Dr. Schneider—one of the emergency doctors I worked with when I first started nursing—had approached me about having dinner with one of her friends a few weeks ago. I still had a bad taste in my mouth from the ass-loving pediatric assistant, but after Julian sent me a message on Instagram and I had a chance to chat back and forth with him for a couple of days, I accepted his invitation. Then life got in the way. We’d each canceled a date over the course of two weeks, so I gave up on meeting him. Called it fate. Which is why I was surprised to discover a message from him when I took my break a few nights ago. We had talked for the last five minutes of my lunch, and I quickly remembered why I agreed to go out with him in the first place. Julian is charming, polite and soft-spoken—and a complete 180 from that other man.

Although I was still reeling from my last showdown with Bailon, I had said yes without hesitation when Julian asked me to dinner. “What the hell could it hurt?” I’d asked myself, powering off my phone before returning to my shift.

The thing is, I never dreamed my evening would begin with me instantly comparing Julian to a man I’m desperate to forget. It starts with the eyes. Julian’s are hazel. As we formally introduce ourselves in the lobby of The Renaissance—a waterfront Italian restaurant in South Boston—the voice in the back of my head slyly reminds me that I prefer moody amber over the greenish-brown irises gazing down at me. That I’m drawn to raven hair instead of Julian’s tidy chestnut brown comb-over. That I like that the other man doesn’t tower over me when I have on four-inch pumps.

Shut the hell up, I bitterly tell that smug voice, but it doesn’t. It pipes up again after we reach our table and Julian watches me shrug my coat off from the comfort of his seat.

Mateo would take it off for me. His fingers would warm my skin. He would lean into me and breathe in my scent and tease me about the brand of perfume I wear. He would—

Clenching my teeth into a smile, I sit down and fist my hands into the skirt of my fitted red dress. Mateo Bailon—and his eyes, fingers, and other extremities— has no business in my thoughts tonight or any other night.

“This place is gorgeous,” I say brightly, darting my eyes over the lavish dining room. True to its name, the décor and artwork are influenced by the Italian Renaissance. Yanking my attention from a mosaic accent wall showcasing Botticelli’s “Birth of Venus,” I give Julian a warm smile as he murmurs that he had briefly studied art in college instead of a retort that makes my toes curl. “This is my first time here,” I admit.

“You’ll love it, I promise.”

While Julian is a complete gentleman as we make small talk, my stupid, stupid brain pings back to the other man. The asshole. I haven’t heard a single word from Bailon since he dropped me off in front of my apartment building a week ago, but that hasn’t hindered me from thinking of him and our heated exchange from that night. The most infuriating aspect of the whole situation is that I’ve had to stop myself from texting him numerous times over the last several days—not to give in, but to apologize like a fool for offending him.

“You look deep in thought,” Julian muses, snapping my concentration back to reality. He sends a smile my way that should inspire butterflies and swooning, but it does nothing for me. I straighten my spine and nibble at a bite of my salad. “Work troubles?”

“Something like that.” I roll my shoulders to relieve the tautness in the back of my neck. “It’s good not to think of the hospital for one night.”

But I’m not thinking of the hospital—I’m thinking of Bailon—and by the time our entrée arrives, I’m miserable and the regret has reached an all-time high.

Still, I’m determined to enjoy my evening.

“How do you know Dr. Schneider?” I question after Julian tells me about his upcoming trip to Miami to celebrate the end of filing season. I shove around a piece of lamb on my plate and give him a curious look. “She said you go way back, but…”

“But I’m a little young to be friends with the good doctor?” Julian had revealed earlier that he’s thirty-three—an easy twenty years Dr. Schneider’s junior and nearly seven years younger than the man I shouldn’t be thinking about. When I scrunch my features and shrug, he throws his head back and laughs. “She became a client at our firm ten years ago—the same year I started.”

That makes sense. Racking my brain for something—anything—else to talk about, I down a sip of my water. “You all must be busy right now with the deadline so close.” From its spot at the edge of the table, my clutch starts vibrating. Although I offer him a frown and the obligatory apology, I’ve never been more grateful for an interruption. After Julian promises he won’t be upset if I take the call since it might be work, I check my phone only to find a new text.

8:37 PM: Lesson #3: Sexual escapes aren’t the only escapes I’m good at. You look beautiful in red, too beautiful to be with him. Ditch the date, Jamila.

Twice I reread his text and twice I feel like I’m melting, turning into a pathetic puddle beneath the table and my date’s feet.

I feel Julian’s hazel eyes trained on me as I place my phone facedown beside my plate. Keeping my stare on the shiny prongs of my fork, I draw in a deep breath, praying my face doesn’t give away the fact Bailon’s newest message has … shattered me. Yes, shattered. That is the only way to describe the way my heart thunders in my chest at the realization there’s another set of irises staring at me. “It was my sister,” I say eventually.

“Is everything okay?” Julian sounds concerned, so I bob my head.

“Everything is … fine.” My voice is like air, paper thin and soft. I reach out for my water, holding it with both hands because my fingers quake and I’m afraid I’ll drop the glass to the floor. Bailon is here. Bailon is at the same restaurant, and he’s looking at me. What a goddamn creeper. A sexy, dirty-talking creeper.

I clear my throat. “My sister can be a bit of a drama queen.”

“Older? Younger?” Julian places his elbow on the table and rests his chin in his palm. “I want to know everything there is to know about you, Jamie.”

“Older. By a couple of minutes.” When his eyebrows arch, I force myself to breathe evenly as I explain that I have a twin sister. I keep my gaze pointed forward, on my date, because I know that if I look for Bailon, I will lose myself. “What about you? Any brothers or sisters?” I cringe because my phone vibrates again.

“Unfortunately, I’m an only child.” The left corner of Julian’s mouth twists upward, and he nods at my phone. “Your sister is very persistent.”

Persistent. Hadn’t Bailon used the same word to describe himself exactly one week ago?

“That she is.” Jerking my phone to me, I close out Bailon’s newest message but not before one word commands my attention—fuck. I swallow back the strangled sound clawing at my throat and climb to my feet. “I’m so sorry, Julian. I just need to call and let her know I’m out. If I don’t acknowledge her, she’ll never stop.”

His expression pinches for a split second, but then he lifts a hand and motions me to go. “No problem.” He waggles his eyebrows to the phone clutched to my chest. It’s pulsating again—another text from Bailon. Another row of filthy words that will warm my body and scorch my mind. “She’s really not going to quit, is she?”

“She likes to make my life difficult,” I say, looking down at the two words on my screen. I’m waiting. Blood rushes to my head at the thought of being summoned but I succeed in giving my date a pleasant smile. “I’ll be back in a few.”

I’m not sure if Julian’s eyes follow me, but I feel guilty. Guilty for leaving him behind because of Bailon. Guilty for pressing the button to call a man who’s not my date as I walk through the restaurant. Guilty for my breath quickening when Bailon answers with a chuckle that ripples through me and makes me wonder what if.

“Jamila,” he says and it sounds like a curse.

“Are you stalking me?” I demand in a carefully controlled voice as I maneuver between the rows of tables. Eyes narrowed, I scan the restaurant for a glimpse of him. “Answer me, dammit.”

“Keep walking straight.”

Raising my chin, I realize I’m headed right toward the restrooms. I pause for a moment between two tables and shake my head. “Why are you following me?”

“Fuck, do you have to argue? Just keep moving and stop ruining everyone’s meal with your disobedience.”

My disobedience? My fucking disobedience?

A growl erupts from my throat, earning another sardonic laugh from Bailon. He coaxes me along as I walk toward the hallway leading to the restrooms, and the color staining my vision goes from bashfully blush to scarlet the closer I get. Just before I turn down the corridor, I hear his voice—live and painfully seductive—and I freeze a few feet from one of the private dining rooms.

The door is halfway open, and my heart flings itself into my windpipe when my eyes meet his. Lord, why does he have to look so sexy all the damn time? He’s dressed in a grey tweed suit, his hand raised to his throat as he loosens his tie and the top couple of buttons of his striped dress shirt.

“It took longer than I thought for him to bore you to tears,” he says with a smirk and a wink. He takes a step backward into the private room and reaches up to crook his finger, urging me to follow him. “Don’t just stand there with your mouth open, Jamila. This is why you left him, isn’t it?”

This bastard. Grasping my phone in one hand and clenching my other into a tight fist, I stalk in after him. “No, Bailon, the reason I left is that you—”

“Shut up and listen.” He closes what little space there is between our bodies in two strides and reaches behind me, flattening his hand on the door to slam it shut. A moment after he locks it, his hands connect with my body, one on the base of my spine and the other framing my face to direct my gaze up to his.

“You don’t need to touch me to get me to listen to you,” I snap, but he shakes his head and brushes his hand across my cheek. I loathe my heart. I loathe it for beating so rapidly, for coming to life beneath his fingertips.

“You deny me,” he starts in a low rumble, his breath fanning my face with the scent of whiskey and mint. “You give me bull and shit about taking you to dinner and then you come out with him?”

“Are you screwing with—” But he cuts me off, arching my back and lowering his mouth to my throat. My gasp scorches my lungs, making it an effort to speak. “Bailon … what are you doing?”

“You’re a fool.” He nips at the tender flesh beneath my chin, and the hum of his mouth against my skin reverberates through my body. “A goddamn fool.”

“Is that why you’re stalking me?” I demand, but my voice sounds as if it’s a million miles from Earth. There’s a buzz in my head, one that’s gradually building into a roar, and I know I must put space between myself and Bailon. The hand he has wedged between my body and the door slips dangerously lower, toward my ass, so I reach up and clutch his tie, wrapping it around my palm with each word I speak. “If you don’t stop touching me, I’m going to knee you in your precious junk,” I threaten.

“I’m not stalking you, I’m doing my civic duty and warning you before you end up in that motherfucker’s bed.” He flicks his tongue over the column of my throat and I shiver. “You should be in my bed. You should be singing my name and digging your nails down my back instead of fumbling through dinner with another—” His mouth falls open in shock as I loosen my hold on his tie and punch the side of his body.

“You hit me!” He drops his hands from my face, from the small of my back, and staggers away from me with a stunned look on his stupidly handsome face. “Why the fuck would you hit me?”

“Maybe because you have boundary issues.” I’m out of breath and wobbly in the knees, so I pretend I’m more interested in adjusting my red fitted dress over my hips. I rest my shoulders against the door. “I came to find you because I want you to stop texting me and following me. You’re giving me whiplash. One second I swear you’re done with me and the next you’re popping up while I’m in the middle of dinner.”

“With someone else,” he adds in a snide tone that makes me wish the blow I landed in his ribs had been on his mouth instead. He deserves it. “I want to be done with you, but I can’t when you’re all over town with someone else.”

“Not that it’s any of your damn business, but I have not been all over town with any one.” He rolls his eyes up toward the painted ceiling—a mural of The Creation of Adam—so I fumble for the door knob behind me and continue. “I’m going back to my date, Bailon. I’m going back to my date and you should go back to…”

“Dinner with a client,” he says with a nonchalant shrug. I shake my head disbelievingly.

“If I were your client, I’d fire your ass the second you sat back down with me.” Unlocking the door, I open it and look back at him over one shoulder. My stomach tightens, but I suck in my cheeks and nod. “Stop being creepy and texting me that you’re watching me while I eat.”

Before I can leave, he’s in front of me again, touching me—his long fingers on either side of my waist. He walks me up against the door again, closing it, and the front of my body presses against the wood in front of me. The knots in my stomach give way to a flurry of butterflies.

“You should be mine,” he whispers into my ear, raising goose bumps across my skin.

My laughter is almost hysterical. Closing my eyes, I shake my head. “To what? Fuck you and your friends? Play a rousing game of spin the body on that fancy ass table you bought from Exley? To—”

He hauls me around to face him, stealing my words and air. “I don’t want to share you, Jamila.” He leans over until his face hovers above mine and our lips are a breath apart. “I want to escape in you. I want everything your body has to offer, and while we’re together, I want to be the only one taking.”

My brow puckers. “Bailon,” I start, but he inches me closer to him.

“Mateo.”

“Bailon,” I continue, and his eyes flash in anger. “Why are you doing this just for one night of sex? Is it because I said I wasn’t going there with you? Isn’t it exhausting?”

“We’re not going to have one night of sex,” he says confidently. He runs the tip of his nose along my temple and breathes me in. “We’ll fuck, and we’ll fuck often.”

“Did you ever stop to consider what I might want?”

“A husband? Kids?” When I glance away from him and suck in a harsh breath through my nose, he sighs. “I won’t fall in love with you, Jamila, and I promise you won’t fall for me because you already know who and what I am. Trust me, beautiful, being in love is a goddamn curse. Giving in to this thing between us, though”—he moves his face back and studies me without blinking —“that’s natural. Fun.”

When he dips his mouth again, I turn my face before he can kiss me. To my surprise, he’s amused, chuckling into my hair before he inhales deeply. “Stop sniffing me so I can get back to my date.” But I don’t try to untangle myself from him.

“He brought you here because he thought he’d be rewarded for spending so much money.”

I blow out my cheeks then exhale in exasperation. “And you thought you’d be rewarded every time I’ve seen you. You’re the devil, by the way.”

“Better the devil you know than some dick who hides his intentions behind charm and a pocket protector.” At my confused noise and the way I turn my face so I don’t have to look him in the eye, he nudges my temple with the tip of his nose. “Julian Noble’s my accountant, Jamila. I had the pleasure of being in his office when his receptionist reminded him of his date with you earlier today.”

My posture goes limp, and I swear my heart skips a few beats. I meet his stare, searching his brown gaze for answers. “He’s your accountant,” I repeat.

“Not for long because I spent the entire appointment wanting to wrap my hands around his skinny neck for letting me know about the hard ten he planned on pounding after dinner tonight.”

When I flinch at his words—at the realization that I’m out with another scumbag—he skims his knuckle over my cheek. “I don’t want love with anyone,” he says in a tone that’s almost soothing. “But I won’t lie to you to get what I want. I think we could have fun together, Jamila.”

“Are you lying now?” I demand. “About Julian?”

He shakes his head and I believe him. God, I hate that I believe him. “You sure as fuck can do better.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say numbly, finally slipping away from his grip. God knows I haven’t enjoyed the evening with Julian, but hearing Bailon’s revelation leaves a bitter weight in my chest. As I open the door, I barely recognize my own voice when I whisper, “Good night, Bailon.”