The moment I spot him, sitting at a table dressed for two, my heart hiccups into my throat. His roguish beauty is still alarming to me, those dark eyes and sharp features making him appear cunning and slightly villainous. He wears a pair of faded black jeans, a heather gray V-neck tee, and his hair is in a messy coif that leaves a few locks to fall over his forehead. It seems pedestrian, however, I can bet that every stitch of clothing that falls on that luscious body was created especially for him. I wouldn’t even be surprised if the antique wash of his jeans was deliberate.

He doesn’t see me right away, since his head is down, and I can’t tell if he’s on his phone or counting the threads in the white linen tablecloth. But he must sense my approach, because without cause, he lifts his head and his eyes immediately find me.

My step falters for just a half second and I pray he doesn’t notice. His gaze sweeps over me like a gust of Santa Ana wind—hot, dry, and remarkably strong, so much so that I heat from the inside out. The back of my neck feels clammy and I can feel sweat beading on the bridge of my nose. A smile as slow and lazy as a house cat creeps onto his face as if he can smell my perspiration from feet away.

“Mr. Reed,” I say in greeting, standing opposite from where he sits. He doesn’t stand. He’s no gentleman. Tucker would have been on his feet the moment he set eyes on me.

“Mr. Reed?” He raises a brow, yet his grin is still fixed on his face. He’s baiting me; he knows I’m thinking about all the reasons why we should be on a first name basis.

“Yes, thank you for meeting me.” I should reach over and shake his hand, but I can only manage one movement at a time. So I sit down, entering his space. Sharing his air. And Ransom seems positively delighted at that prospect.

“So you received the contracts. I’m glad.” His tone is polite, although I get the feeling he’s hinting at something devious. I go for the untouched glass of ice water that sits on my side of the table and wet my suddenly parched mouth. Ransom follows my every move with a gaze so smoldering, you would think I was skating an ice cube along the column of my throat instead. It’s unnerving.

“I did. Just one question though: Why?”

He narrows his eyes as though he doesn’t follow so I continue. “Why do you want me as your publicist?”

The thought that Ransom could have agreed to work with me as a thank you for our night together, or in hopes that there’d be an encore performance, definitely crossed my mind. I had assumed he was done with me, seeing as he barely said a thing after we were done and couldn’t get me—us—out of his sight fast enough. Yet, here he is, signing up to be in my presence on a much more frequent basis.

Ransom takes a moment to contemplate my question as he reaches over to retrieve his own water, yet he doesn’t bring it to his lips. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Yes, of course, but . . .”

“That is why you came to meet me Friday night, correct?”

I nod vehemently. “Of course.”

“You wanted me, so here I am,” he replies matter-of-factly with a blasé wave of his hand.

I’m stunned speechless as the waiter takes that exact moment to ask us if we’d like to order drinks. Ransom orders a beer for himself. When I don’t answer right away, he tells him to bring a bottle of champagne.

“I’m working,” I manage to stammer. “I can’t drink in the middle of the day.”

“You’ll have one glass,” he retorts. He’s not asking me. He’s not even telling me. He’s stating a fact. This smug bastard actually thinks he knows me.

I cross my arms in front of my chest, preparing to tell him just how misguided he is, when he gives me a shrug and a smile meant to completely disarm me. To my chagrin, it’s working. “I’ve seen you drink much more and still have total control of your body . . . your mind. One glass won’t leave you defenseless and at my mercy. Unless you want to be, Heidi.”

I flinch at the sound of my name sliding over his skilled tongue, embedding itself into the warm womb of his mouth. When the waiter returns moments later with our drinks, I’m more than thankful for the sparkling liquid courage, downing my first glassful within seconds.

Ransom refills, watching me watching him. When he nestles the bottle back into the ice bucket, I finally allow myself to breathe again. Maybe speaking won’t be so bad either.

“I have some ideas on what we can do to launch your career and really promote the tour and the new album.”

“New album?” he asks, a jolt of surprise in his voice. “Who said anything about a new album?”

I furrow my brows in confusion. “Caleb. He said you wanted to record again. Said that you were excited about a song that you needed to get out. I just assumed . . .”

Ransom nods, but doesn’t confirm or deny the rumor, and I don’t push him to. With these creative types, you have to let them do things in their own time, in their own way. They don’t respond to pressure unless it’s self-inflicted.

With the break in conversation, the waiter comes to take our order. Even though the aromas wafting from the kitchen are downright heavenly, I hadn’t even thought about food, let alone picked up my menu. I quickly flip it open and request a spinach salad, settling on practicality over desire. Ransom asks for some type of gourmet burger with a side of truffle French fries that’ll probably cost more than what most people in this city pay for groceries for a week.

We discuss the Euro tour that’s coming up in the fall. He tells me his plans for the summer and asks if I’ll be like the rest of the urban zombies and escape to the Hamptons. I blush with embarrassment; that was exactly what we had planned to do, at least for Memorial Day weekend and the Fourth. I’m not sure why it embarrasses me or why I feel the need to seem much more cool and blasé than I really am.

We sip. We talk. We laugh when necessary. Ransom is . . . not what I expected. He’s young—nearly eight years my junior—but he’s lived more than most. He released his first album while still in high school. He’s traveled the world. And I’m not naïve enough to ignore the fact that only a man with a lot of experience fucks the way he does.

By the time the waiter arrives with our meals, I’m on my third glass of champagne and probably having the best conversation I’ve had in months. But the moment I get a mouthwatering whiff of sizzling Kobe beef, melted cheese, and crispy potatoes, I realize just how hungry I really am.

Not wasting any time, Ransom takes a bite and an erotic sound slips between his lips, causing the heat between my thighs to fluctuate into my stomach. He chews, slowly, deliberately then looks at me expectantly.

“How’s your salad?”

I look down at the plate of greens topped with bleu cheese, candied walnuts, and house-smoked bacon. Any other day, I would have found it fulfilling. Today, it seems as empty as my stomach. Still, I nod and reply, “Good.”

Ransom smiles as if he’s on to me and holds out his burger. “Do you want a bite?”

“No.”

“No? Are you sure? Because you’re staring at it with lust in your eyes.”

“No,” I repeat. Frustrated heat floods my cheeks, giving them an angry pink tinge.

“Why not?” He has the nerve to look sincerely confused, which only makes this situation even more awkward.

“Why not?” I mimic incredulously. “Because not only is it extremely inappropriate, it’s grossly unsanitary.”

Ransom laughs heartily, loud enough to draw a few eyes. He continues to hold that damn burger, bite side up, making me appear as some type of anorexic model he has to force-feed before she withers away. Meaning, no one in the restaurant deems this whole scenario as out of the ordinary and they go back to their meals. Still, I tuck my chin and avert my eyes, praying that no one will notice.

“I do not want to eat that,” I rage whisper between a clenched jaw.