“For content marketing, yeah, but—”

“When clients contract with us, they’re not just purchasing our services—they’re buying into the idea of us as people, on a personal level. Our charisma or our character or whatever. It’s not necessarily wise or rational, but it’s human nature. We’re social, emotional creatures . . . we value relationships and narratives and ‘gut feelings’ very highly, even when we don’t consciously know we’re doing it.”

And I learned the importance of this idea from Noah himself. I almost have to laugh when the irony of my words hits me. We’ve had so many arguments about business just like this, but on opposite sides of the table. If only briefly, I’ve turned into Noah, the optimistic, intuitive social butterfly, and he’s turned into me, the practical, analytical worrywart.

“Instead of just drowning people in dry numbers,” I say, “which is hard to pay attention to and even harder to remember, we give Tate & Cane a face they can identify with. We show off our business by showing off ourselves. The two new young CEOs who are ready to think outside the box and push boundaries. People eat up that kind of story with a spoon!”

As I grin at Noah, his own lips start to quirk up. “Okay, okay . . . maybe you’re on to something here.”

I cross my arms and cock my head, pretending to be insulted. “Just maybe? Please, do try to curb your enthusiasm.”

He chuckles. “Fine, Snowflake, it’s a fucking fantastic idea. When did you tell the press this party was going to be?”

“Next Saturday night.”

“That soon? Damn, we’ve got our work cut out for us.” But Noah is still smiling. Evidently my excitement is contagious. “I guess we should get started.” He rubs his hands together and gives me the broad grin I’ve been waiting for since he arrived.

“Right now?” I assumed he’d want to get back to whatever he was doing at home.

“What better time?” He pauses to look at his watch. “Actually, let’s get some dinner first.”

My stomach growls in agreement and we both laugh. I forgot that I haven’t eaten since breakfast, before I left for the spa. Speaking of which . . .

“Thank you for the spa package. It was perfect. Really, thank you.”

He nods. “Glad you enjoyed it.”

We debate between ordering pizza or Chinese, call the latter, and break into our delivery boxes at the long oak table in one of the conference rooms. As we wolf down our egg rolls and chow mein noodles, Noah asks, “Does your dad still keep a bottle of Scotch in his desk drawer for clients?”

I swallow my mouthful of rice. “Yeah. Why?” At Noah’s smirk, I shake my head. “Oh, hell no. We’re not getting drunk . . .” But then I stop. Because, really, why not? I’m in a celebratory mood, and one drink with dinner won’t kill me.

“Come on, one drink. Two tops,” Noah says with an airy wave of his hand. “We’ll buy him a replacement bottle. He probably won’t even notice anything different.”

“We’re breaking into Dad’s liquor stash like a couple of teenagers.”

“Yeah, isn’t it nostalgic? I don’t think we’ve done that since I was . . . a junior?”

I chuckle even as I roll my eyes. “Sure, let’s have a toast. I think we’ve earned it.”

“Hell yes, that’s the spirit.” Noah gets up. “I’ll be right back.”

A few minutes later, he returns with a squat crystal bottle of honey-colored whiskey, about half full, and two tumblers.

“Sorry there’s no ice,” he says as he pours our drinks. “We’ll just have to take them neat, I guess.”

I’m not much of a hard-liquor drinker, but I shrug. “Whatever. I’m sure I’ll survive.”

I scoot my brimming glass closer, bend low to the table to take a sip—then immediately start coughing. Oh God, I spoke too soon about the “surviving” part. It’s like inhaling fresh hot smoke, with the way it burns on the way down. Ugh . . . people drink this stuff willingly?

Noah laughs at me and I give him the evil eye, but soon I’m giggling too.

He tastes his own and gives a little lip-smacking sigh of satisfaction. “Damn, that’s good.”

“How can you drink that?” I say with a grimace.

“It’s an acquired taste . . . just like you.” He dodges my playful swat.

As we polish off our Chinese dinner, we toss around party plans including theme, catering, decorations, and guests. One shot of Scotch somehow becomes two, then three. Turns out it goes down easier the more you have.

Even though we both still don’t know where we stand with each other, the mood is jubilant. My flash of inspiration, and the optimism it brings, is too strong to be undercut by any relationship awkwardness. I’m even more drunk on hope than I am on Dad’s whiskey.

I stand up to throw away my empty takeout box and the room sways a little. Okay, maybe hope and whiskey are about equal by now.

“Whoa, there,” Noah says, rising to his feet. He reaches out to steady me with a hand on my hip.

I turn . . . and find myself far closer than I expected. If I took even one step forward, I would be in his arms. The mood changes from one of business to a sultry encounter between two old lovers swamped by sexual attraction and history.

“You okay?” His voice is low and smooth, just as intoxicating as the liquor.