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  But salad was hardly a date food, just by itself. Already, I could feel the heat begin to rise up in the base of my neck, as two sets of eyes bore into me.

  “Actually...the salmon sounds great.”

  I handed up my menu to Marco, carefully avoiding the man’s gaze. It didn’t matter. I could practically feel the smirk.

  “Right away.”

  Then he was off. Leaving me several steps back from where I’d started.

  “So, Abigail,” the hand was back on mine, paired with an affectionate smile, “you never told me what it is you do.”

  As if on cue, one of the phones buzzed in my purse. I set the clutch on the ground without looking, keeping a smile fixed on my face.

  Just get it over with, Abby. It’s a standard question. Get it over with and move on to the FISH—you idiot—not the SALAD.

  “I work in public relations, actually.”

  He leaned back in surprise.

  “You’re a publicist. Really?”

  I tucked a lock of hair behind my ear, and laughed as nervously as him.

  “Why? Do I not look like one?”

  “No, it’s not that, just...well actually, yeah.” He laced his fingers through mine with a wide grin. “You don’t really look like one.”

  I got that a lot.

  Mostly because I looked like I belonged on the other side of the bridge. The wealthier side. The easier side. The side that threw the parties, not the side that worked them.

  I had once gotten all the way to the second floor of a Russian palace—after receiving a 911 text from a client—before being escorted outside by security. The rest of the team had found me later, gloating in the snow.

  But I appreciated this guy’s honesty either way. Another endearing trait. If it weren’t for the fact that I already had a fake brother to maintain, I might actually start to like this Cameron.

  “I work with a myriad of disguises,” I joked again, trying to divert the attention as much away from my job as possible. “But what about you? What is it that you—”

  But Cameron was on a roll.

  “My father hired a public relations team for our company once,” he continued, utterly oblivious to my attempts. “Not one of them looked anything like you.”

  Great. This guy was probably a trust fund baby, just like all the rest. I should have picked up on it. The restaurant. The wine. If I wasn’t careful, I was going to leave here with a job offer.

  “I guess that explains the phone. They were always impossibly busy.”

  Again—the damn thing buzzed in my bag. I kicked it under the table.

  His face twisted up into a little smile.

  “Do you need to take that?”

  “No,” I said quickly, reaching for my glass of wine, “not at all. I’m off tonight.”

  ...we’ll see.

  “Good—then I get you all to myself.” He clinked his glass against mine, a row of perfect teeth sparkling in the soft lamplight. “To chance encounters. May they always—”

  Now both phones were buzzing. Egging each other on as my purse began to shake.

  My smile tightened, but I deliberately ignored them—locking eyes with Cameron.

  Keep talking, buddy. Just keep talking.

  In his defense, he really did try.

  “May they always—”

  A third phone added to the clamor. Between the three of them, we were starting to draw a bit of attention. It looked like they were trying to shake their way out of my bag.

  “You really can answer,” he said graciously. “I don’t mind.”

  That’s sweet, but this little social experiment is hardly about you.

  “No,” I said firmly—more firmly than was required. “This is my night off. Everyone knows it. There was a memo, for fuck’s sake. They’ll just have to get by—”

  The fourth and final phone made a loud entrance into the fray. This one actually didn’t have a vibrate setting—as it was only meant to be used for emergency calls. A digitalized song cut the air between us, ruining Cameron’s attempted toast once and for all.

  ‘It’s raining men! Hallelujah! It’s raining men—’

  “There’s that ringtone...”

  “I’m so sorry!” I reached hastily down into my purse and began snapping them off, one by one. “It’s usually not like this—I swear.”

  Work life—private life. Work life—private life. I chanted the mantra desperately in my head as the phones fought back. There has to be a line! I deserve a fucking line, dammit!

  Cameron nodded politely, looking like he didn’t believe me in the slightest.

  “Sure.”

  I turned the last one off—removing the SIM cards for good measure—and the infuriating buzzing finally stopped. Before the poor guy could get up and walk away, I reached for his hands, holding on like a life raft.

  “Now,” I pulled in a determined breath, “you were saying?”

  That’s when the fifth phone rang.

  It was the holy grail of communication devices. A number so sacred that only two people in the entire world were aware of its existence. It had only ever rung twice.

  “Cameron...” My shoulders wilted as a sinking feeling descended in my stomach. But he seemed to know it was coming. The napkin was already off his lap and on the table. He was already glancing around for the check. “I’m so sorry, but I think I’m going to have to—”

  At that moment, everyone else’s phones started buzzing. As in, everyone else in the entire restaurant. The world of social media came alive with a million little dings and beeps, as people bent over their screens—faces lit up with that artificial glow.

  “Oh my gosh!” the cry was echoed from all four corners of the building.

  “I can’t believe it!”

  “Look at the picture!”

  “That can’t possibly be real.”

  “Did you see what—”

  And...that was my cue to go.

  My heels clicked on the tile as I snatched up my purse and bid my ‘almost suitor’ a hasty farewell. Ending my ‘almost date’ before it could really even get off the ground.

  “I’ll—I’ll call you!” I promised as I stumbled towards the door. “I’ll see you at the gym!”

  He nodded sadly, pouring himself another glass of wine.

  “Sure.”

  Melanie shot me a sympathetic look as I barreled through the front doors. A cab was already waiting by the curb.

  “Where to?” the man asked politely.

  I shot him a withering look.

  “Oh...like you don’t already know.”

  TEN MINUTES LATER, I had left one over-priced restaurant, only to find myself rushing into another. This one was even more over-the-top than the first.

  The walls themselves were coated in gold—a light dusting that reportedly cost tens of thousands of dollars just to procure. The tables sparkled with crystal stemware. The linens were Japanese silk. A replication of the Sistine Chapel had been painted across the ceiling. (Rumor had it the manager kidnapped an art student from Julliard and held him prisoner for five weeks until it was finished.) A pair of Austrian violinists floated from table to table. A Swarovski-encrusted fountain bubbled happily in the back—adorned with Botticelli’s angels.

  The first time I’d stepped inside, the place had shocked me. Now...? Well like I said, I’d been here several thousand times.

  “Abigail! Thank goodness you’re here!” This time, it was Kate who swept towards me. Even skinnier than Melanie. Even longer legs. “Listen—I followed your instructions to the letter, and you know I’d never call the police. But apparently someone else did, and I don’t know what—”

  “Where is he?” I interrupted.

  My eyes scanned the room with a practiced sort of efficiency. Like one of those games you found in airport magazines—where you had to find the one thing in the room that didn’t fit in with the rest. This time, it was almost too easy.

  “...you’ve got to be kidding.” />
  Of course. In a room full of international dignitaries, European royalty, Wall Street’s finest, and Manhattan’s elite...my client was the one standing in the fountain.

  No wonder he called the fifth phone.

  I approached cautiously, weaving my way through an ever-growing crowd. Sure enough, the police were there. As was the press. As were about fifty or sixty other people—all of whom had enough influence to buy and sell New York several times over.

  All of whom were hovering just outside the splash zone.

  Keep my work life and personal life separate? Who the hell was I kidding?

  I rolled up my sleeves with a sigh.

  I should have known my date would end like this...

  Chapter 3

  IN THE LAND OF PUBLIC relations, they called it the twenty second rule. It meant that from the moment you set foot on hostile territory, you had twenty seconds to make a game plan. Twenty short seconds to assess the situation, create your spin, plot your escape, and make your move.

  Normally, twenty seconds was more than enough time. I had once snuck a wealthy client down a fourteen story fire escape, dressed in nothing but a poncho, in less than ten.

  But this wasn’t your average client. The Reverie wasn’t your average establishment. And right now...? Right now I’d give anything for a fire escape.

  Alright, Abby—you’re on. Twenty seconds starts...now!

  I slipped through the crowd like an otter cutting through foamy surf, my layers of chiffon clouding up behind me. The timer was on, and I didn’t have the luxury of being either polite or delicate. Fortunately, my thirty-inch heels provided a great incentive to get out of my way. The last set of stockbrokers parted in front of me, and all at once, I skidded to a stop.

  There you are.

  International sex idol. Whimsical philanthropist. Playboy extraordinaire. Heir to the largest fortune in the Western Hemisphere. And the bane of my existence.

  Nicholas Hunter.

  At fourteen, he had been named one of the five most beautiful people on the planet. The Belgian royal family had tried to adopt. He’d opened the Olympics twice—performed in them as a last minute pole-vaulting addition once. He’d backpacked through every country where you could still find espresso. Literally orbited the earth’s atmosphere on a dare. Destroyed a priceless Egyptian artifact when he tried to take an ill-timed selfie. And on three separate occasions, he had turned an official state dinner into an impromptu rave.

  At present, he was standing in the center of the fountain. Dripping wet. Drunk as hell. His hand wrapped around the breast of one of the statuesque angels in an unintentional grope.

  “Abby!” he cried the second he saw me.

  He was the only one who called me Abby. Even my mother was not so bold. To everyone else, it was Abigail. Abigail Wilder. PR maven extraordinaire. A credit to her industry. A savior to her clients. A razor-tongued blessing to those who employed her, and a curse to those who stood in her way. (This was all printed on my business cards. In so many words.)

  But to him, I was Abby. And to me, he was Nick.

  We’d dropped the formalities about the third time I’d had to stash him naked in the back of my car. Hiding under a pashmina as I smuggled him through security.

  Fifteen seconds. Make them count.

  “What are we into this time, Nick?”

  Every rescue started the exact same way. A simple question, followed by a lengthy explanation—so convoluted and self-righteous, it defied rational comprehension.

  Sure enough, he was ready for me.

  “Lobsters,” he answered promptly.

  This one actually threw me for a second. A second I didn’t have.

  “...lobsters?”

  Instinctively, I looked down into the water below—half expecting him to be standing in the middle of a small colony, teaching them how to unionize.

  “What did you...” A flashbulb went off behind me, and my voice lowered sharply. “What do you mean—lobsters? What did you do?”

  He tilted his head defiantly to the side, still holding onto the angel for balance.

  “Why do you automatically assume this is my fault?”

  My eyes made a slow journey from the top of his dripping head, to the bottom of his submerged four hundred dollar shoes. Even he had the decency to blush.

  Ten seconds...

  There was a sharp tap on my shoulder, and I turned around only to come face to face with the most severe looking mustache I had ever seen. It took everything I had not to reach out and touch it with the tip of my finger—see if I would bleed. The mustache had a face to match.

  “Excuse me—but are you responsible for this man?” A heavy French accent, and a spray of spit. “Ms. Wilder?”

  He sneered my name with the kind of disdain you only heard from villains in children’s TV shows. The veins in his neck throbbing with every vowel.

  My face melted into a charming smile. The kind I should have been using on my date.

  “That’s me. What seems to be the problem?”

  There was a drunken splash behind me, and the smile tightened painfully.

  For fuck’s sake, Nick. Could you make this any harder?

  The man’s face darkened to an ugly shade of puce. An aneurysm was not too far behind.

  “We were pleased to welcome Monsieur Hunter into our establishment today. As ever, his family’s patronage is greatly appreciated. But halfway through the cheese course, he took it upon himself to attempt to free the collection of lobsters we keep in the kitchen. My security man, Harold, found him frolicking in the tank.”

  A hulking colossus beside him nodded obediently in my direction, his one contribution and a solemn one at that. Yeah...I could imagine Harold not taking that very well.

  The manager’s voice lowered a fraction of an inch, straining the limits of professional decorum as the tale progressed into an aquatic chase.

  “Normally we offer a degree of leniency to guests such as this, however...unconventional their antics might be. If it were not for the fact that we had planned on serving—”

  “—planned on murdering,” Nick interrupted.

  The manager’s nostrils flared like a bull. “The lobster cost five hundred a piece. Even though Monsieur Hunter offered to pay—they were already promised. When we refused to comply, he proceeded to enact what he loudly proclaimed as vigilante justice—”

  My eyes snapped shut and I held up a hand for silence. I had a pretty good idea of where the story went from there. I was well familiar with Nick’s vigilante justice myself.

  Five seconds...

  “I’ll handle this,” I said sweetly, before turning back to the fountain.

  Nick was still clinging to the center statue for support, a ten thousand dollar Armani suit dripping down his tall frame. His golden-brown hair was soaked and curling, and what looked like several claw-sized abrasions were crisscrossing his hands.

  “Abby, don’t let him come in here,” he whispered loudly, streams of water dripping down his perfect, chiseled face. “You know how fascists frighten me.”

  I rolled my eyes and took a step closer, hyper aware of the outrageously over-priced gown that I was still planning on returning the next day as I stepped forward on the wet tile.

  “What are you doing, Nick?” I asked softly, looking him up and down in a practiced sort of way. There was a chance we were going to have to make a run for it—I needed to know how capable he was of doing something like that, and how much had been lost to the alcohol.

  “I’m doing exactly what you told me to,” he said with a note of loyalty.

  I blinked, trying very hard to maintain my composure.

  “I told you to stage a crustacean rebellion?”

  “No—you told me not to get arrested on your one night off.”

  It took me a second to understand the unfathomable thought processes of his mind. Then, piece by piece, I started to string it together.

  “Which is why you got into the fount
ain...a place where the cops wouldn’t follow.”

  He winked. “Genius, right?” Sure enough, a trio of baffled-looking police were hovering just outside the splash zone. This did nothing to dissuade Nick, of course, who was looking rather proud of himself. “See Abby, I do listen when you tell me to stay out of trouble.”

  I shook my head, eyes darting around as I tried to come up with a plan. “Seventeen nannies, you had. How is it that not one of them took the time to strangle you as a child?”

  He shrugged carelessly, noticing the breast on the angel for the first time.

  “I tend to live...”

  The title of his future memoir.

  Alright—time’s up, Wilder. What’cha got?

  “What’s that?” I leaned back with a look of theatric surprise and raised my voice to be heard by the crowd. “You were raising awareness for environmental groups protesting inhumane practices inherent in the commercialization of shellfish?”

  Not my greatest story, but he hadn’t left me many options.

  The manager shook a fist towards the heavens, but Nick flashed me a secret grin and nodded sagely—discreetly angling his ‘good side’ towards the cameras.

  “As many of you know, the passionate advocacy for mollusks and other forms of sea life is a cause very near and dear to my heart.”

  “Don’t over-sell it,” I muttered, clenching my teeth together in a perfect smile.

  “At any rate, I think tonight has taught us all a valuable lesson.” He levelled the long-suffering manager in his gaze, holding him hilariously accountable. “Isn’t that right, Marcel?”

  ...don’t push it.

  Marcel turned with a vengeful glare to the police.

  “Fire at will.”

  There was a split second pause, during which nobody moved.

  Then I threw back my head with the loudest laugh I could possible manage. A second later, the rest of the patrons joined in. Then the press. Laughter gave way to applause, as if the entire debacle was some kind of aquatic performance art. Only Marcel the manager looked supremely disappointed, as the cops holstered their tasers and headed home.