“Do you take drugs?” The question popped out before I could stop it, though, now that it was hanging out there, it seemed like something that I needed to know the answer to.

“Drugs?” He seemed confused.

“You know, coke, heroin, speed, anything deemed illegal in this country?”

“You are the hard-partying college student. I should be asking you that question. I am, how did you put it when we met?...Old.”

“Yes, you are old. Ancient, in fact—but don’t be evasive.”

“No. I don’t do drugs. I am prescribed and take Adderall, if you want to consider that a drug. You?”

I snorted, offended. “No!”

“Your roommates obviously have a strong relationship with weed.”

“My roommates are idiots. Lovable idiots, but still. I’ve smoked weed before, but it doesn’t do anything for me.” He raised his brows. “I mean, I don’t get high.”

“Three weeks ago you didn’t have orgasms either, but that turned out to be false.”

“Oh my Lord, you are never going to let me forget that, are you? Anyway, we—” I broke off when I saw the waiter hovering outside our curtain. I nodded to him and he stepped into our room and began the menu presentation.

The restaurant served veal—which I had never had, so, at Brad’s urging, I ordered that. He, predictably, ordered a steak and a variety of side dishes, and two minutes later we were alone again. The candlelight played on his strong features and he looked at me, waiting for me to continue.

I searched my thoughts, trying to remember what I had been saying. “We need to discuss tomorrow.”

“What about it?”

“I’m going to pretend that your family killing me is not a concern and skip to the next stress point—Burge.”

He shrugged. “What’s stressful about it?”

“Well, to start, I need to convince him that my position is needed, that he shouldn’t drop me as an intern. Plus, I have to fake my way into doing everything that I told him I can do.”

He held up a hand, swallowing a piece of buttered bread. “What do you mean fake?”

I avoided eye contact, reaching for my glass and taking a sip. “Well, I kind of exaggerated what I had been doing for Broward. So that Burge would consider me useful, needed.”

“Kind of exaggerated, or did exaggerate?”

I rolled my eyes at him. “Don’t give me grief. You are the office’s biggest bullshitter.”

“Apparently not. What did you tell him you could do?”

“Operating agreements, basic filings, meeting minutes.”

He shrugged. “Those are basic enough tasks.”

“That I don’t know how to do.” I hated saying the words, but felt that they added credibility to my stress.

He waved off my concern. “Don’t worry about that. He won’t fire you.”

“How do you know that? You were the one harping on me that I needed to make a good impression so he would ignore the inconvenience of taking me on.”

He shrugged, piercing a piece of leftover meat with his fork. “He mentioned you on a call the other day. He likes you. He won’t fire you.”

“Likes me likes me?” I leaned forward over the table.

“What are you, twelve?” He grinned, wiping his mouth. “No, just normal likes you. If I was you, I wouldn’t worry about that.”

Something in his tone, a playful mockery, made me focus on him and I toyed with my bottom lip before taking the bait. “What do you mean?”

“What you look like at the office...” He grimaced, and I bared my teeth at him, causing him to burst out laughing. “Sorry! But you look...”

“Super hot? Sexy? Drop-dead gorgeous?” I helpfully supplied, giving him a lifeline that he didn’t deserve.

“Dorky,” he finished. “Adorably dorky,” he added quickly at my dark face. “It’s a good thing, will help you with your whole ‘faked work experience’ thing.” He was saved by our food, brought by two tuxedoed gentlemen, and our table was quickly filled with large plates and delicious items. When departing, the waiters closed the curtains, cutting off our view of the room and wrapping us in privacy. The showcased view, savory food and sudden seclusion were distracting, and saved me from coming up with a witty response.

We topped off dinner with wine, crème brûlée and flourless chocolate cake. I was absolutely stuffed, and leaned back in the seat with a contented sigh, my eyes closed in bliss.

“Don’t go to sleep on me.” His words sank into my peaceful cocoon, a silky smooth tone that must have dropped half the panties in town at one point or another in time.

“I’m not.”

“Good.” I felt his hand on mine and opened my eyes. He stood, pulling back the curtain and waiting for me.

“We’re leaving?” I hadn’t seen him pay the check.

“Not entirely. Unless you’re tired, I was thinking we’d have champagne on the roof deck.”

I smiled up at him and rose, grabbing my purse. “You know you only have to mention champagne and I’ll be there.”

“I was counting on that.” His hand on the small of my back, I ducked slightly to pass through the curtained opening, and we moved into the main restaurant area. The pianist was now singing “The Way You Look Tonight” and it felt surreal, winding through the tables, glasses chinking, jewels sparkling, Brad’s hand on me, his masculinity invading my senses. He guided me to a discreet elevator that was open, waiting. We entered the industrial space—one not designed for patrons—wide, steel and filthy, smelling of grease and food. I stood close to him, not wanting to get dirty, and he wrapped a hand around my waist.

“Are we on the wrong elevator?” The setting was such a contrast from the splendor of the restaurant that I felt like I had just exited a movie set and was now backstage.

“Just think of it as adding to the exclusivity factor.” The doors opened, and we stepped into a room smaller than my bedroom, with only a wall of electrical boxes and switches. A large machine vaguely resembling a giant air conditioner hummed to the right of us. Brad stepped forward, through an exit door, propping the door open as he held it open for me. I stepped through, and suddenly was out into the night air.

We stood on a rooftop. Brad had referred to it as the “roof deck”—but that was a bit of an overstatement. Roofing material was underfoot, and there was no railing to stop us from falling over the edge, pipes and electrical systems surrounded us. But the view was spectacular, huge buildings all around us, a rainbow of a thousand city lights before us. We gingerly moved forward, stepping along a small walkway, through two humming generators, until we stood on empty, unobstructed roof. Ahead, a small table had been set up, complete with a white tablecloth, two place settings and a candle. Next to it sat a silver stand with champagne chilling. To the left was ten-foot-high arched glass, the ceiling of the restaurant. I walked over and looked through the yellow glass, seeing the small round tables, black-coated waiters, and the illuminated pianist, all oblivious of our view. Brad stepped forward, standing beside me, looking down on the scene, difficult to see through the dirty glass. Something caught his eye and he moved down to a crouch, fiddling with a small window on the side of the arch. I started to ask what he was doing when, suddenly, there was movement beneath his hands, and I could hear the piano, hear “What a Wonderful World” softly drifting out from below Brad, through the window he just cracked.

“And you say you’re not romantic.”

He stood, dusting off his hands. “I have my moments.” He put his hands in his pockets, looking at me across the roof. “You look beautiful.”

I blushed. “Thank you.” This evening had not gone as I had expected. An expensive restaurant, yes; this rooftop scene with a quiet, subdued Brad, no. It was not any side of Brad I had ever seen. I was suddenly nervous, off guard.

He stepped slowly forward, keeping his hands in his pockets, and watched me. Tilted his head to the side and really looked at me. I felt his gaze, penetrating, and averted my eyes, feeling bare and exposed. Then he cocked his head toward the table. “Shall we?”