A legitimate look of surprise crosses across his face that he wipes away just as quickly. He doesn't answer, shaking his head after a moment as his focus remains on the road. "I can't talk about my work."

Fair enough.

He takes me to a restaurant near Central Park, the kind where you have to make reservations weeks in advance. I've never been—I don't think even Melody has been, the atmosphere too rich for even her upscale tastes—but I've heard of the place. Naz valet parks the car and I get out, glancing around nervously, feeling severely underdressed even in a dress.

I start to point out to Naz that we'll never get a table here when he leads me inside, past couples waiting. The hostess looks up. "Do you have a reservation, sir?"

"No."

"We're fully booked for the night," she says, flipping the page in her reservation book as if double-checking. "Rest of the week, too."

"Do me a favor," he says. "Run and tell the chef that Vitale sends his regards."

The hostess looks like she wants to say no, but it's hard to argue with someone who sounds so confident. She reluctantly excuses herself, disappearing into the kitchen. Less than a minute passes before she returns, grabbing two menus and flashing a forced smile at Naz. "I was mistaken. We have a table for you."

"I figured," Naz says, pressing his hand to my back and motioning for me to follow the hostess. I oblige, not wanting to make any more of a scene than he just caused, everyone waiting already regarding us like we'd come with bombs strapped to our chests.

I slip into the chair the hostess pulls out while Naz sits down across from me.

I gape at him when she walks away. "How did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Get a table so quick?"

"I called ahead."

"So?"

"So I know the chef," he replies. "Called in a favor."

I'm quiet for a moment as the waiter appears, asking what we want to drink. I mutter "water" under my breath as Naz interjects. "Bring us a bottle of your best champagne."

The waiter looks between the two of us, and I'm just waiting for him to ask me for my ID, but he doesn't. Instead, he scurries away, walking off to fulfill Naz's request. It's fascinating, watching people react to him, while at the same time it's alarming. Is there anything this man can't get his way with?

"How'd you do it?" I ask. "Really."

"I just told you."

"How'd you call ahead? I didn't see you."

"I did it before I picked you up."

I shake my head. "But you didn't know where I'd want to go."

"Didn't I?" He raises his eyebrows questioningly. "I told you, Karissa. I read people. You have a tendency to just go with the flow and see where the wind blows, so I picked somewhere decent for you to land."

I'm flabbergasted as he picks up his menu and casually relaxes in his chair, his attention on it. I barely know anything about this man, and yet he seems to know me in ways no one ever has before, predicting what I'll do before I even do it.

The waiter returns with a bottle of champagne and tries to fill our glasses, but Naz takes it from him, insisting he do the pouring. I pick up my menu then, glancing at it, my stomach clenching as I scan the list of items.

I don't know what half this shit is.

I'm still staring at it when the waiter returns a second time, ready to take our order. Naz gazes at me from across the table, his lips twitching with amusement. He takes the menu straight from my hand and turns it over to the waiter along with his. "We'll just have the tasting menu."

"His and hers?"

"No," he says. "I don't care which, but make sure there's no difference in the plates. I'd rather the chef not know which is mine."

The waiter nods and disappears as I regard Naz curiously. "Why don't you want the chef to know?"

"Because if he knows which is mine, he might poison it."

I let out a sharp laugh. "Paranoid much?"

"Not paranoid," he responds as he picks up his glass of champagne and takes a sip. "Merely cautious, which you should also be. You can't trust people, Karissa. Haven't you learned that?"

"Yet you want me to trust you?"

"I never asked for your trust." He smirks. "I only asked you to go to dinner with me."

Dinner's a four-course meal of seafood and steak, salad and some other things I can't begin to name. There's even caviar on the table. Gross. I'm stuffed by the third course but I don't decline desert, savoring the rich chocolate soufflé. Naz ignores his, instead sipping champagne.

We've almost drained the entire bottle. Naz has kept our glasses full. My head is fuzzy and my body feels like it's made of air. I'm floating sky high.

I never want to touch the ground again.

"Is it good?" he asks, watching me intently. I'm too intoxicated for the attention to fluster me anymore.

"Amazing," I say. "Best soufflé I've ever had."

"Have you had many before?"

"Nope. Never."

He smirks, pushing his across the table toward me. "You can have mine, too."

"I'll pass."

"Full?"

"More like it might be poisoned."

I'm joking, of course, but he shrugs a shoulder like he really thinks it's a possibility.