I seriously want to kick her creepy-ass boss in the nut sack. I don’t like the way he’s been looking at her in her cocktail dress all evening, and weaseling his way in to sit next to her is just weird.

At least everyone at our table is in a celebratory mood. They won a settlement today that’s been two years in the making. Tomorrow will be about tying up loose ends, signing the contracts, and working out the small details. Emery contributed, despite being new and young, and her boss is impressed with her. So that’s a silver lining.

We make small talk, the conversation often turning toward technical minutiae and office politics that Emery navigates with ease. I love watching her in action, sparring with these men twice her age. It’s pretty incredible. Finally, the waitstaff scurries out with steaming silver trays, ready to serve dinner.

“What the hell is this?” Larry looks down at Emery’s plate, which contains grilled veggies and pasta in wine sauce—exactly what I ordered for her when I came to the restaurant earlier and learned the menu for our dinner party had already been selected, without taking her preferences into consideration. “Someone get this girl a steak,” he demands, glaring at the waitstaff.

“No, Mr. Pratt . . . I mean Larry,” Emery says. “It’s fine.”

I lean in toward him. “She’s a vegetarian. I made sure she’d be taken care of tonight.”

Her gaze darts over to mine and a grateful look crosses her features. Something tells me if I hadn’t intervened tonight, she’d be stuck eating a few spears of broccoli for dinner, and I’m not okay with that. I get that she wants to make a good impression with the senior partners, but damn, she should be able to eat what she likes.

“A vegetarian?” Larry scoffs.

I’m not sure how he didn’t know that information. Emery’s been working with him for a month. I distinctly recall her setting me straight about that when we first met. Then again, maybe she’s just more comfortable with me.

I dig into my steak while Emery, seemingly pleased, swirls pasta on her fork and shovels a big bite into her mouth. She eats with gusto, with none of the fake, coy dieting crap that some girls pull. Oh, I’ve had one lettuce leaf—I’m full.

As I tune out the dry conversation about mergers and acquisitions happening around me, I notice little things about Emery during dinner. The way her simple gold necklace rests against the dip in her delicate collarbone. The way her dark eyelashes flutter against her cheeks when she looks down. The sound of her laughter when she lets loose—it’s a throaty sound, and I find I like it way more than is normal.

Generally with women, I have the finesse and mental fortitude of a rhinoceros charging through a watering hole. With Emery, I want to catalog every little detail. I could stare at her for hours. The way she dabs her cloth napkin at her mouth, so as not to mess up her lipstick. It’s cute.

When dinner is through, I make my way over to the bar, needing one more drink if I’m to survive the rest of this evening. I’ve just ordered a Scotch on the rocks when Larry saunters over. The piece of broccoli between his front teeth is so large, it practically requires its own zip code. Of course, I don’t say a word.

“It’s good to hear today went well,” I say, mentally checking Make small talk off my to-do list. I’m about to wander away when Larry turns to face me, pinning me against the bar.

“How long have you and Emery been dating, son?”

“Oh, we’re just friends,” I say, correcting him.

Larry raises one bushy gray brow. “She said she was bringing her boyfriend.”

“Did she?” I ask with more than a hint of curiosity in my tone.

Larry nods, the broccoli between his teeth waggling at me. “She did.”

“Excuse me,” I say and head straight over to Emery, tearing her away from one of her colleagues. Dick, or Bob, or whatever.

She glares at me, nearly tripping over her high-heeled feet as I pull her to a quiet side of the room. “What’s gotten into you? Did you tell Larry I was your boyfriend?”

I’m not sure why, but my tone is dripping with annoyed frustration. I haven’t been labeled anyone’s boyfriend since . . . yeah. After which, a state of emergency was declared upon my life, and things have never been quite the same.

Planting one hand on her hip, her posture straightens. “Aren’t you?”

All of our time spent together over the past month comes crashing into me at once, like starbursts firing in my synapses. The casual meals we’ve shared, the easy conversations, me lacing my fingers between hers, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear and fantasizing about her. God, the fucking fantasies I’ve had . . .

My jaw tenses. Maybe this whole thing is my fault. One big, huge colossal mess. But it all felt right. More than right. Perfect, actually. It’s been easy and fun—in a way that it never has been when it comes to the women in my life.

Emery’s still waiting for me to answer, so I do the only thing I can think of. I lean down and take her mouth with mine. Her hands fly to the lapels of my suit jacket, and for a second, I think she’s going to push me away. But then she tugs me closer and groans into my mouth. Gripping her waist tightly, I devour her just like I’ve fantasized about for so long. My tongue strokes hers in long licks as little mewling sounds escape her. I want to strip her right here and fuck her against the wall, bounce her up and down on my cock while her boss watches.

My dick is already rock hard. Fuck.