When starting your own business, it’s important to have a spotless apartment. Well, knowing me, that’s never going to happen, but I can at least throw all the chip bags and empty soda cans away. I’m wandering around the cluttered explosion of my apartment, one quickly filling trash bag in hand, my cell phone clamped between my shoulder and my ear. Blaire’s on the other end, excitedly chatting away. Once I’d walked out of CAA, she was my first call.

“So how long do you think it’ll take to write up the proposal?” She’s trying to sound professional, but I know the sound of half a glass of celebratory champagne when I hear it. I am an expert of happy champagne talk; it’s the best sound in the world.

Because yes, Blaire Lavender is going to be my first self help client. I’m establishing a brand—BrightWomen—and forging my own path. Blazing ahead on the strength of nothing more than determination and cupcakes. Primarily cupcakes. Mostly cupcakes.

Maybe ‘Mostly Cupcakes’ should be the brand name, but it’s probably a bad idea.

“We’ve got most of the work done by now.” I get on my knees and fish a soda can out from under the bed. Don’t judge me. “You should thank Gavin for not taking you on as a client. He made me hustle that pitch together and make it good, so we can use the whole thing.” I hoist myself up onto the bed and lie there, staring at the ceiling. “I’m thinking we hit up Harper Collins first. I have a good editor friend there who’s been dying for something female-powered and from an authentic voice.”

“And someone who’s hot,” Blaire chimes in. I don’t mind. Girl knows what she’s working with.

“Totally. So let me dot the T’s and cross the I’s on a contract, and I’ll email it over to you along with the revised proposal. Then, we hit the streets. What do you say?”

“I’m a little worried about your T and I mix-up, but otherwise thrilled.”

“Hey, you need to think outside the box to make the big bucks. Talk soon.” We hang up the call, and I stay lying there, listening to the hum and occasional honk of traffic outside. There was something about kneeing Gavin right in the soft, squishy balls that gave me the power boost I needed. I don’t have to run behind some asshole who knows less than I do. I don’t have to kowtow to somebody who doesn’t treat people well. I don’t need a paycheck.

Well, I sort of do. Really do. But I’ve saved up enough that I can take an entrepreneurial gamble right now. If this doesn’t pan out, of course, it’s back to Starbucks. Ah, shitty college jobs.

I’m not going to worry about that right now. I close my eyes and focus on my positive thoughts: future success, my own business, Fraser Drake, my name on a business card, Fraser Drake naked, buying my own house someday, Fraser Drake naked and glistening with—

Okay, my subconscious isn’t exactly being subtle here. I sit up, massaging my temples. Why didn’t I just pull him aside after we got Lily out of the motel? Why didn’t I leap on top of him in the parking lot, throw my legs around him, and make out with his face while my siblings watched in growing horror? Well, I mean, I guess there’s a reason I didn’t do that second one—I want to be able to have Christmases and family gatherings with Justin and Lily for the next few decades. But maybe I could have sent him a text when I got home? Told him to call me?

But he still never took the initiative to call me first. Do I want to always be the one running after him? Even when I was sort of—well, mostly—in the wrong about Gillian and Anna? Am I sitting on a half-eaten bag of pretzels? What is wrong with me?

Sighing, I pick up my trash bag and start hunting around the room again. Maybe I should call him later. Someone needs to make the first move. I just wish I could feel like he’d let his guard down around me. That he wasn’t so concerned about his image.

Man, I’m thinking about Fraser so much it’s like I can hear him calling my name over the traffic. “Emma!” I hear him shouting. Maybe it’s like when Jane Eyre heard Rochester over the moors. Except, of course, Rochester actually did have the crazy wife locked up in the attic. And if Jane had lived in Los Angeles, not Yorkshire, she probably would have gotten out more. Had an active nightlife. At least joined a book club and a knitting circle. That wild and carefree gal.

“Emma!” Man, my Jane Eyre fixation is a little too real just now—I could swear Fraser really was outside, yelling up at my window. Like someone else really was shouting at him to shut the hell up, because there’s a goddamn door right in front of him that leads to—

Oh my God.

I race over to the window that overlooks the street, and shove it open. Kind of hard work, what with how I’m pretty sure the wood is swollen from age and not being treated and why am I worrying about this right now? Fraser is standing two stories below my window.

Fraser, wearing a straw boater hat on his head and a look of clenched determination on his face, like something is gnawing on his testicles and he’s not going to look, damn it.

Fraser, who is staring up at my window while Miguel, who runs the neighborhood fruit cart, is standing right next to him waving an accusatory wedge of pineapple in his face. “Hey, man, does Emma know you? What’s with the hat? What’d you say your name was?”

When Fraser’s eyes meet mine, he forgets all about threatening pineapples. He snatches the hat off his head, holding it against his chest. The smoldering heat of his gaze, the clenched and incredibly masculine line of his jaw, the powerful grace of his body, all of that tension flows right out of him and up to me. I know what he’s going to do. Fraser Drake, the man who would rather chew off his own leg than have someone laugh at or pay too much attention to him, is about to do the unthinkable.

The inconceivable.

The incredible.

Someone is going to put this on YouTube. I have to force myself not to reach for my phone and do it myself.

“Emma.” Fraser clears his throat, looking like a man contemplating a dive off a hundred foot cliff. “I wanted to tell you.” He stops. Should I tell him not to do it? Tell him this was mostly my fault? Tell him that I wonder if he can hit a high C?

Miguel waves up at me, looking confused. I give him an ‘it’s okay, he’s with me’ hand wave. Fraser closes his eyes…and starts to sing.

My God. It’s everything I always wanted.

“I have often walked down this street before, but the pavement always stayed beneath my feet before. Does enchantment pour out of every door? No, it’s just on the street where you live.”

He’s doing it. He’s singing “On the Street Where You Live,” my most favorite song from my most favorite musical. Fraser’s got a deep, rich baritone—my God, the man can really sing. Who the hell knew, apart from the people who watched him with his a cappella group in college? And the five hundred and sixty people who viewed that video on YouTube?

As Fraser continues to sing, gaining some power in his voice, Miguel watches with his jaw hanging open. Then, he snaps out of it, stands next to Fraser…and starts singing in harmony. Holy shit, they sound amazing.

There are definitely people taking pictures now.

“And oh, the towering feeling just to know somehow you are near. The overpowering feeling that any second you may suddenly appear.” Fraser and Miguel are rocking the neighborhood now; they’ve inspired a homeless man sleeping underneath a tree to sit up, pull out a spoon, and start slapping it against his knee to add a nice percussion section. I’m pretty sure I’ve entered an alternate dimension; my soul has physically left my body.

Through it all, Fraser keeps his eyes fixed on me. I can feel his wince whenever a phone flash goes off, but he won’t stop. He throws his shoulders back, the epitome of masculine confidence. Miguel is clutching the pineapple to his chest in rapture. They build together towards the end of the song:

“People stop and stare, they don’t bother me.” A slight lie, I think this is bothering Fraser quite a bit, but he won’t be stopped. “But there’s nowhere else on earth that I would rather be. Let the time go by, I won’t care if I.” Here, Miguel grabs onto Fraser’s shoulder, comrades in musical arms. “Can be here on the street where you liiiiiive.”

The small crowd starts applauding wildly. I take that as my cue, and rush out the door. Barreling down the stairs, I burst out into the sunshine to find Fraser surrounded by a group of admirers. Miguel is shaking his hand, looking more excited than I’ve ever seen a man. Fraser accepts it all with stoic grace, though I can tell part of him is withering inside.

He did this for me. He opened himself up to attention and ridicule, the two things he hates most in the world. Well, he might have attention, but definitely not ridicule: some people are trying to get his autograph.

“Fraser.” I stop in front of him. A warmth builds up inside of me, making it hard to breathe. I put my hand over my heart, which is beating so fast. Like, jackrabbit hopped up on speed fast. Not the most romantic image ever conjured, but give me a minute. I’m still flustered.

“Emma.” He strides towards me, the crowd dissipating around us as he draws nearer, ready to take me in his arms. This is the most swooningly romantic moment of my life, and I prepare to melt into his embrace…until Miguel jumps on him first. Fraser grunts as Miguel gives him a huge, bone-crushing man hug.

“Dude, I always love finding a guy who loves the classic Broadway songbook!” Miguel, who has loops of barbed wire tattooed all over his arms and a Dodgers cap on backward, seems ready to melt with happiness. “You ever want to start up a group? ‘Cause I got some homies real into Sondheim, but we need a fourth.”

“Er, I think this was a one time only performance. Thank you.” Fraser disengages himself from Miguel, who shrugs and goes back to chopping up a mango. As he ushers me back into the building, his hand on the small of my back, I feel light and heavy at the same time. That is, my heart is light, and my lower body—particularly right between my legs—is heavy and needful. Once inside, I grab Fraser by the lapels and gaze into his eyes.

“I can’t believe you did that for me,” I breathe.

He smiles, a wicked light dancing in his eyes. “To be fair, it was something I needed to do for myself as well. I wasn’t sure how good my vibrato still was.” Tease. He presses me closer against him, one hand tucked against my back, the other fisted in my hair. “But you were the primary concern. I should have told you the whole truth. It was cowardly of me not to.”

I twine my hands around his neck, bringing my lips to brush against his as I speak. “I was inconsiderate and came on too strong. It’s a combo of my less flattering characteristics.”

“Indeed.” He kisses me then, just once. Once is enough to melt me against him. “But I have to confess, I find every bit of you irresistible.”

“You’re fairly irresistible yourself.” I kiss him, mouth opening as he deepens the embrace. His tongue strokes against mine, and a wash of sheer pleasure courses through me. When we finally break apart, I realize we’re still standing in the lobby, and the mailman is giving us an appreciative glance. “We should probably go upstairs.” I hit the elevator button, still wrapped up in his embrace. “The only problem with your performance is reciprocity. I need to think of a way to make all this up to you, you know.”

Fraser pulls close and whispers in my ear. “I can think of a few things,” he whispers.

Oh, do tell, good sir.

We’ve barely got the door closed when I’m practically climbing him. God, this man is so damn tall, like a handsome, sexual Mount Everest. That image should not appeal to me as much as it does.

Fraser pulls my shirt up and over my head, kisses down my bare neck. His tongue trails across the swell of my breasts, my nipples hardening under his attention. Gasping, I reach back and unhook my bra while he whips off his jacket, his tie, and unbuttons his shirt. I wrap my legs around his waist as he pins me against the wall, one hand cradling underneath me, the other around my waist. He flicks his tongue across my nipple, hardening it even further. I moan and writhe against him, kissing down his neck. A second later, he slides a hand down my body, hooking a finger through my panties. I have to unwrap my legs so that he can take my panties off. Then he kisses me while he reaches down and settles a hand between my legs. I moan as he traces his thumb along my clit, pumps a finger inside of me to feel how wet and ready I am for him.

Which I am. Desperately. “I want you inside me,” I whisper, crying out as I skim right along the surface of an orgasm. Fraser obliges, pausing to work his belt buckle open. I help, whipping off the belt and tossing it aside. A button later, and he’s hard and throbbing in my hand. I squeeze at the base of his cock, relishing in the groan that escapes from him. He throws his head back, his jaw tight, his eyes shut. I love the effect I seem to have on him. The feeling is very mutual.

Fraser fumbles a condom out of his pocket—good man, coming prepared. A second later, and he’s ready. Picking me up, he hoists me to eye level, my back against the wall. I wrap my legs and arms around him again, tight. Then, with a swift, sweet movement, he sheathes his cock in me up to the hilt.

“Fuck, Fraser,” I breathe as my hips jerk against his. He fills me entirely, so big that I’m already on the verge of a climax.

“That’s the idea,” he growls, and starts thrusting. I ride the power of his body, my breasts bouncing in time with his thrusts. Already, the feeling of rising energy is buzzing through me: I’m going to come, and fast. I kiss him again, trace my tongue across his mouth. He gasps, then turns us around and lays me onto the bed without breaking his stride. While I lie there, my legs still wrapped tight around him, he pounds into me as hard as he can go, holding nothing back. No more secrets or holdouts between us.

Just the way it should be.

As the orgasm builds, I want to whisper things to him, like how good it feels, or how big he is, or how I’m going to come, right now. But instead, as I look into his eyes and see the relief, and the unbridled lust sparkling there, I can only say three words I’ve been yearning to speak since, well, maybe since I spilled wine all over him.

“I love you,” I gasp as he pounds into me. His hips jerk faster and faster as he nears his own climax.

“Oh, Emma.” He leans down to kiss me, pulling our bodies flush against each other. “I love you. I need you.”

I think the need is even more impressive than the love. When you’re Fraser Drake, you learn not to need anything.

Those words are all I need to hear, and the orgasm spirals through me. I gasp and shudder, crying out Fraser’s name as he collapses on top of me, his own orgasm spending. After a minute, we lie there pressed together, our heartbeats racing in tandem. Damn, I can’t remember ever being this relaxed. This happy. Or my room being this clean. It’s a perfect combination.

After Fraser, er, disengages from me, we’re lying back on my bed, tangled up in each other. I’m lying on his chest, leg hooked over his while he strokes my hair. It feels very natural.

“And to think I’ve known you all my life.” Fraser sounds mildly shocked by the idea. “We’ll have a nice story for our children.”

I don’t hem or haw or blanch at the idea of “our” kids. It just feels right. “We can tell them all about the epic water balloon fight of ’94.”

“As I recall, you and your neighborhood girl biker gang started it.” Well, he’s right. The Pixie Punk Girls, that’s what we called ourselves. We had angry Tinkerbell decals on our bikes.

“But you escalated it by bringing out the jumbo balloons.” I kiss his chest. “And then you’ll tell our kids, ‘Then I looked at your mother, all of ten years old, and said that I was going to plow her senseless when she grew up.’”

Fraser makes a startled, horrified noise. “Emma! That’s foul,” he says.

Then I can’t stop myself from laughing, and after a second he joins in.

So foul, so wrong, and yet so right.