ABIGAIL

“You know if you marry him you’ll end up being one of the richest women in the world, right?” Hailey asks from the bed of my tiny studio apartment. I’d called her the second I left the gym, filling her in on what had happened.

“First of all, this is a business dinner. I already told you that. And second of all, he’s the type of asshole that would insist on a pre-nup.” I slid my hands over the simple black dress I was wearing, frowning at myself in the mirror. Hailey and I had spent forty minutes trying to figure out what “wear something appropriate” meant, to no avail.

In the end, I’d settled on a simple black dress with a V-neck, black stockings, and black high heels. A single silver bangle adorned my wrist, and I’d slipped silver hoops through my ears.

Simple, classic, and totally appropriate for a business dinner. At least, I think it is.

“Let’s ask Will what he thinks,” Hailey says, video chatting him before I can stop her.

Will’s face fills the screen of her phone. “What’s up, Hails?”

“Do you think this dress is appropriate?” Hailey asks, turning the phone so Will can see me.

“Appropriate for what?” Will asks.

“Appropriate for a date,” Hailey reports.

“It’s not a date!” I yell.

“Who do you not have a date with?” Will asks, sounding amused. I try not to feel offended.

“I’ll give you three guesses and the first two don’t count,” Hailey says, which is ridiculous, because how the hell would Will ever guess that I was going out with Elijah Armstrong?

“IT’S NOT A DATE!” I say, resisting the urge to frown at my reflection. Maybe I should wear flats. They might be more professional. But Elijah Armstrong is 6’4” to my 5’8”, and anything I can do to cut down the height difference can only work in my favor.

“It’s Elijah Armstrong,” Hailey says gleefully, falling back onto the bed. “She’s having dinner with him.”

“No!” Will’s voice comes through the phone, sounding shocked. “Let me talk to Abigail.”

I take the phone from Hailey, watching Will on the screen. He’s out somewhere in Manhattan, in a dimly lit bar, loud music pulsing in the background. Probably on some Tinder date. Will is almost as notorious as Elijah for his hook-ups.

“You sure this is wise?” he asks.

“Yes, thank you. I appreciate your concern, but really, it’s fine. This is a business meeting only.” I shoot a dirty look at Hailey.

“A business meeting about what?” Will asks.

“That bastard Armstrong hired Lucy Bastille to head his new erotic romance line.”

“Wow,” Will says, whistling softly. “What an ass.”

“I know. So we’re meeting tonight to discuss my new hire.”

“Okay.” In the background, I hear the sound of female laughter, then a hand with perfectly manicured nails slides into the frame and curves around Will’s shoulder, and a whiny voice purrs, “Willl come onnn.”

“We’ll let you go,” I say. “Text us later.”

“Sounds good,” Will says. “And Abs?”

“Yeah?”

“Just be careful.”

* * *

Half an hour later, Hailey has headed back to her apartment, and I’m waiting by the window to mine, waiting for Elijah Armstrong to pick me up.

At seven sharp, a glimmering black Town Car pulls up to the curb. At the same time, my phone rings, the caller ID blinking a number I don’t recognize.

“Hello?” My voice sounds raw, edgy, and I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

“Ms. Bennett.”

“Mr. Armstrong.”

“I am calling to inform you that my car has pulled up to your residence, and if you are ready, I would request that you come down and join me.”

“Now you’re requesting something?” I can’t help but bite back. Jesus, Abigail, he’s your boss!

“Are you trying to imply that my normal method of questioning isn’t inherently polite?”

“I’m not implying it,” I say. “I’m flat out saying it.”

“Will you be joining me for dinner tonight, Ms. Bennett?”

His voice is a low growl, and it starts something deep in my belly, a feeling that’s both trepidation and delicious anticipation. Why would he be asking me if I was joining him if this was a business meeting? If it were a business meeting, I would have no choice.

Stop, I tell myself.

This is ridiculous.

He’s an asshole.

And he’s my boss, for God’s sake. I’ve worked way too hard to do something to derail my career by sleeping with my boss.

Besides, he dates supermodels.

Not editors.

And not me.

“Yes,” I say, locking the door to my tiny studio behind me. “I will be joining you tonight, Mr. Armstrong.”

* * *

It’s like I’ve stepped out of my world and been shifted right into another, one I know nothing about.

One in which you’re driven places by a driver in a shiny black town car, one where the maitre’d at Octane, one of the hippest, most exclusive restaurants in New York knows your name and escorts you right to the back of the restaurant, where there’s a bottle of expensive wine already at your table, waiting to be opened and poured by the waiter.

“Thank you,” I say as Elijah pulls my chair out for me. I sit down and he pushes me back in smoothly, a move he’s no doubt practiced over and over again.

I reach for the wine and take a sip, trying to calm myself. It’s delicious and smooth, nothing like the wine Hailey and I get from the market near work, the kind that costs six dollars a bottle and is so bitter we sometimes have to water it down with diet ginger ale.

“The sea bass is our special tonight, sir,” the waiter says. He hands each of us a menu and disappears.

“There are no prices on this,” I say automatically, before realizing it’s probably not appropriate. It’s a habit, though. The first thing I do at any restaurant is to look at the prices, trying to figure out if I’m going to be forced to order water instead of a drink, or if it makes more sense to get an appetizer as a meal.

I catch Elijah’s amused half-smirk from across the table. “Yes, well, we don’t have to worry about prices tonight. It’s on AM.”

Which basically means it’s on him, since, let’s face it, he is Armstrong Media.

When the waiter returns, Elijah orders filet mignon, and I follow suit, not wanting to make any tactical mistakes.

“Have I told you that you look lovely tonight, Ms. Bennett?” he asks, once the waiter has cleared our menus and returned to the kitchen.

“Thank you.”

“You are quite welcome.”

A candle sits in the middle of the crisp white tablecloth, and the overhead lights are dim. The light from the candle flickers, casting light across the table, over Elijah’s face.

He’s staring at me from across the table, and I resist the urge to reach out and fiddle with my silverware.

Instead, I square my shoulders. “I’d like to talk about hiring someone to take over Lucy’s position.”

He nods. “You are free to do so.”

I glance at him skeptically. “That’s it?”

“That’s what?”

“That’s it? I’m free to do so?”

“Yes.”

“Earlier you said you didn’t know if it was prudent, given the fact that I’m trying to get my numbers up.”

“I changed my mind. You are in charge of Sweet Kisses, and if you think you need a new editor, then a new editor you shall have.”

I’m about to thank him, but instead, I have another sip of my wine and take a moment to collect my thoughts. There’s no way that a man like Elijah Armstrong just gives something up like that so easily. He has an ulterior motive. But what is it?

“Is this supposed to lull me into a false sense of security about my line?” I ask him. “Because I want you to know that if it is, it will not work. I intend to do everything I can to ensure the success of the Sweet Kisses line, regardless of your plans for Ravish.”

“Do you mean that you haven’t been doing everything you can to ensure the success of your line up until now?”

“Don’t twist my words, Mr. Armstrong.”

He picks up his wine glass and I see a tick in his jaw. He swirls the glass around, the candlelight still bouncing off of his gorgeous face. He’s so freakin’ intimidating, the way his brows slash across his face, the way his dark eyes seem to always be simmering, like he’s one second away from losing control over whatever he’s trying to keep buried inside.

And yet at the same time, his expression never gives any indication of what he’s thinking.

The waiter returns and sets down our salads. Well, if you can call it salad. It’s more like a couple of lettuce leaves filled with something that looks like cut up green tomatoes.

“Is something wrong with your salad?” Elijah asks, noticing me looking at it.

“No.”

He’s still staring at me from across the table, his own salad sitting in front of him untouched.

“Is there something wrong with yours?” I shoot back.

The same muscle in his jaw ticks, but he makes no move to pick up his fork. My hands tighten around the cloth napkin my lap, desperate to do something, and I’m glad he can’t see it.

“I am assuming that there will be equally marketing money for the Sweet Kisses line as there is for the Ravish line,” I say, steering the conversation back toward work.

He frowns. “You know as well as I do that a new line launch will get more marketing power.”

“Then I’m sure you’ll take that into consideration when looking at the sales numbers.”

“You seem to think that I’m pitting you and Ms. Bastille against each other.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No, Ms. Bennett. I am merely trying to figure out what the market wants.”

“What the market wants is a good romance.”

“With sex.”

“The problem with books about sex is that they tend to take over the romance, rather than enhance it.”

“You think sex has the power to take over a romance, Ms. Bennett?” His voice is low, rough, and for a moment, his demeanor changes as I watch his eyes dip down to the front of my dress. His gaze lingers on my cleavage, and my hands grip my napkin tighter as my face warms.

“I think sex can overshadow the journey of the characters, yes.”

“And do you feel the same way about real life?”

I reach for my wine and take a sip, choosing my words carefully. “I don’t know what real life has to do with it.”

“Isn’t all fiction based on fact?”

“All fiction has some fact in it, yes, but I think romance is based more on a fantasy.”

“And you believe that most women don’t fantasize about fantastic sex?”

“I believe they do. But I also believe they want love more.”

“And you, Ms. Bennett?” His gaze never left my face, his dark eyes boring into me. “What do you want more? Love or sex?”