Catch

I snap the cover of my laptop shut. “Aim for the floor.”

With a laugh, she drops on the couch next to me. “You didn’t answer my question. Are you going on a date with Mr. Morgan?”

I set my laptop on the coffee table. “It’s a business dinner. He’s meeting a potential new client. It’s a baseball player. I was just researching him.”

Her gaze volleys between the closed laptop and my face. “What are you going to wear to this business dinner?”

I trail a finger over her shoulder. “I was hoping I could borrow your outfit.”

The corners of her lips curl up. “I know you’re teasing.”

I am. Arietta’s ensemble of the day consists of a yellow dress that’s at least two sizes too big and a purple cardigan covered in red butterflies.

“You should wear that red lace dress you bought last month.” She jumps to her feet. “And your red strappy heels. They make your legs look ten feet long.”

“Do I want that?”

“You’re a model without a runway, Maren.” She darts her hands to her hips. “I’ll do your makeup.”

That’s an offer I won’t turn down. Arietta has serious makeup application skills for someone who only wears the bare minimum of mascara and pale pink lipstick.

I move to stand. “You don’t think the red dress is too much for a business dinner?”

“It’s perfect. It’s sophisticated with a hint of sexy.” Her hand tugs on a lock of my hair. “There’s something about a redhead in a red dress that drives men wild.”

Tilting my head, I perk a brow. “I’m not trying to drive any men wild tonight, Arietta.”

She laughs. “Do you expect me to believe that, Mrs. Morgan.”

“Touché,” I say with a muted chuckle. “That will never happen. Keats Morgan is a handful.”

Her gaze narrows. “Is that a bad thing?”

“It’s very bad.” I point toward the hallway. “It’s time for me to get ready. Work your magic.”***I’m early for everything. I always have been.

When I was in second grade, my dad would walk me to school thirty minutes before class was scheduled to start so I could be first in line once the bell rang, signaling the start of the day.

I don’t fear being late, but I believe there’s value in always being on time.

People appreciate it when you’re punctual, so I made sure I left my apartment with more than enough time to spare. I didn’t want to be even a second late to my first business dinner with Keats.

I left Dudley in Arietta’s care with a promise that I’d bring her back something decadent for dessert.

In the envelope that contained my contract, there was a business card for a car service. I’m permitted to use them as long as the trip is related to work. I considered calling them tonight, but that seemed like a lot of trouble to get from Tribeca to Greenwich Village.

I hopped on the subway before I walked the last block to Nova.

I skim my hand over the skirt of my red dress as I approach the restaurant’s entrance.

This isn’t my first time here. My dad decided he wanted to celebrate Father’s Day with a meal fit for a king, so I booked a table for three. It was one of the best dinners we’ve ever had. The food was a close second to the company. I love spending time with my parents. Our relationship has always been close, but there’s been a gradual shift as I’ve grown up.

I wouldn’t say we’re friends, but I consider them the two most important people in my life, even though they keep asking if I have a boyfriend.

I smile at a man in a black suit greeting people at the door. He grabs the handle and swings it open for me. “Welcome to Nova.”

I grin back. “Thank you.”

I survey the interior of the restaurant. It’s busy. People are seated near the bar, and from my vantage point, it looks as though every table is occupied.

Panic strikes me as I suddenly wonder if I was supposed to book a reservation. I look at the text Keats sent me earlier to double-check that I didn’t miss anything.

“Maren Weber? Is that you?”

I wince when I hear the voice behind me. It can’t be. There’s no way in hell that Christian Knott is here.

Maybe if I ignore him, he’ll go away.

“That’s her, and she looks incredible.”

The second voice has a rasp to it that sends a pulse straight through me. I shouldn’t react to it the way I do, but Keats has a voice that can send goose bumps trailing up a woman’s arms.

It’s happening to me right now.

“I’m Keats Morgan,” he says from behind me. “Who are you?”

I turn to face them both because there’s no denying that I can hear their conversation.

“I’m the man who may be persuaded to give Maren a second chance.” Christian chuckles.