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“I didn’t want to meet any of them out here, so I thought I’d wait by your car,” she says. “Only. . .is this it? I thought it was lighter than this.”

I laugh. “That’s an Acura. I have a Volvo.”

She blinks. “But I don’t see?—”

“I didn’t drive the XC90 today.” I can’t help my smile. “There may still be a few things about me for you to learn.”

“Then. . .which one is yours?” She looks around. “I didn’t see a 4Runner either.”

“If you guess correctly, I’ll take you to dinner anywhere you want.” I gesture around. “Which do you think?”

She spins slowly, narrowing her eyes, and that’s when I realize I have her. If she was going to insist on dumping me for the good of my company, she would have left already. She wouldn’t be searching for my car.

I toss her my keys.

They nearly hit her in the face, but at the last minute she pops her hand up and catches them. “Easton!” In that moment, for the first and hopefully last time, sheactually reminds me of my mother. Then she glances at the keys. “APorsche?” She laughs. “That’s more like it.”

“More like it?”

“I was surprised you had such weird-old-married-man-in-the-suburbs kind of cars,” she admits. “I figured you’d be more like Jake.”

“His car’s ghastly,” I say. “Mine’s a very nice black.”

“A black Porsche.” Now she’s searching in earnest, and it only takes her half a dozen seconds before she points triumphantly and pumps her fist. “And I want dinner atPer Se.”

“Where?”

“It’s the place your horrible date was bragging about having been.” She folds her arms. “A place that I’ve never been.”

“Great,” I say. “If I can get a reservation, we’ll go.”

Her shoulders sag. “It’s always booked out.”

“Lemme call Ace real quick,” I say. “He’s better with stuff like this, and he owes me.”

“More like he owes me,” she mutters, which is cute. She did land in hot water thanks to the favor he asked me to do.

Two minutes later, we have a reservation. “We’re on. Hop in.” I wave at the car, which currently only she can unlock.

“But what about my car?” She asks. “And I can’t go in this.” She looks down at her white button down and black pants. “And it’s barely two in the afternoon. No proper date starts at three. Surely you have work to do?”

“Fine. I’ll tell Ace to set it for seven. Is that a more proper start time for you?”

“Come pick me up at the house at six, then?” She looks up at me with the biggest, most beautiful eyes.

“Done,” I say. “But don’t back out.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” she says. Just as my heart is doing a little flippy flop, she adds, “Because their goats’ milk cheese is legendary.”

“Way to make a guy feel special.”

She goes up on her tiptoes and brushes a kiss against my cheek. “You were pretty close to legendary earlier, too.”

Then she spins on her heel and marches off, like she wasn’t just as spectacular herself.

When I get back to the office, my assistant practically clubs me over the head with a list of brands and various dates for meetings. After I dig my way through that, I head home straight away.

On our first date, the first time I ever picked Bea up to take her out, I knew just what to wear. I had, in fact, chosen the place. But tonight, I flounder a bit. Without a theme—western wear—or a stylist to tell me what to wear, I’m a little unsure. I do look upPer Seto verify that it’s a three Michelin star restaurant in Manhattan, and that means I should probably dress up, but I change my pants and shoes so many times that I realize I’m in danger of being late myself to pick her up.

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