Cameron and I texted for the rest of the day. We laughed about traditional rom-com meet-cutes while I picked up Mr. Ivy's venti Frappuccino with an extra shot of espresso. We teased each other about our favorite bands while I swept into Mr. Ivy's preferred sandwich shop and grabbed his to-go order—that was five minutes late. And we talked about movies while I took a longer route back to the office, sneaking into LaDurée to pick up a batch of macarons for tonight, to devour in front of an episode of my most beloved TV show.

I was telling Cameron about that TV show when I was accosted by Marshall at the elevators, as I exited. With a glower, he snatched the coffee and sandwich bag from my grip. I hurried to shove my phone back into my purse, my half-composed text about the newest season of Lego Masters left waiting. Which might have been for the best, because admitting to Cameron that that show was one of my guilty pleasures might have made me lose some points with him.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Marshall all but shoved me back into the elevator, out of annoyance. As I regained my balance, he twirled on his heel and marched down the aisle between busy desks and phones ringing off the hook.

"Um, picking up the coffee and the sandwiches?" I was thankful my box of LaDurée macarons fit in my oversized purse and Marshall wasn't able to see it. Any pit-stops on the way would get me written up, for sure.

"Picking up the coffee and sandwiches," he said, poorly mimicking my voice. "You're late. He's been fuming for the past half hour."

We squeezed by Daphne's desk, but she was too busy typing away at her next article to notice me. "They were late, not me."

Marshall flipped around, walking backwards so he could give me his signature sneer and scowl. "Who put the order in at the last minute, I wonder?"

I sneered back, though I usually refrained from showing my frustration with him. "I put the order in at the same time as always, Marshall, as I have been doing for the past two years."

"Correction," he said, swirling to take a sharp right turn down a wider aisle with fewer desks, replaced by plush chairs and potted plants. "I put the order in, and you were sent to pick it up. You've only been doing the orders for the past six months, since no one trusted you to not fuck them up."

I glared at his back, at the silk lime-green shirt he'd chosen for the day. It was all about color, for Marshall; color that Mr. Ivy picked and told him to wear. "Well, I didn't fuck up the order or the time I placed it. How is it my fault that the coffee shop was running behind and the sandwich shop forgot to hold the mayo and had to re-do the whole thing?"

Marshall stopped so abruptly I almost slammed into him. "It is always your fault, Emmaline. I've told you this countless times. No matter who did what," he lowered his voice, "you, the assistant, will always be blamed. But this time, dear fellow assistant, it's going to get pinned on me, because I wasn't watching you well enough. So thanks a lot." He stormed straight down the hallway, took a left turn, and screamed, "hurry the hell up, dammit!"

I rolled my eyes, pulled my purse strap higher up my shoulder, and picked up the pace. Around the corner, Marshall was already skidding up to Mr. Ivy's door, behind which I could hear him yelling at some poor staff-member or other. On the phone or in person, I couldn't tell—Marshall slammed the door after entering, and I flurried over to sit at my desk.

It was my fault, because in truth, I had put the order in late. Texting with Cameron had distracted me, but I couldn't help it. He'd sent me a picture of himself to use as his profile icon on my phone, and I kept pulling it out and drooling over it as I took care of Mr. Ivy's errands. I'd almost gotten ran over crossing the street, and didn't even flinch, too busy admiring Cameron's strong jaw-line and his delicious dark eyes and that flirty, barely-there smile. He'd offered to send me a topless picture, too, but I'd jokingly said we were too early in our phone relationship to do that. Secretly, I hoped he'd do it, anyway.

As I listened to Mr. Ivy blabbering on about tardiness and supervising lower-level assistants, and imagining how Marshall would waltz out here and give me the same speech, only in his own words and with more expletives, I gazed down at my desk drawer, where I'd deposited my phone.

What would Cameron tell me next? In so little time we'd already covered many topics and found that we had a lot in common. I hadn't finished that Lego Masters text, and I hoped he wouldn't think I was avoiding him.

Thinking I had a few minutes before Marshall came out to berate me, I creaked the drawer open and sent the text. Fingers crossed, I closed the drawer, pulled up my schedule, and got to work making phone calls.

***

As it turned out, Cameron was a secret but die-hard Lego Masters fan, too. We spoke for hours that night about our favorite teams, the host's jokes, the celebrity guests. I'd fallen asleep holding my phone, and woke with a weird smile; that hadn't happened in a long time.

I didn't date much, these days. Not since I'd gotten out of college and started this ridiculously high-pressure, low-reward job at LuXe. I only had time for quick flings and one-night-stands, a good fuck-buddy here and there. Lately, though, I hadn't had any of those, and I was starting to feel rusty, and lonely.

As fun as the flings were, deep down, I wanted love. I couldn't count how many times I'd thought I'd found it, and I ended up disappointed. A serious relationship in high school, a few loosely exclusive girlfriends and boyfriends in college, and a multitude of sex affairs in between, to no avail. I still hadn't figured out exactly what I wanted, and what kind of person I'd consider my soul-mate. Not that I had time to stop and think about it.

Over the next few weeks, via text, Cameron demonstrated to me that he was on the same page. As a personal assistant for one of the most high-profile, on-demand rockstars, he didn't have time for much either.

Cameron: It's too difficult to date. I want to, and I'm down for something serious, but no one understands my hectic schedule and how I'm always on-call.

I'd finally switched his name (because it was too long to read every time he sent me a text), and felt comfort when he messaged me—which ended up being several times a day. Whenever we had a free moment, we typed something up. Anything from a two-word sentence to a fired-up paragraph about this or that topic we'd started that morning.

Though I'd been a bit secretive about where I worked, I told him I was also a personal assistant, and understood the stress. That I understood that need for someone to spend time with, but I never had that time, or the option to fully commit.

He got me, and I got him. Now we needed to get each other in person.

On the three-week mark since we'd met, I decided to be bolder than usual. It was lunchtime, and Daphne sat next to me, egging me on.

Me: When are you coming back?

He was on tour with SMASH, traveling around the country in a giant tour-bus with Leo's face plastered all over it—he'd sent me the pictures. Once he'd established I wasn't some stalker freak who'd come looking for Leo at every turn, he started sending clips of the tour, images of inside the bus, a few candid snapshots of himself in the cities they stopped in.

Cameron: Soon, I promise.

I smiled.

Cameron: Actually, it's so soon that I can offer a day and time, if that works for you?

I tried not to type back too quickly, to not appear too eager; that was Daphne's advice whenever we chatted about Cameron and our conversations.

Me: Sure! The sooner we plan this, the better, with our schedules.

The three dots appeared, and I felt like I'd been staring at them for hours before his reply came through.

Cameron: Next week, Friday night, if you're free? If I remember correctly, you're only on-call on weekends?

Daphne, who was sitting by me, leaned over and read the message. "Wait ten minutes, then say yeah, I think I can make that work. Let him pick the place. I'll cover your Uber fee there, okay?"

I loved Daphne, and appreciated her kindness, but the way she often flaunted that she made more money than I did sometimes hurt me. She didn't mean to, I knew; but the constant reminder that I was a nobody and she was a hot-shot columnist sometimes smacked me in the face.

I followed her advice, and Cameron immediately answered with ideas for a location.

***

"Okay, but what should I wear?" I stood in front of my floor-to-ceiling mirror, crammed between two racks filled with clothes given to me by Mr. Ivy. I held one outfit in my right hand (tight jeans and a flowy top that would accentuate my boobs) and another in my left (a maxi dress with a cute little cardigan). I shook both outfits to show Daphne, who was on FaceTime with me. The phone was propped up on a shelf above the mirror, and Daphne's face was up close, gauging the appeal of each outfit I held up for her. "Maxwell's isn't fancy, is it?"

"It's not," she said, pulling away from the screen. "What make-up did you use? Have you tried that foundation I gave you a sample of? I need your feedback on it, like, yesterday."

"Yes, I'm wearing it." I sneered, because I hated heavy foundation. "But I need to know what to wear, dammit!"

"The jeans," she said, getting close to the screen again. "Let me see what it looks like. I want to make sure I got you the right color."

"For fucks' sake, Daph, I'll send you a picture of my face later, okay? I need to go." I hung the maxi dress back up, my thumb hovering over the red hang-up button on the screen. "Wish me luck!" I didn't give her a chance to answer before I hung up. If I didn't drop the call now, she'd start asking me to tell her which eyeshadow palette I'd chosen and which mascara I'd used.

I dressed, snapping a few pictures for her, as promised, and bustled out the door, hopping down the flights of stairs until I burst outside. I took a large whiff of the air, the fried food, the e-cigarette smoke, and I hailed a cab.

The place Cameron had chosen wasn't far from me—he'd done it on purpose, knowing I lived on the northern end of the city, in Harlem.

Some might have called my neighborhood unsafe, but I grew up here. As much as I complained about how difficult it was to travel to it, I loved the noise, the music, the smells—they were home. The guys that hung out at the bottom of the steps knew me and looked out for me. The clubbing girls in their ass-absorbing mini-shorts always gave me the best compliments when I walked by them.

The cab ride was quick, but long enough that I developed hesitation as I stared out the window, watching the flashing lights, the bright buildings looming up into the star-sprinkled sky.

What was I doing? Going on a date with Leo Lee's personal assistant? The guy who'd come to tell me Leo had ditched me because he was running late? The guy I'd found extra cute and who'd seen me get all dizzy and fall onto the couch with a film of sweat spreading over my head? I'd sent him pictures of me in the past few weeks; pictures of me in much better lighting, wearing adorable outfits, posing to display my best features. He was infatuated with my deep green eyes, he'd once said, swooning.

But what if our brief meet-cute was misleading? What if all the conversations we'd been having were of a more friendly nature? Or if we didn't hit it off as well in person?

What if I'd misinterpreted his intentions?

I got out of the cab, and it was too late to change my mind. Cameron was standing in front of the brick building, right by the open glass doors through which customers rushed in or leisurely walked out.

He didn't see me, at first, too busy staring at his phone. I flushed; he was as adorable as I'd remembered, and sexy, too. He wore dark blue, tight fitting jeans—enough to mold over that delightful ass of his—and a long-sleeved blazer, perfect for this mid-Spring weather. He had on Converse sneakers, which made me happy I'd settled for ballet flats, and not the high heels I'd almost slipped into. He was much taller than me, but wearing heels when your date wears tennis shoes...not a good sign.

As I started approaching him, he saw me, and smiled.

"Am I late?" I smirked at him. "Should I cancel?"

He chuckled. "You're just in time," he said, offering his arm to me, much like he had that night at the concert. "Nice to see you again, Emma."

We'd FaceTimed once or twice, but this was different. On the screen, I hadn't noticed that his eyes, that I'd found so temptingly dark, were actually speckled with blue.

He must have caught me looking, because he blushed, guiding us to a table in the back of the room, where a reserved sign had been propped up. "The blue in my eyes is from my mother; she's Danish." He pulled out one of the sleek black chairs for me. "The brown is from my dad; he's Colombian."

I sat, admiring the wood-themed décor and the lights that illuminated enough without blinding. Surprisingly, I hadn't been to this place before. From the smell of the dishes being delivered nearby, I had a feeling this would become a regular spot for me. Good old fried American foods and booze—delicious.

"I'm part Italian, from what my mother claimed," I said, taking a peek at the menu.

"Sorry for having us seated so far." He dropped into his chair and scooted up to the table. "I like to be out of the way."

"What, are you famous too?" I set a hand on my heart and fluttered my lashes. "Oh, my, so I guess my celebrity meet-cute is happening after all."

"Well, technically..." He bit his lip, which I found incredibly arousing. Dammit, we'd only been in each other's presence for five seconds, couldn't he give me a minute to adjust to his magnetism? "I'm not celebrity status, but I was in a band once, and have played shows and signed autographs..."

I blinked at him. "Huh? No way." I leaned forward. "Does this officially make me a groupie, then? Going on a date with a...um, what role did you play in this band of yours?"

"Bassist." He thanked the waiter for our waters, and she told us we could take our time to order.

"Going on a date with a bassist, okay. I'm intrigued." I unfolded the napkin with the utensils, and set the cloth in my lap. "I have to know what band this was. Is? Or was?

"Funny, here I thought you were Leo's biggest fan, and you don't even recognize me?" He sat up straight and raised his eyebrows. "Were you not following him when he was in NEXUS?"

I gasped, offended that he'd imply I didn't know every single thing Leo was involved with. "Are you kidding me? NEXUS was—"

Saying the band out loud woke me up. It hit me. It hit me hard and fast, and my heart skipped a beat. That was why Cameron looked vaguely familiar when he found me that night at the concert. It was a random moment of hey, where do I know him from? And I'd set it aside because I couldn't figure it out.

I remembered now. "Cammy?"

He chortled. "Yeah, I don't go by that name anymore, but that's me." He gestured at his short, dark locks. "Well, that was me with longer hair and a shit-ton of eyeliner, of course."

I struggled not to squeal. As much as I'd always loved Leo, Cammy—aka Cameron—was an incredible bassist. I'd definitely drooled over him more than once, during the NEXUS years. When the band split up, and Cammy wasn't part of SMASH, I'd been taken aback, but he never showed up in the press, so I figured he'd moved on with his private life.

Yet there he was, sitting across from me in a crowded New York City pub, looking all scrumptious and sweet and everything I needed at the moment. Especially when Mr. Ivy and Marshall were at the fashion event of the season, and I wasn't allowed to attend. But that no longer bothered me, because I was having dinner with Cammy, from NEXUS. Cameron, Leo's personal assistant. A man who was becoming dangerously more interesting by the minute.

Maybe I was a groupie.

We ordered a bottle of red wine; a high-priced vintage that Cameron belted out the French name of without a flinch. And when we clinked glasses, I had a feeling that the spark I'd been feeling between us was about to ignite and explode.

♪♪♪