It's not an easy job—being Sabina Kyle's secretary.

"You were able to reschedule with Shin Ji-won?"

"Yes," Tristan says from the font seat, tablet right in front of him, the tap of his fingernails on the screen sounding like music to Sabina's ears, "It took a fight with her secretary, but you're meeting with her tomorrow at two. I booked reservations already."

Sabina takes a long sip of her coffee. Today is a good day—Tristan has been back at work for three days, and already, she feels better. Heavenly. "And the invitations I've asked you to follow up with?"

"I RSVP'd for the events that didn't withdraw—there's still a good number of four. Our creatives team wants a meeting before lunch today to go over some unfinished shoots; they want you to come to the location this afternoon, and we already have a draft for this month's layout on your desk. Design already contacted the next artist for next month, and they need your approval."

"And our status with Miller?"

"Circulation is doing well—it's hitting the distribution goals. Advertising wants to make a story out of you—"

"No story."

"—and your PR and legal teams agreed to come in at three for some last few crisis management strategies."

Sabina leans back against her seat and closes her eyes. Her shoulders slump when she asks, "And my cover shoot and interview for Horizon? Out of the question?"

Tristan is quick to answer. "No. Friday at eight."

"Thank fuck." The model grins. And then, without thinking, she blurts out, "What does my lunch look like today?"

He falters for a second, scrolling through his screen. "No plans. Do you want me to schedule something? Call someone?"

"No. Shut up. Do you like Italian?"

Tristan's eyes snap up to the rearview mirror. Sabina raises an eyebrow and stares back at him.

"The food?"

"What the fuck else?"

His eyes stay on hers. "Yes."

"Good. Reserve a table at Bellini's for two," she says, digging through her bag for her phone. "We'll be out of the office at eleven thirty."

Tristan doesn't question it anymore, thankfully, and stays at his desk. Sabina's morning is filled with dragged but productive meetings, and she is back in her mojo—she's working through files as quickly and as efficiently as she can, slowly but surely keeping track of their progress through the editorial calendar. When her intercom buzzes, she frowns, presses a finger to it and mutters, "What."

"It's Ms. Chaucer on the line," Tristan's voice says.

"Connect her."

Her phone has been turned face down—maybe that's why the orange head is calling through her office.

"What? I'm busy," Sabina snaps.

"I run a hotel empire, I'm busy, too, so answer your fucking phone when I call, okay?" MJ snaps just as snarkily, and then she sighs. "I was just calling to see if you were free for lunch. I know you're packed with meetings, getting your rep and career back together, but Andy asked if we could stop by and check her bakeshop for a bit. We could have lunch there."

Sabina dumps the papers on her hand on her desk and runs a hand through her forehead. "Darling. I'm freaking out."

MJ's laugh is a single, loud, ha! "You're freaking out? I thought everything was fine when Tristan agreed to come back to work."

"Yes, that's the problem, everything is finer." Sabina leans back against her chair and stares at the glass door separating herself and his desk. He's facing her, posture rigid and straight, focused on his computer. His jacket is hanging behind his chair, and he looks like a fucking sin—he's wearing a red tie today. "I can't do lunch. I'm taking him out as a thank you for coming back to work for me."

Her friend is quiet.

Sabina scowls and hisses, "Say something, stop freaking me out with your fucking pauses."

"I just." There's a smug smile on her face when she says those two words, and Sabina groans loudly. "A thank you? You gave him an insane salary increase—he's the one supposed to be thanking you."

"His job isn't easy. I had a scandal. And I'm very attractive, I know he gets distracted when he's supposed to be working, I don't make his job easy."

Sabina knows MJ is rolling her eyes. "Then do it if you're so adamant. What are you freaking out about?"

She purses her lips and stares at her secretary. "I have a strict no-relationship thing with my employees. Won't he think it's a date? I don't do dates."

Another ha! Sabina is going to strangle her. "Oh, you twisted, twisted psychopath. Just eat, for God's sake, and then maybe, while you're at it with the thank you, apologize to him for being cruel about your 'no-relationship' rule." The orange head snorts. "You forget, Sab, but there are people who like you for more than your pretty face and sexy body."

"Tristan sees nothing past that," Sabina counters firmly. "And no, I'm not going to apologize. We had an agreement, we had rules. He's the one who broke them."

"And yet you were still so cruel, babe. And how can he not see anything past that if that's all you offer to anyone who wants to make the effort?"

"Your psychiatrist boyfriend is rubbing off on you," Sabina says through gritted teeth. "This is why I'm single—great, now I'm pissed."

"Call Andy when you have the time, she's worried about you. Give me updates about your date and let me know if you suck his dick under the table."

Sabina hangs up and gets back to work. MJ isn't the only one busy running an empire.

And by the time eleven thirty rolls around, Sabina shuts down her laptop, picks up her jacket and bag, and strolls out of the office. Tristan stands up as soon as the door makes a sound and grabs his own things, hastily following after her.

They're quiet in the elevator, in the car, all the way up until he pulls her chair back at their table in Bellini's and sits, hesitantly, across from her.

"Relax," Sabina says, raising an eyebrow as she picks up a menu. "You look like you've done something wrong and I'm about to beat the shit out of you."

Tristan, the little shit, raises an eyebrow back. "Aren't you?"

She rolls her eyes and gestures to the menu, untouched, in front of him. "Order."

Tristan is baffled—Sabina can see it in his face. He's quiet with his words when he rattles off his order to the waiter, and then his eyes study her while she's asking for wine. The waiter is a little starstruck—that, or he's horrified by her—but when they're alone again, Sabina clears her throat and asks, "How old are you?"

"Twenty-seven," he answers. Short. Clipped, and skeptical.

"You're twenty-seven," Sabina repeats slowly, scrunching her nose, "and you live in a measly condominium unit?"

"Am I here for you to evaluate my life choices, Ms. Kyle?"

Sabina presses her lips into a thin line and narrows her eyes. Tristan doesn't back down from her stare and levels it with his own. "I was just curious."

Tristan tilts his head to the side. "Why? Is this a second job interview?"

"No," the model snaps. "This is a thank you for coming back to work. Why are you so pissy, what crawled up your pants and died? And shut it with the Ms. Kyle when we're not working, it sounds like you're mocking me."

"I'd be less pissy if you didn't confuse me so much, but thank you for clarifying that this is a thank you lunch," Tristan says, leaning back against his seat. Sabina wants to strangle him with his tie. "Although my bank account is already immensely grateful."

"And this is what I get for being nice."

"You're not nice, Kyle." The corner of his lips turn up, and he leans forward to tap his finger on the rim of his glass. "You just called my condo unit 'measly'. Some people would find that insensitive, but I'm used to you. And yes, I live in that measly unit and you never stepped foot in it because it's not your taste."

Sabina blinks and smile sweetly. "Ah. And you know my tastes from, what, all the times we spent in bed? In and out of it, actually?"

Tristan's eyes narrow and his finger stops circling the rim of his glass. "Flirt with me again and I'll take it up to HR."

Sabina has half a mind to argue. Instead, she smirks and counters, "Ah, the HR game. I've missed it."

Her secretary's face falls—masks itself back to the guarded and professional look Sabina stares at from her office more often than she would care to admit to. Quietly, he asks, "Seriously, Kyle. What am I doing here? You don't exactly give off the friendly boss vibe who takes out their employees for lunch just to get to know them and see how they're doing."

She holds his stare for a second. Breathes in and out. She doesn't look at him when she forces out, through her teeth and red-coated lips, "This is a thank you for actually coming back to work for me. And an apology."

It's quiet for a moment. Sabina is afraid to look at him.

Then, he muses, "An apology." She turns her head—sees him raising both eyebrows in, what, astonishment? Confusion? Tristan leans back and crosses his arms.

In her head, Sabina winces, but she keeps her expression schooled and blank when she looks at him again. "I was cruel."

"No, you were honest and direct about what you wanted." He chuckles once, tapping his fingers on the table.

"Stop being nice," Sabina says. "Because I wasn't."

The corner of his lips twitch. "Yes, you weren't. You aren't."

She stares at him. "And yet you wanted to date me."

"I did." Tristan stares back at her, unblinking. "And I learned my lesson."

*

"What the fuck are you still doing here."

Tristan looked up. He was standing in her kitchen, making coffee, shirtless with mussed-up hair and marks all over his skin—but his mouth turned up into an easy smile. "Making coffee. Want one?"

"No." The word was forceful. Firm, and cold. Sabina held the towel tighter to her body, and somewhere at the back of her mind, she remembered that this man had seen, touched, tasted it all. She let her hand fall weakly to her side. "I said I was going to shower, and that when I come back here, you better be gone."

Tristan placed his palms on the counter, and it made Sabina grimace.

It felt like those hands were touching her kitchen without her permission.

And it felt like a hundred heartbeats passed, just Tristan staring at her from across the room, and she could hear his pulse, she could hear every stuttered breath he made, every syllable and vowel and consonant from his lips when he said, in his quiet voice, like he's whispering in her ear, "Kyle. Sabina Kyle."

Sabina took one look at his face. Heard it in his voice.

Rule number three. "No. Oh, God."

He tore his gaze away, looked at his mug, reached over for a teaspoon and stirred his coffee. His breath came out uneven, and his chest heaved, and he swallowed, bit out, "I want to date you."

"No. I don't want to."

He didn't look at her. He kept stirring the coffee, one hand on her counter, and God, he had no right to be touching her counter—"Kyle," he whispered, shutting his eyes quickly, and then opening them. "I didn't mean to—I didn't want to fall for you, either."

"Then get up," Sabina said. Angrily.

Because when it comes to fucking around with Tristan Bishop, Sabina has three rules:

1. No kissing.

2. No talking about it at work.

3. No feelings, no strings, no complications.

Now, why the fuck was that so hard to follow?

"And get out." Sabina turned around and slammed the door.

*

On the ride home, Tristan's phone rings.

"Excuse me," he mutters, and takes it.

Sabina leans against the window and stares at the back of Tristan's head with a frown. In the years he's been working for her, not once did his phone ring at work. Even if it did, Tristan shut it off before the sound could go longer than a second.

So sue her if she's curious.

"I don't get off until five," he says quietly, so quietly, that Sabina almost doesn't catch it. Tristan turns his head away. "No, take care of it until I get home. Yes, please. Thank you."

So sue her if she asks, five minutes after debating with herself until she decided fuck it, "Partner?"

Tristan meets her gaze at the rearview mirror. Sabina can't read him.

She read him once, that day in her kitchen, when he placed his hands on her counter—a place they shouldn't have been—and it was on his face and in his voice, and that was it.

Tristan shakes his head. And then he looks away. "No."

She waits, but he doesn't offer anything more.

Sabina has always been good with hiding her emotions, so sue her if her disappointment shows.

*

The glow on Andy's face is unmistakable as she and Rhysand walk up the terminal, hand-in-hand, lugging their carry-ons behind them. She's giggling and bouncing on her feet, and even behind her shades, Sabina knows her eyes are love-hearts when she tilts her head up to look at her husband.

It's disgustingly cute. Sabina makes a face, turns away and bumps shoulders with MJ. "D'you think she got pregnant?"

"Sabina," MJ scolds her, shooting her a dark look behind her sunglasses. "Don't ask that. Plus, it's not a problem if she did—Andy wants a family."

"And Rhysand doesn't." Sabina shrugs, tracing her fingertip over her lip. "Not yet anyway. But just saying, where's the compromise in that?"

MJ's fingers come up to toy with the end of her ponytail. She singsongs, "Marriage isn't a business negotiation, Sab."

"Oh." Sabina glances at her friend and raises an eyebrow. "Don't tell me Adrian is popping the question soon."

To her delight, MJ's face heats up, and she sputters, "N-no. I'm focusing on work, he's opening his clinic, I'm only twenty-eight, Jesus."

"Okay, calm your tits, fine, I won't ask again. Where did Rhysand—"

"Guys!" Andy shouts in glee, finally spotting them—not that it was difficult; Sabina is sporting a turned-down collar, long sleeved jumpsuit in mustard, sent to her from Diane Carlos' most recent fashion line, and MJ has a flaming red blazer thrown over her shoulders and matching heels in the same color, paired with white sleeveless blouse tucked in the long dotted pencil skirt that hugs her curves. Sabina thought the skirt was a good choice—she loves MJ's hips.

But from afar, they look like McDonald's standing together, and when Sabina met her this morning, she screeched, "God, was it so hard for you to find something to complement my outfit? I sent you a picture this morning!"

And MJ answered, just as loud and snappy, "Why didn't you complement my outfit? Just because you're a model doesn't mean I have to adjust my outfit choices for you, God."

Sabina lets out an oof when Andy jumps up to hug them both. She smells like candy and sun and a hint of Rhysand's cologne.

"Hey, bub. You look good."

"Good to see you, kid," Sabina says fondly, hugging her back just as tight. "Where did Harton take you?"

"The six Disneyland parks in the world," Andy answers dreamily, twirling around, and her dress follows her movement. Then she stops, and her smile falls. She takes off her shades and looks at Sabina, taking her hand. "Sab," she starts.

"Don't." Sabina gives her a tight smile. "I'm okay, kid. I promise."

Rhysand comes up behind her and gives them a nod. "She's been worried," he says, squeezing his fingers against the curve of Andy's neck. Her very red and marked neck. Sabina shoots Andy a knowing smirk and a raise of an eyebrow. The youngest blushes and looks away.

MJ sighs and shakes her head, but she's smiling. "Tristan's back to work, bub, so I'm pretty sure Sab is doing more than okay."

"Oh, shut up." Standing a few feet away was the devil himself. Sabina hopes he didn't hear her friend's loud mouth.

Andy visibly relaxes. She tightens her hold on Sabina's hand. "Yeah, that's good. I'm also glad the scandal died down. Are we going to my bakeshop for lunch? Is Tristan coming, too?"

"No," Sabina says, tugging her and MJ along. "I mean, yes, we're taking my car, but he's there as my bodyguard, so both of you shut it."

Even without looking, she knows Andy and MJ are wagging their eyebrows at each other.

Sabina scowls. "Rhysand, go home, you've had Andy for the past month. Or go meet Jenner, he misses you."

MJ cuts in, "Adrian misses you too. Go see the boys."

They near her Mustang. Tristan opens the door. "Ms. Chaucer. Mrs. Harton," he says politely.

"Mrs. Harton," Andy repeats, giggling behind her hand as Rhysand takes her carry-on from her. "Hello, Tristan. It's nice to meet you."

"Likewise," is Tristan's short answer, and he steps back to let them in.

Rhysand grabs Andy before she can go and plants one on her mouth. Then he turns her around and pushes her forward gently. "Call me, sunshine."

"I love you, kiss Biscuit for me!" Andy shouts, just as MJ pushes her towards the backseat.

"Tristan," MJ greets coldly, glaring at him.

Sabina's secretary isn't fazed. In fact, he looks amused. "Ms. Chaucer."

"Bringing any guns today?"

"Only to protect Ms. Kyle."

MJ points two v-sign fingers at her eyes, then at Tristan's. Sabina rolls her own. "I'm watching you."

If Sabina weren't paying such close attention to him, she wouldn't have seen the crack of the smile on his lips before it was gone. He looks at her. "Where to, Ms. Kyle?"

"Bake Away," she answers, and then she goes in to settle in the backseat with her friends.

Andy leans in to whisper, very loudly, "He's hot, Sab. Good job."

"Shut the fuck up," Sabina says.

"You're married," MJ reminds her.

"And I don't forget it." Andy grins. "I meant hot for you."

At the rearview mirror, Tristan's ink-blue eyes snap up to meet hers.

Sabina looks away and clears her throat. "So. Tell us about the six Disneyland parks you went to."

When they arrive at Andy's bakeshop and have cheese tarts for dessert, they taste like their college years. Taste like hotboxing in the bathroom of their dorm room, sipping tequila and crying over exes, taste like drinks at the club after finals, like coffee in the morning when they're running late to class, like tears cried during thesis season.

And now Andy is married and working, MJ is happy with Adrian and also working, and Sabina is...working. Happily.

She doesn't need a man, a woman, a partner—a love life, for that matter—to be happy. She doesn't have the time for it, and she doesn't want to make the effort and the commitment.

That's why she has rules. They're not hard to follow.