Wanted: Billionaire's Wife

“And you will get them. I promise.” She turned to leave the room.

“Have dinner with me.”

“What?” She whirled around so quickly she nearly caused self-induced whiplash.

He put down his tablet and looked up at her, leaning back in his seat. “I haven’t given this project the specialized attention it needs. It’s clear you don’t have the necessary inputs to make correct assessments. I don’t have time to remedy that right now. But I do have to eat later, so you might as well eat with me.”

His words doused the spark’s last flickers. “When you put it that way, how can I refuse?”

“I’ll text you the address. I trust going into the city isn’t a problem for you?” His tone made it clear it was a rhetorical question.

San Francisco was almost an hour each way on Caltrain, depending on the train schedules, and her exhausted brain was already looking forward to putting on pajamas and binging on reality TV with her roommate, Mai. She gave him her best, if forced, smile. “No. Not a problem.”

“Good. I have a commitment beforehand, so I’ll meet you there.” His attention returned to his tablet and he became absorbed in whatever he was reading. She fled before the tiger could realize the prey had left the room.

Three

Danica wasn’t quite sure what to expect from her dinner with Luke, but this establishment wasn’t it. Surely white tablecloths and waiters wearing black tie were more his style? She glanced at her new phone and reread the email. This was the address. She looked up at the dingy neon sign that appeared as if it hadn’t been cleaned since first put into place decades ago. That was the name of the restaurant. Squaring her shoulders, she looked past the layers of graffiti decorating the outside walls and stepped inside.

The taqueria’s interior was reminiscent of an ancient cafeteria, with laminate white tables and red plastic chairs lined up on the scuffed black-and-white-checkerboard linoleum floor. A long line of people stood in front of a high counter, orders barked in rapid Spanish and English. The smell of freshly made tortillas and the sound of knives chopping tomatoes and peppers reminded her stomach how long it had been since she ate a protein bar at her desk.

At least she wouldn’t be underdressed as she’d feared. Her cream polyester blouse and navy skirt would allow her to blend right into the disparate crowd. She stood off to the side of the front entrance to wait for Luke, her gaze wandering over the restaurant. The wide range of patrons, from teenagers to executives, made it a prime opportunity for people watching. She smiled as a young mother wrangled her toddler by offering him torn pieces of tortilla. But her attention was arrested by a tall, powerfully built man waiting in line to order, his well-worn jeans molded to the tight, muscular curves of his rear end.

Just then, the man turned and waved at her. She quickly glanced away, ashamed to be caught ogling.

“Danica,” he called, “over here.”

It took her a moment to realize the perfect male rear draped in vintage Levi’s belonged to her boss.

She swallowed. Who knew he had been hiding that under his usual khakis? And she had to admit his front view was just as nice as the back. A dark blue shirt matched his eyes despite the tendency of the overhead fluorescent lights to turn every color to a greenish yellow. His hair was swept back and damp, a testament to a recent shower. As if to confirm her suspicions, when she got into line with him she caught of whiff of soap along with his unique scent.

“There you are,” he said. “Do you know what you want?” He pointed to the large menu board over their heads. “They’re famous for their burritos. But if you want something else, go for it.” He flashed his killer smile at her, and her stomach turned several flips.

“A burrito sounds fine,” she said, after trying to read the board and failing because the words wouldn’t stick in her brain. Not with Luke’s nearness occupying all the other senses. “Whatever you suggest. But easy on the hot sauce. Nonexistent easy.”

He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Is eating here okay? We could go somewhere else if this isn’t to your taste.” His tone implied not enjoying Mexican food was incomprehensible, like still believing in the tooth fairy.