"That's not going to work for me," I tapped my pen against the edge of my desk, then circled large areas of the financial spreadsheet in ruthless red. "These numbers are unacceptable. You've got to come back to the table with something better than this, Herb."

Herbert Miller, Iconic's corporate controller and Sr. VP of Finance shifted uncomfortably. Flabby and fleshy fingers tugging anxiously against the knot of his tie. "I've tried to work within the projected budgets," he argued, "but the Directors are pushing hard against cutbacks."

"Leave them to me," I groaned, pinching the bridge of my nose, "do what you can to rein this back in. I want to see your revised figures in the morning."

A finger pushed at the bridge of his glasses, fixing them back in place over a wide, bulbous nose perched over pinched lips. "Sure."

As he left, I set a hand to my neck, rolled my head on my shoulders and winced. I was wound tight as a drum and wanted nothing more than an hour to soak in a hot bath, but my day was young. A weekend of wild and wicked playing with Tristan had lead to a couple of kinks in a few undesirable locations. Sharing a bed with him had taken a bit of a adjusting to, as well.

The sound of heavy breathing, the press of another body, the tangle of arms and legs...were all things I wasn't accustomed to.

I'd slept with men and shared a bed for a few nights, here and there, especially while in a relationship, but I hadn't realized just how much I'd kept to myself. I'd never 'lived' with anyone, at least not completely. We'd always had our respective places and spent almost as much time apart as we did together, but this agreement with Shade eliminated that entirely. When we weren't at his place, we would be at mine.

Starting tonight, in fact.

Herb was barely out the door before my assistant Paul popped in.

"Morning, Ms. Pierce," he sang, flopping in the seat Herb had just vacated. "You're glowing."

"Am I?" I pushed a wayward wisp of hair behind my ear, smoothing a hand over the coiled French twist.

Paul pursed knowing lips, crossed a leg. "You got laid."

"Excuse me?"

"You got laid," he repeated, entirely unabashed.

"I don't see how you could possibly know whether or not—"

"Sex does wonders for the skin, Ms. Peirce, and yours hasn't looked dewy since Anthony. Although, he didn't make you look this good. So whoever you've got now must be working some serious magic."

"Paul," I said, drawing on my warning tone instead of laughing the way I was on the inside. "I am not discussing my sex-life with you. You're paid to assist, so," I waved a hand at him, "assist."

"Cool. Calendar?"

"Yes." I attempted to settle into my chair when my back twinged mutinously forcing me straight as a flagpole. Well, I thought miserably, if I had to be uncomfortable, at least I was going to have impeccable posture.

"You've got five meetings today," Paul continued after taking a second to smother his smirk. "The boys from Cassels Brock and Blackwell will be here in a half hour to discuss the Alloy Corp matter."

"Hm," I nodded, reaching for my Starbucks, cold at this point, but I didn't give a damn. Coffee was coffee, cold or otherwise. Removing the lid, I gulped down whatever was left. "Good. And did you get a hold of Tim from Apollo Corp?"

"Yes," Paul continued, running his pen down the length of his notebook. "His assistant, Becky, confirmed that he can bump down to one thirty, that leaves your eleven wide open, as you'd requested, giving you a buffer before your lunch meeting with Kathleen Singh at twelve thirty."

"Excellent."

"We need to talk about the NYCIFF."

"The what?"

Paul's brown eyes popped wide as a stunned owl's. "The New York International Film Festival," he reiterated slowly. "You know, the one that's happening this weekend? The one Iconic sponsored?"

"Oh shit, I completely forgot."

Paul shook a sad, sad head. "You don't have a dress, do you?"

I ran my teeth along my bottom lip. "No."

"Ms. Pierce," he scowled, "I honestly don't know what you'd do without me. Thankfully, knowing you, I took the liberty of calling a couple of boutique's last week. I have six dresses on hold, pending your approval."

"You do?" I don't know why I was surprised, but I was. Paul had been my assistant for somewhere in the neighborhood of a year and a half, and on more than one occasion he'd demonstarted tremendous foresight in anticipating my needs. One of the main reasons he'd held the position for as long as he had, despite his other faults. 

Paul nodded proudly, wiggling his shoulders. "And they're absolutely gorge, if I may say so." Rising he set down an iPad I hadn't noticed tucked behind his notebook, and swiped his fingers across the screen until a slideshow popped up.

"I'm leaning towards number three and five," he said, working through the list, one at a time. He had impressive taste, I thought. I couldn't fault him for that. He'd opted for the lush and opulent jewel tones that would play with the red in my auburn hair but in clean, classic lines.

"Oh," I sighed when we hit the fifth. "I love this." Floor length, deepest plum, cut on a bias at the front showing off my legs. Strapless with a plunging back with a clear stretch of sheer fabric ornately hand stitched in a swirling design. Accents of crystal glistened and caught the light, shimmering brilliantly.

"Incredible, right? The designer is Darcy Mercer. Just opened up her line here last year and I fell madly in love. This'll fit you like a dream."

"How did you even know my size," I asked and Paul turned his face towards me, his features set in a look of baffled insult.

"Honey," he sighed. "I'll call ahead and have the dress messengered to your place for you to try on and approve. If you like it, let me know and I'll finalize payment ASAP." Gathering his things, Paul tucked his notebook and iPad to his narrow chest. "Anything else?"

"No," I answered, nibbling on the cap of my pen.

"You should probably consider asking Mr. Magic to accompany you," Paul added, lingering at my door. "A plus one to walk the red carpet. Would be a shame for a dress like that to make a debut without a bit of man candy in Tom Ford to decorate your arm."

Man candy, I thought, smiling to myself, imagining the look of Tristan. Impeccably dressed at my side, and later, gloriously naked between my thighs. Man candy, indeed.   

 ***

A long day at the office didn't give me as much time as I would have liked, but I put the hour I had alone to good use and cleaned like a madwoman. I was a stickler for perfection and couldn't fathom the thought of having Tristan Shade in my home with even a pair of stray panties littered on my bedroom floor.

Usually I would have called in a service to tackle my place, but again, no time meant I had to strap on the rubber gloves and do it myself. When I was done, the air was lightly scented with VIM and lemon oil, every visible surface sparkled and gleamed. Being away for the last week made the task easier then I had thought, leaving only a few load of laundry to worry about, a messy bed and scattered sundries covering my dining room table.

Tucking the gloves back under my kitchen sink, I took a quick visual sweep of the space, trying to imagine what he would see when walking through my door for the first time. Nowhere near as grand as his place on Park Ave, I thought, but certainly not without its charm, either.

Brick walls white washed, the architectural features of crown moulding and arched windows lent to the quaint and charming, offset with touches of modern luxury in vibrant sapphire and cobalt textiles and linear grey furnishings. Comfort didn't have to be shabby or unflattering, and I'd spared no expense with hiring the best interior decorators that Manhattan had to offer.

 The knock at the door told me that whatever my hesitancies, time was up. He was here. Rolling up the sleeves of my shirt, I unlocked the door, swung it open. And almost burst into outright laughter. Tristan had tucked his golden head into a black baseball cap, the bill pulled low over his face. The rest of him hidden in a casual leather jacket and worn jeans. He looked nothing at all like the formidable corporate tycoon gracing the cover of Forbes or the front page of the Times.

"Going incognito?" I asked as he crossed my threshold.

"Precautions," he said, yanking off the cap and ruffling fingers through his flattened locks. He set down a large bag with a discernable thud that had me raising my brows.

"Pack enough?"

Sullen grey eyes shot to me. "I like to be prepared."

"Ooh," I looped my arms around his neck, kissed him noisily on the cheek. "Someone's not happy about having a sleepover away from home." I kissed him again, smacking my lips loudly until I saw the involuntary quirk of his.

"That obvious?"

"Darling," I leaned back so he could better appreciate my dry expression, "a bomb exploding in Times Square would be more subtle."

"You know," he said, stroking a hand down my arm, "not too late to change your mind and head back to my place."

"Nice try, Matlock."

Tristan sighed hugely, stooped to gather up his bag. "Where should I put this?"

Door on the right at the end of the hall, I turned him around and sent him on his way. While Tristan dealt with settling in, I moved to the kitchen and turned on my stove. I wasn't a domestic diva by any stretch, but I was comfortable enough with a few things to know I wouldn't poison us. Setting on a skillet, I wrestled around in the fridge for the fresh Tilapia filets I'd asked Paul to purchase from the Whole Foods. Unlike most fish, or protein in general for that matter, Tilapia was relatively easy to cook.

"What are you doing?" Tristan asked before I could lay the fish into the screaming hot pan. Before I could answer, he nudged me aside. "I'll do it."

"Fine." I shrugged, not at all upset about being dismissed from behind the stove, and decided I might just get used to having him around, after all.

"Do you have any spices," he asked, turning down the heat on the burner and adding in a swirl of olive oil to the pan. Ah, oil, I thought.

"Cabinet to the left." I pointed. Tristan opened it, muttered an indiscernible curse under his breath.

"No dill? Paprika?"

"I don't cook much."

"Apparently." Tristan pushed at a few small spice jars with venom, not that there was much to weed through and found something to examine a little closer. I recognized the label of a pre-mixed blend Jacqueline had brought back when stopping over in Kansas City. She'd visited a little hole in the wall smokehouse and said she'd died and found heaven in Baby Back Ribs.

"This'll have to do," he grumbled, giving the contents a sniff before sprinkling both sides of the fillets.

"Don't be such a diva," I said, reaching into my wine fridge for a chilled Pinot Gris. "Are you all settled in?"

"As can be. There's a garment bag on your bed," he said, a bit distracted as he laid down the fish gently into the hot pan and turned to search the contents of my sparse fridge.

"Garment bag?" Then I remembered Paul had mentioned something about sending over the dress. He must have brought it with him while dropping off the groceries during the later afternoon. "Oh, it's for the upcoming film fest event."

"Thought so."

"Speaking of the film fest," I continued casually, uncorking the bottle.

"No," he said, effectively cutting me off before I could say another word. "I know what you're going to ask. No."

"Because you're still feeling testy about our arrangement to place hop?" I handed him a glass and leaned into the counter. His face was decidedly blank and he shifted steady eyes to my face.

"Making a public appearance together opens the door for speculation."

"We're attending the gala together as colleagues," I said. "We're sitting at the same table, for God sake."

"I'm aware of that," he said with a patronizing lean of his head. "Therefore it's best if we arrive and leave separately to such a media frenzy engagement, don't you think?"

I let my bland expression speak for itself. Smiling, Tristan leaned in, pressed his lips to my forehead. "Go get freshened up. Dinner will be ready in about twenty."

Tucked away in my room, I shut the door behind me and leaned bodily against it. I don't know why the reality of Tristan's statement angered me quite so deeply. He was right, and I knew it was certainly the most practical, but that didn't make it feel any less like rejection and rejection was not in my wheelhouse of experience.

I wracked my memory trying to think of a comparable circumstance and came up bone dry. Men didn't say 'no' to me. Not when I was calling the shots.  Then I thought back to my first dinner with Tristan and something echoed back to me from that evening.

I'm already wealthy, successful. You have nothing that I don't already have, and vice versa.

"Son of a bitch," I muttered under my breath. Moving to the bed, I unpeeled the zipper and threaded my fingers in deepest aubergine silk. The fabric was butter soft and light as air. I found my phone charging by my bedside, and dialled Paul's cellphone.

He answered with a peppy, "Evening, Ms. Pierce."

"I want you to send out an email to Mike Samuels," I said, lifting the dress from the garment bag, phone wedged between my cheek and shoulder. "Invite him to attend the film fest as my plus one."

"Okie dokie. Plus one, Mr. Mike Samuels." There was a lengthy pause before he followed up with, "Mr. Magic Mike Samuels?"

"Shut up," I said, holding the dress in front of my body to gauge the length and fit. "And tell Darcy Mercer we're going with her selection."