He held up a hand when he saw Taylor about to speak. “Jason Andrews is a very important client of this firm. We do his taxes, and we’ve been trying to get his litigation business for years. The guy sues anyone and everyone who prints bullshit about him.”

Taylor looked up at the ceiling, trying to remain quiet. From what she had seen so far, she doubted much of it was bullshit.

Then Sam leaned forward in his chair. He peered down at her with a firm expression and said words that sent chills running down her spine.

“You go back to Jason Andrews. And you fix this.”

AND SO HERE she was five hours later, sitting in her car parked on some random street in West Hollywood. Taylor peered through her windshield to get a better look at the bar, and wondered what kind of name Reilly’s Tavern was for a hot celebrity hangout. She rechecked the address on the Post-it note Linda had handed her to make sure she was at the right place.

Taylor tapped her fingers nervously on the steering wheel. The thought of crawling back to Jason Andrews was just so humiliating. It infuriated her that, due to his “status” (which she doubted was the product of little more than sheer looks and being in the right place at the right time), people automatically gave him such deference—that with one snap of his fingers, she was expected to smile politely and apologize to him.

Hopefully Jason Andrews knows the Heimlich, Taylor thought to herself. Because she most definitely was going to choke on her words.

Realizing she couldn’t sit in front of the bar all night, she got out of her car and strode briskly in her heels to the front door of Reilly’s Tavern. A quick peek in the window told her that she’d been very wrong—the bar by no means was any sort of hot celebrity hangout.

As Taylor opened the door and stepped in, she felt as though she’d been transported back to the south side of Chicago, back to one of her father’s off-duty cop hangouts. Decked out in aging mahogany wood, Reilly’s Tavern was part sports bar, part Irish pub—complete with dartboards, pool tables, and two small televisions (both showing the same basketball game) mounted over the bar. The after-work crowd consisted almost entirely of middle-aged men, many still in their service or government uniforms.

Definitely the type of crowd who wouldn’t notice a celebrity in their bar, Taylor thought, and probably wouldn’t care even if they did. Maybe that was the point.

She stood hesitantly in the doorway, scanning the faces of the men seated at the bar, who in turn stared right back at her. Clearly, womenfolk didn’t often frequent this particular establishment.

And just when Taylor thought she couldn’t possibly have felt more self-conscious, she heard a feigned loud gasp and a voice call out her name with delight.

“Ms. Donovan!”

She turned and saw Jason Andrews near a pool table in the back. He walked over to her, pretending to be shocked.

“Why, imagine seeing you here!”

At the sight of his smug, victorious look, Taylor staggered back a few steps and fell against the door. Oh god, she couldn’t do it.

Feeling a little woozy at the thought of continuing, she closed her eyes and silently said a few oms from her yoga class for serenity.

WITH HIS ARMS folded expectantly across his chest—he did indeed know what was coming—Jason’s grin grew wider as he watched Taylor’s reaction to his greeting. This girl seriously cracked him up. At the nauseated look on her face, he half expected her to turn around and walk right out the door without one further word.

But instead, she took a deep breath. Jason watched as she pulled herself up to what he guessed had to be no more than her full five-feet-five height and strode efficiently over.

“Don’t be coy, Mr. Andrews,” she said in that all-business tone of hers. “I know your assistant told you I was coming.”

Jason’s eyes widened innocently. At the way she’d walked over all snappy-heels, he couldn’t resist hamming it up.

“You were looking for me? Whatever can I do for you, Ms. Donovan?”

Taylor stood there, staring evilly at Jason as if she wanted nothing more right then than to grab him by his cashmere zip pullover and zip it right up to his eyebrows.

But then she took another deep breath.

“It seems I may have been a bit . . . hasty when I walked out of the courtroom the other day,” she told him. “My firm would very much like to work with you on your . . . little project.”

He ignored her not-so-subtle dig at his film. “And you?”

She responded matter-of-factly to this. “I’m willing to put my personal preferences on the matter aside.”

Jason gazed down at her. She really wasn’t affected by him at all.

He found this fascinating.

“Am I correct in understanding that you dislike me, Ms. Donovan?” he asked coyly, circling around her in amusement.

Taylor followed him with her eyes, her voice even. “I won’t let my feelings about you compromise my career, Mr. Andrews. You got me in a lot of trouble at work, you know.”

Jason stopped, surprised to find himself uncomfortable at the thought. “I’ll tell you what,” he said magnanimously. “Let me buy you a drink. We can start over—get to know one another properly.” He flashed her the smile that made hearts flutter worldwide. Five and a half billion dollars in lifetime box office gross for his “little projects.” Take that.

Taylor cocked her head, appearing to consider his offer. Then, with her arms folded across her chest, she took a few steps toward him. When she was close enough that they were practically touching, she stared up at him, her green eyes boring deep into his. Jason could feel the warmth of her body, and he wondered if she knew what he was thinking right then.