“Why not?” He stuffs a few fries into his mouth to prove his point and continues his campaign with a mouthful of food. Nope. Definitely not a gentleman. “It’s probably the best thing you’ll ever put in your mouth . . . to date.”

I don’t miss the teasing wink of his eye, which only flares my temper. “I’m not eating after you, Ransom.”

A wolfish grin spreads his lips and he leans forward on one elbow, closing the space between us by inches that feel like miles. “Heidi, we’ve kissed. We’ve touched. We’ve fucked. I’ve sucked those pink-tipped nipples like twin cherry-flavored lollipops. I’ve had my tongue so deep inside your cu—”

“Ok!” I nearly shout, rocking my chair. “You want me to eat the damn burger? I will eat the goddamn burger!”

I lean over and take a small bite, which he happily offers. Once the juicy, premium beef, creamy Gruyère, black truffle aioli, and—oh my God, is that foie gras?—hit my tongue, I nearly have a mini orgasm right there at the table. I swear, my eyes even roll to the back of my head. Oh, sweet Jesus and all his disciples, it is the best thing I’ve ever put into my mouth. Like so fucking good, I’m pissed, because now I’ll never be able to eat another burger again.

“You have got to be shitting me,” I say flatly after chewing.

“Right?” He smiles broadly before taking his own bite. Right in the place I took mine. “I told you it was insane. Here, try these.”

He finger-feeds me French fries topped with fresh shaved parmesan, roasted garlic, and white truffle oil, and I’m all too happy to oblige. Of course, they are just as amazing, and I fight the urge to suck the salt from his fingertips.

“Oh, God. Those should be illegal,” I moan.

“Agreed. You should have ordered the same thing. The place is famous for it.”

“I know.”

Ransom brings a few fries to his lips, but stops before letting them tantalize his tongue. “Then why did you order a boring ass salad?”

I shrug. “It’s similar to what I usually order for lunch.”

“But it’s not what you want.”

I shrug again. “It’s practical.”

He looks affronted, and lets the fries fall from his fingers and back onto the plate. “Where the fuck is the fun in practical?”

Before I’m left with the awkward task of answering, the waiter comes to check on us, asking how we’re enjoying our meals. I try my best to compose myself, while Ransom just seems . . . put off.

“You can take that salad. It’s not what she wants,” he says, his tone tinted with aggravation.

“Certainly, monsieur,” the poor server replies, hurriedly taking the offensive plate of greens from the table. “Would the lady care for something else?”

I open my mouth to tell him that’s really not necessary, when Ransom speaks for me. “No thanks. She’ll share with me.”

I’m staring at him, quite gauchely with my eyes wide and mouth agape, when the waiter asks if he should bring another plate.

“No need. I’ll feed her,” Ransom answers, ignoring my glare. And with that, he scoots his plate closer toward the middle of the table.

I chuckle and shake my head, reaching for my glass of champagne. Ransom raises a curious brow. “Care to share with the class?”

“Nothing,” I reply, still shaking my head in disbelief. “It’s just . . . my friend—well client, really—has this theory about salad girls and burger girls.”

“Salad girls and burger girls?” He leans forward, planting his elbows on the table.

“He said that salad girls are the ones that will never keep you satisfied. They’re the ones more concerned with maintaining an image than being happy. It’s all about appearances. But burger girls will always be real with you. They’re comfortable in their skin. And because of that, they’ll always be confident in you as their partner and friend. And you’ll always be content—or satisfied, if you will—with them.”

“Humph,” Ransom muses, picking over the fries. “Sounds like a smart guy.”

“He is,” I smile. “Maybe you’ll meet him one day.”

“Maybe.”

That’s how we finish lunch—eating off the same plate and talking about everything from music to movies to books. To avoid further humiliation and hunger, I eat more than I probably should. Every bite seems to loosen the tension, and I find myself being more casual than I should with Ransom. He’s easy to talk to. And considering he’s an insanely gorgeous twenty-something-year-old man that has seen me naked, I know that can only be trouble. For me and for him.

By the time we finish it all off with dessert—a chocolate ganache confection that’s good enough to make angels weep—I almost forget that Ransom and I have shared so much more than a burger and fries and cake.

Almost.

Chapter Ten

With a full belly and a midday buzz, I decide to call it a day. I have no more appointments, and all correspondence can be done through text or email. I call Tamara and let her know that she can leave just as soon as she emails Ransom with the Plan of Action and forwards all my messages so I can take care of them at home. She’s delighted, of course, and prattles on about being able to make it to her favorite happy hour spot, which pretty much means she’ll be on the prowl. I tell her to have fun, yet threaten bodily harm if she comes into work hungover and/or in the same clothes. She tells me to stop being a hater and to let my “sexy ass husband” uncork the stick out of my ass.

I’m laughing as we hang up. Normally, I wouldn’t allow this type of familiarity with employees, but Tamara is different. She’s incredibly efficient, professional, and knowledgeable. I’ve been grooming her to take on a junior position, although I’d hate to lose the best assistant I’ve ever had. And to be honest, she’s my only friend in the city. Those are hard to come by, especially for me.

After tying up loose ends, including giving Lucia the rest of the day off, I decide to grab the book I’ve been dying to finish for the past month and take advantage of the quiet.

I only get three paragraphs in before I’m dead to the world, sprawled out in bed with the sheets tangled around me like ivy.

That’s how Tucker finds me hours later when he gets home from work.

“Oh, my God, babe, what time is it?” I yawn after he gently wakes me. He looks handsome as always and genuinely happy to see me, but I can tell he’s tired.

“Just a bit after six.” He brushes his hand over my forehead and I instinctively lean in to his touch. “You ok, Bunny? Are you sick?”

“Yeah.” I yawn again, before stretching my limbs as lithely as a sleepy feline. “Just thought I’d take a half day. Had a lunch meeting that lasted longer than I expected and I was beat afterward.”

He loosens his navy blue silk tie—a gift from moi—while simultaneously kicking off his shoes. “Oh yeah? With who?”

My body begins to react reflexively, but before I can release the name from my tongue, I pause. Shit. How would he react if he knew I had met with Ransom? Would he question me about him? Would he suspect more than just a business lunch went down between us? I mean, if I’m truly being honest with myself, that meal had little to do with business. And if someone had seen us together, and it was splashed on the front of Page Six, do I really want my husband finding out this way? I hadn’t even told him that I had taken Ransom on as a client. How would he feel about me withholding that information from him?

I know how he would feel. Pissed. Betrayed. Hurt. All the emotions I would be struggling to swallow if the shoe was on the other foot.

“Um,” I stammer, as I climb out of bed. “Ransom Reed?”

“Ransom?” The name sounds more like a curse, more like an accusation.

“Yeah. He agreed to work with me. Crazy, right?” If I look as guilty as I sound, I’m screwed.