpret his look as a signal to get so aroused. Already I can feel heat between my legs, kindling to a slow burn. One prolonged glance between us and I'm wetter than Stewart's clinical fumbling has ever managed.

"Good," he says. "I look forward to it."

I want to kick myself. His reply is perfectly formal—mine, on the other hand, definitely employs the use of the L-word. I nod quickly and rise, heading for the door before I can say something that will—

"Oh, and Miss Shiels?"

I turn, foolish heart leaping into my throat. He smiles, wide and brilliant and beautiful, and I know I could die happy on my way out the door knowing that mouth, belonging to that man, invited me to lunch. Never mind that he wants to represent my novel.

"Yes?" Basic manners find a way to slip past my frantically beating heart.

"I'll send a new dress over to you." Daniel is already making himself busy with some documents he's pulled from his desk drawer. "Is your office all right for the delivery?"

I have no words. I'm a romance writer, working in a premier publishing house, and I can't find a damn word in any language to convey my assent. I nod again, and turn to escape before I find a new way to make a fool of myself.

Those at least I seem to know in abundance.