Brooks hadn't been kidding about the hospital having a wing named after his grandfather. There it was with fancy gold script above the door. The Cornelius Carrington Oncology Unit. A vanity, but I figured it was better than spending billions on launching rockets into space.

When we arrived at the ER—in Brooks's chauffeur-driven Mercedes—the staff had descended on us like a pack of deferential wolves, but after I'd been given the all clear, he'd waved the nurses away and insisted on pushing my wheelchair to the car himself.

"I can walk," I grumbled. "People are staring at me."

"No, they're staring at me. And you're injured."

"Hardly. I've had worse damage from a sewing machine."

There was a tiny puncture on my big toe from Muffy's teeth. Honestly, the hole from the tetanus shot was bigger. As for my shin, it wasn't fractured, but it did have one heck of a bruise. Was it acceptable to wear a pantsuit to a wedding? Because the flowery, knee-length dress I'd planned to wear as Antonio Adderly's cousin said "I do" was no longer a contender.

"That doesn't make it okay," Brooks said.

"I guess purse-sized dogs are an occupational hazard." I thought back to Paisley's warning. "Next time, I'm gonna wear those a pair of those ankle guards that soccer players use."

"There isn't going to be a next time."

There wasn't? My heart dropped to my bandaged foot, not just because of the loss of income, although that would hurt since Brooks was a regular, but because he was my favourite client. One I actually enjoyed spending time with. Although I couldn't say I'd be heartbroken to miss the funeral "date" he'd mentioned earlier. Grief left me tongue-tied. What was I meant to say to somebody crying for a loved one? "I'm sorry for your loss" always seemed so inadequate. Not that I'd been to many funerals. Only three, and one of those had been for Cooper's former neighbour, Creepy Bob. Cooper had dragged me past the open casket just so he could check that Bob was really dead, and then he'd taken me out for celebratory ice cream sundaes. Creepy Bob's nickname said it all. He used to meander around late at night, peering through people's windows and then acting senile whenever they called the cops. Cooper said that in truth, he'd stayed sharp as a tack until the day he tripped over plant pot and broke his neck as he bump-bump-bumped down the porch steps. There hadn't been a damp eye in the house at the service.

But now Brooks was fake-breaking up with me, and I had a flashback to that night in The Oyster Club where Sebastian had told me I wasn't sophisticated enough, and Brooks was ten times the man Sebastian had been, I understood that now. A year ago, I'd thought the sun shone out of Sebastian's eyes—and he'd always been Sebastian, never Seb—when in reality, it had been the gleam of a golden ticket to partnership peeping through. He'd strung me along until I was no longer useful, the slug. At least Brooks had always been up front with me.

"I'm sorry I let you down today," I said.

"What are you talking about?" Brooks halted the wheelchair and stepped forward to look at me, and I guess I didn't hide my disappointment as well as I thought. "Fuck, Ally, I didn't mean it that way. I meant I'll hire security."

The lump in my throat turned into a giggle of relief. "Security? You mean a dog wrangler who'll throw himself into the path of danger?"

Brooks's tone was serious. "If necessary. I take staff well-being very seriously."

Staff? Ouch.

The visceral reaction surprised me. I was working under contract, and wasn't it better to be treated as an employee than an escort? Didn't I value professionalism above friendship anyway?

"I appreciate that, but I don't think a bodyguard's necessary. I'll just bring a package of doggie treats and toss them behind us."

Getting to the exit took almost half an hour because people kept stopping Brooks, who seemed to be a real celebrity at the Clearview Medical Center. I quickly began to understand that it wasn't only his grandfather who'd donated money—the Carrington Foundation had been generous too, especially to the paediatric unit, and the hospital administrator actually gave a little bow as we backed away from him. When we finally got outside, Brooks sucked in a lungful of smoggy air.

"Apologies. That took longer than I hoped."

"Hey, if I'd come alone, I'd still be filling in forms at the front desk. Can I get out of this stupid chair yet?"

The Mercedes drew up beside us, and the driver leapt out to open the door. Brooks parked me at the edge of the kerb and gave the tiniest smirk.

"Yes, you may."

I was tempted to hop on my bad foot just to prove a point, but when I took a step, it hurt a little more than I'd anticipated. Not enough to start popping the painkillers one of the nurses had given me, but enough that I had to cover a wince. And of course Brooks noticed, because his smirk got smirkier.

"Maybe I should put the chair in the trunk so I can wheel you into the restaurant?"

"Don't you dare."

"Fine. I'll carry you instead."

He was kidding. Right? I studied his face, but those blue eyes weren't giving much away, and his mouth stayed in an oh-so-serious line. Finally, one corner of his lips twitched. Phew.

"Need I remind you that our contract states no touching below the waist?" I said as I collapsed into the back seat.

The twitch turned into a full on grin as he glanced at his crotch, now nicely at my eye level. Oh, crap. I should not have gone there.

"Okay, no intentional touching below the waist. Accidental, uh, gropage while being attacked by miniature land sharks doesn't count."

"Really? I'll have to remember that next time we're rolling around on a golf course."

"I thought you said there wasn't going to be a next time?"

"Perhaps I spoke prematurely." Brooks climbed in on the other side, then leaned over and clipped my seat belt into place. "I'm not sure where I'd hire a dog wrangler anyway. Richard, can you take us to Il Migliore," he instructed the driver.

Il Migliore? That was the best Italian restaurant in town, and the waiting list was three months long. I knew that because Sebastian had never been able to book a table, something that had irritated him to no end. The waitlist didn't seem to concern Brooks.

"A simple pizza would be fine."

"They serve pizza."

"I'm not dressed to go to a place like that."

Brooks looked me up and down, a slow perusal that made me squirm a little. I didn't feel uncomfortable, not in a creeped-out way, just...out of my depth. I was more of a Pizza Hut girl. A Pizza Hut girl wearing inappropriate plaid shorts and sneakers decorated with tooth marks and blood.

"Trust me, your attire won't be a problem. If you want to go somewhere else, we can, but Il Migliore serves excellent food and the staff understands the meaning of discretion."

Which was important to me, especially when I was out and about with a man like Brooks. There would already be photos of my face floating around in cyberspace after the Briley incident, and I couldn't afford for my face to become famous. I could just see the headlines now: Is Brooks Carrington's girlfriend cheating? Mystery date seen at wedding in Idaho. Dumbass cheats on California's most eligible bachelor.

"I guess I can put up with truffle shavings."

***

Brooks hadn't been kidding about the discretion. The host took one look at him and led us toward a quiet table at the rear, tastefully screened by an antique cartwheel and an actual olive tree that looked to be about there hundred years old. Even at this time of day—too late for lunch, too early for dinner unless you were a senior out for the early special—Il Migliore was half full. A few people stared as we trailed the host through the restaurant, and I garnered several disgusted looks from women whose outfits cost more than my rent. Yes, my shorts were definitely out of place, but why did owning a designer purse give them the right to be so judgemental? I forced myself to unclench my fists. Brooks was doing something nice for me, and I was damn we'll going to enjoy it.

There were no plastic chairs here—a waiter pulled out a plush velvet seat for me and snapped a crisp white napkin onto my lap, while a second waiter did the same for Brooks. A quick glance told me there were almost as many staff as diners. Oh, how the other half lived.

"Any drinks, sir?"

"Ally?"

"Just water, please."

Indulging in alcohol with a client was a bad idea, even though this dinner wasn't technically part of a work engagement. And besides, I might need one of those pain pills later.

"No wine?" Brooks asked.

I shook my head. "Better not. I've embarrassed myself once already today."

I'll have a Hendricks and tonic. Cucumber, not too much ice." When the waitstaff departed, Brooks hit me with a smile. "You have trouble handling your liquor?"

"Three vodka and Cokes, and I'm anyone's," I blurted, then clapped a hand over my mouth. Crap! What happened to acting dignified? "I mean, I'm basically teetotal now."

And I never drank champagne. Too many bad memories.

Brooks's smile only grew wider. "I'll file that piece of information away for future reference."

"Or, better yet, forget I ever mentioned it."

"Where's the fun in that?" He nudged a menu toward me. "Let me know if you change your mind about the wine."

Even the menu was fancy, thick sheets of parchment bound in leather. No ketchup splatters here. I flipped to the first page, and a groan escaped before I could stop it.

"Problem?" Brooks asked.

"Tell me you speak Italian."

"I could tell you that, but I'd mostly be lying."

"Mostly?"

"My overpriced education taught me how to swear and talk dirty, plus I can order a beer. Ditto for French."

"Are you serious? I thought you'd be fluent in half a dozen languages."

He lowered his voice an octave. "Prova il fottuto pesce alla griglia, tesoro mio."

A shiver ran through me, but I definitely wasn't cold "What does that mean?"

"Try the fucking grilled fish, my darling."

Here in private, I was seeing a different side of Brooks. A lighter, almost playful side. In public, he usually hummed with tension, although he was so damn smooth that people rarely noticed. Sometimes he got slightly grumpy when faced with people he disliked, and I'd learned to step in during those moments and move the conversation on. What made Brooks tick? I had little idea about the man beneath the charming mask, although we'd been on over a dozen dates in the past few months.

"The fish is good?"

"Everything they serve here is good, but the fish is a favourite of mine. And for the record, I'm fluent in Spanish and passable in German."

I'd only learned high-school Spanish, and even my cursing abilities were limited. I'd always been more creative than academic. Virginia had gotten the brains in out family, as she never stopped reminding me. Not in so many words, of course. She was too cultured for that. No, she just got her little digs in whenever she could. "Ally's a fashion student," she'd say, her lip curling on the f-word. "She's selling decorated T-shirts until she can get a proper job."

Clearly I hadn't told her about The Ex Files. If she found out I was dating men for money, she'd probably send me a laminated copy of the California penal code for soliciting and prostitution, then bar me from seeing my niece in case my recklessness was contagious. And I adored Maggie. She didn't take after her mom, that was for sure. Plus she knew how to keep her mouth shut, thank goodness.

"German?" I asked. "Have you visited Germany?"

"Yes."

"You have business all over the world, huh? I'd love go to Berlin and see the Christmas markets. All the lights and the gifts and the food and the music... Although it's probably a good thing I've never been because I'd end up bankrupt. Have you been? To the Christmas markets, I mean, not bankrupt."

"Christmas isn't my favourite time of year."

"How can you not love Christmas? I know the songs are cheesy and not everyone suits elf ears, but there's something special in the air. Like, an energy? And then in January, everyone brushes away the fake snow and we all go back to normal for another year."

"More like ten months. According to the marketing gurus, Christmas starts right after Halloween."

"Okay, I'll give you that. And in two months, you don't eat a single candy cane?"

"Bah humbug."

Brooks chuckled, but it was forced, and the humour didn't reach his eyes. He fiddled with the collar of his golf shirt. I'd noticed that he fidgeted—sometimes with his collar, sometimes with his cuff links—when he was uncomfortable, but I didn't know if he realised he did it. Time to change the subject. This was a business relationship, after all.

"Then I guess I won't be accompanying you to any Christmas events later in the year. Should we go over your schedule for the next few months? I have a few other enquiries, and I wouldn't want any conflicts. You mentioned a funeral?"

"I did."

"In Los Angeles?"

"In Seattle."

Unlike the request from Antonio, I had no hesitation in agreeing to head out of state with Brooks.

"Should I meet you there? Or will you make make travel arrangements for both of us? I could do that, if it would help?"

"We'll take a private jet."

He just tossed that out there so casually, and even though it was a funeral and clearly a tragic, sombre affair, I couldn't help the jolt of excitement that ran through me. My first ever airplane ride would be on a private jet? Holy crap. Paisley was not going to believe this. Would it be bad taste to take a selfie on board? Because she was absolutely going to demand pictures.

"Are you ready to order yet, sir?" a waiter asked, hands clasped behind his back. "Or would you like a few more minutes?"

"Two more minutes."

Brooks waited until the man disappeared from sight, glanced around, then pulled out his phone and held it in front of the menu, squinting at the screen. I choked back a laugh. No way.

"Are you...using Google Translate?"

"Shhh. Why do you think I always ask for the table behind the tree?"

"Why doesn't the restaurant offer menus in English?"

"Because it's pretentious as hell, plus the chef is rumoured to be the reincarnation of Mussolini with more knives. If he demands the menu be printed in Italian, nobody's going to argue with him."

I followed suit and picked out a pizza with truffles, honeyed walnuts, and una spolverata d'oro, which the app interpreted as "a sprinkling of gold." I was curious, okay? Brooks didn't blink when I gave my order, and gold or not, it was still cheaper than his grilled fish. Gold freaking pizza. Maggie was going to laugh like crazy when I told her everything that had happened today. Well, not everything. I'd leave out the part where I fondled Brooks through his golf slacks.

"So, is this just a regular funeral? Black dress, sensible shoes? I only ask because when Cooper's great aunt died, she insisted everyone come in fancy dress and there was a rock band at the wake."

"Just a regular funeral."

"Were you close to the person who passed?"

"Not really."

And yet he planned to fly us all the way to a Seattle to say goodbye.

"Who's funeral is it?"

There was a long pause.

"My mother's."