I take a sip from my glass of whiskey when I make it to my buddy, Jackson’s side. “Where’d you find her?” I ask, referring to the girl he brought as his date tonight.

Jackson runs his hands down the seam of his perfectly pressed tuxedo, his eyes glued to his date as she walks off in the direction of the restrooms. “She’s sort of a neighbor.”

“That’s one hot girl next door,” I tell him after downing another mouthful of the amber liquid. “Kinda young, but hot. Who was her chef friend?”

I still can’t keep my eyes off of the little blonde chef, and I don’t know why. The moment that I first see her at the fundraising gala that my mother organized, it does something to me.

“No idea,” Jackson answers. “Want me to ask?”

“Nah. I can find out.”

He nods and flashes me a grin. “I remember the lengths you go to for a piece of ass.”

Besides probably being the most analytical and numerically gifted person in this room filled with New York’s most elite and powerful families, I can confidently say that I’m very likely the most adept at chasing tail. Even more so than my buddies Foster and Caleb. My two best friends since childhood, Jace and Jackson, would agree. Which is why Jackson would know.

I smile. “Whatever it fucking takes. It’s not much different from your brother.”

We proceed to chat about Jackson’s track record of doing crazy shit, his brother, Jace’s dating choices, and share a few words on the Mont Blanc deal we’re working on, but to be honest, it’s not in the least bit interesting to me. That’s just one side of my brain running on automatic pilot. I’m appeasing a conversation while my eyes take in the sexy blonde chef.

I don’t know a thing about her, and already, I crave her.

I hate that I do. That loss of control, the feeling of being captive to something outside of myself, and finding it impossible to look away, think, or focus on anything else. It bugs the fuck out of me.

My dick feels it too.

I’m the guy mothers warn their daughters about. The one most likely to spend every waking moment figuring out how to close the deal and get a woman into my bed, only to cut her loose once I’ve had her. And I mean once. Second dates and second fucks are not in my vocabulary.

The worst part is they never see it coming. They notice the glasses, learn about my analytical prowess and size me up as the geek I truly am. Except, because of my fucking good looks behind these specs and the fact that I take damn good care of my body, words like sexy, hot and god end up added on to their description and perception of me.

And up until I see the hot little blonde across the room for the first time, that aspect of my sex life was more than satisfactory.

But now it’s not.

All of a sudden, I start to feel like it won’t be complete unless this girl has had the honor of meeting me. What scares me is that I catch my first glimpse of her here at the Rockefeller Center, and it’s as she emerges from the banquet kitchen speak to my mother, of all people.

That alone, the fact that she has any kind of formal or informal connection to Diane Worthington, should cause me to run in the opposite direction.

It doesn’t. And I don’t.

I just stand there surrounded by my friends and business colleagues by day, gazing at every detail about the cute little chef, even with my mother in my view. I should be appalled. But I’m not. It only serves to show how potent a response I’m having to her. Her image is imprinted in my mind long minutes after she returns to her post somewhere in the kitchen.

I want to know everything about her. Of course, I should take the initiative and approach her, but I talk myself out of it because she’s working and I’m here on account of needing to show my face, to not entirely fall out of my mother’s good graces.

The good thing is I now have two ways to find out more about my sexy little chef.

First, she clearly has a close personal relationship with Dahlia, Jackson’s date tonight. Their platonic yet intimate physical proximity as the two young ladies speak to each other tells me they may be best friends. I’m banking on that fact, in the hopes of crossing paths with her again, even if Jackson has no thought-out plans for his next date with Dahlia. The fact that she’s staying in the condo next to Jackson’s penthouse unit, pet sitting for his neighbor, well that gives me some confidence I’ll see Dahlia again, which means I’ll lay eyes on her sexy chef friend at one point or another.

As a last resort, there’s Mom. They spent over five minutes in conversation, a dialogue initiated by my mother, and I can tell from both their faces that the discussion is more than pleasant. Diane Worthington doesn’t usually spend that kind of time talking to the help unless she’s criticizing them or ordering them around. Even from my spot across the ballroom, it’s clear that there’s not any overly bossy energy or bad blood between them.

When my mother passes her a business card, I’m confident it’s a sign that they’ll connect again. Not in any capacity related to the career of the woman who brought me into this world. Mom’s a high-powered lawyer, a senior partner in one of the most respected firms in Manhattan. A young chef like that little blonde wouldn’t have a reason or the resources to hire Mom. Which means it’s the other way around. Diane wants something from her. And what my mother wants my mother gets. The little chef is going to reach out to Diane one day, so if I can’t get her number through Jackson and his date, there’s another option, through my flesh and blood.

I can’t wait to find out more about her.

My level of intrigue, attraction and curiosity don’t change one bit when I see her up close either. She passes by with a massive tray almost as big as she is, and serves the hors-d’oeuvres with adeptness and ease.

My dick stirs at the way her lips quirk up into a smile when our eyes meet. She knows I’ve been checking her out and it appears that she doesn’t mind it one bit. Sadly, I don’t make it to her in time to get a taste of whatever she’s serving, but that doesn’t matter.

I want a taste of something.

But not of the food.

* * *

By the next day, I quickly realize that if I don’t act fast, I may never have another chance with the sexy chef.

Thanks to Jackson.

Something happens between the time we spent at the gala and this morning. I make it into the office at Knights Capital, the hedge fund company we run jointly with his father, brother, and our two other friends, Caleb and Foster. Jackson’s office is next to mine, so I know, from the frenzied pacing in around the room to his numerous loud as fuck hails to Gemma, his secretary. My broody friend has done something to screw up this thing he has going on with his neighbor’s pet sitter.

Given that most of that period of time was the middle of the night, I can only imagine what it is.

I let myself into his office for our ten o’clock meeting and find him scrolling through the results of a web search on types of dahlia flower species. As he catches me heading in, he shakes his head and points to his landline speakerphone to point out that he’s in the middle of a call. Of course, I already know that because I passed Gemma, his secretary, on the way in here and it’s clear to me that she’s on the phone with him.

Taking a seat, I wait for him to wrap up and overhear him as he tells Gemma to pull out all the stops for a dahlia flower delivery order to his neighbor’s place. A big one. Something in the neighborhood of a roomful. It’s the kind of order that makes a statement. But from the scowl on his face, I know the statement isn’t one that says, “I had a great time,” or “thank you for letting me rock your world.”

He fucked up somehow, and these flowers represent one big apology.

“You had one job,” I mention lightheartedly after he hangs up.

“Fuck off, man.” He plants both hands on his desk and pushes off, moving his swivel chair backward. Then he turns around and stares pensively out the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the south end of Central Park.

“That bad, huh? What the hell did you do to her?”

“Leave it alone. It’s complicated.”

“Yeah. Right. Well if you won’t talk about it, let’s at least discuss the reason for this meeting in our calendar.”

“Sure. Whatever,” he mutters without looking my way. “Your assistant added the meeting, so what’s this about?”

“I’m not too comfortable with the amount of exposure we’re taking on for the Mont Blanc deal. I know, I’ve raised it before—”

“Numerous times,” Jackson cuts me off to add. “Last night included. Backing out isn’t an option.”

. “It’s that employee they call their VP of Risk Management. The man’s shady as shit.”

“Did you find out anything new about him since we talked last night?”

“Working on it. But just try to remember that we’ve quashed deals that are just as pivotal to the company,” I remind him.

“True. But those were different. And you know the difference between those deals and this one has to do with consensus.”

“I get that.”

“Look, I have my reservations too. The thing is, we’re in the minority this time. This behemoth of a deal is forging ahead, and the rest of the executive team needs you to do what you do best. Assess and analyze. Let me know if your findings reach a tipping point. If I agree then, you know I’ll have your back.”

“All right.” I get off the guest chair and head for the door, leaving with a dismissive hand gesture over my shoulder and add, “Just don’t fuck things up with the pet sitter so bad that it kills my chance with her chef friend right out the fucking gate, all right?”

“You didn’t make your move last night?” he asks. I turn in time to see a big fucking grin on his face. “Oh right, Diane was grilling her about something. Wait, was that for you? Don’t tell me you’ve got your mom setting up your dates for you now. I know you have the whole geek thing going on, but that’s a bit much don’t you think? What, you gonna move into your mom’s basement next? Start wearing pocket protectors?”

I straighten my glasses to make a point. “Dude. How about you fuck off and keep your eyes on your own personal shit.”

“Says the guy sticking his nose into my personal shit with Dahlia.”

“Yeah but that’s different, and you know it. I don’t want you poisoning the whole fucking well before the rest of us take a sip,” I say with a smile. “A big-ass rush order of a fuckton of flowers?”

He shakes his head, his face finally reflecting a sign of regret or guilt. “What are you doing over lunch?” he asks when I’m almost at the door.

“I’ll be around.”

“Did you drive yourself in?”

“When don’t I ever?” I have a bad case of automotive fixation. I love fast cars. It’s a hobby and a passion. So, there’s no way in hell I’ll ever cave and hire someone to drive me anywhere.

“I want to swing by my condo.”

“Don’t you mean drop by to see the pet sitter?”

“Okay fine. Call it checking in on the condition of my order of flowers. Which you should equate with un-poisoning the well, dickhead.”

“I see your point. You’re right. I’d better come along to make sure you get the job done with Dahlia. Meet you at my parking spot in a couple of hours, then. There’s some Mont Blanc and Pantheon shit I need to look into in the meantime.”

I may as well keep myself busy with work until I find out why I can’t fucking stay away from the sexy blonde chef.

I don’t even know the girl’s name.