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How had he not gotten my email? I remembered telling Alice and them that I needed to email Bennett to let him know I wouldn’t be able to make it . . .

. . . and then I realized I had rushed out without actually sending the email.

Crap.

Well. At least this had exposed how Bennett really felt about us. About the kiss. That it was a big mistake and we should keep things professional.

Which was fine. It was what I wanted, too. Right?

Suddenly, the plastic of the phone was cold against my ear. I pitched my voice extra loud to make sure Mr. Decker would be able to hear. “Thank you, but we’re not interested at this time.” And I hung up. Took a deep breath. Forced my shoulders back. Pasted on my big fake smile and strode into Mr. Decker’s office.

“What’s up?”

Once I’d helped Mr. Decker figure out some travel options for later this year, I hurried back to my desk and opened my email back up. Bennett, I’m so sorry. I had an emergency situation pop up yesterday with my best friend, and I needed to be there for her. I seriously was about to email you but I got frazzled and caught up in the emergency and totally flaked, and then I accidentally left my phone in the office, because again, frazzled. No excuses, I’m sorry.

His tone had decidedly softened with his next message. I’m glad you’re okay. And I hope everything is okay with your friend, too.

I think she’ll be fine. I hope so, anyway. I paused, then added, How can I make this up to you? I shivered a little as I sent it with the unknown, because even if we were definitely keeping things professional going forward, anything could come back.

Anything.

What did actually come back made me pause. I’m scouting a fancy French restaurant for the Scroll tomorrow night for an updated review. Sebastian. Not the kind of place you typically review. In fact, the kind of place you typically scorn for being pretentious and overly expensive. I want you to come with me.

I was familiar with Sebastian, but I googled it just to make sure my familiarity was correct. A meal there came out to a few hundred dollars, easily. The Scroll review from one of Bennett’s predecessors almost ten years ago extolled the cuisine as masterful, fine-tuned, classic. Photographs displayed big white plates with a few bites of food artfully arranged in the middle, waiters in tuxedos, exclusive bottles of wine. I sighed.

I’d probably overdraft myself again if I didn’t move money around. I could probably delay my rent by a few days until my next paycheck came in, though Marcus wouldn’t be happy. No eating out next week. I could keep my page updated with some flashbacks, or I could do a fun countdown of the best whatever type of restaurants each day. People loved countdowns and getting to share their own favorites.

The funny thing, I realized as I emailed Bennett back to confirm the time of the reservation, was that I hadn’t even considered not going. I hadn’t even considered not making it up to him.

• • •

Even though Sebastian was located in a grand, stately former hotel in that border area between Midtown and the Upper East Side, the dining room was modern, light, and airy, with tables spread out beneath an atrium sparkling with chandeliers. I guess with a menu that cost as much as it did, they could afford to give diners a little extra space.

The white-gloved waiter actually pulled my chair out for me as I sat. I giggled self-consciously as he walked away. Thank goodness I’d gone for the dressier end of business casual today with the dark green Anthropologie dress I’d thrifted that tucked in at the waist and flared out at the bottom and made me feel really, really pretty. Especially thank goodness, considering Bennett had dressed up in a suit. A charcoal gray suit that had clearly been tailored specifically for him, considering the way it clung to his broad shoulders and followed the form of his body all the way down. The same body I’d pulled close to me, hard against me, ran my hands down as his mouth melted into mine.

I took a long sip of my water. Perfectly tepid, though for once I kind of wished it was ice-cold. Professional. We’re keeping it professional.

“So what do you usually order here?” I asked, reaching for the menu. Which did not have any prices listed. Great. Well, usually vegetarian entrées were cheaper than meat or fish, so I could order this risotto and hope for the—

“It’s a tasting menu,” Bennett said. “Which I love, because then we don’t actually have to decide. We just get everything.” He hadn’t even bothered looking at the menu. Instead, he was gazing across the table at me, head cocked, like he was hoping to see my reactions to the listed food.

I ducked my head. He was a professional food reviewer. He really should be looking at the menu.

The first course arrived before we’d even ordered anything. A potato chip on a tiny plate, heaped with glistening black pearls of caviar, topped with a spoonful of something creamy and white and speckled with something else pale and yellow. I loved caviar. This would be exciting if this single potato chip didn’t probably cost, like, twenty dollars. “Bottoms up.”

Even though I wasn’t technically reviewing this place—not my brand—I couldn’t help but analyze the bite as I crunched down. The potato chip was one of the best potato chips I’d ever had, and let me tell you, I know my potato chips—it was shatteringly crunchy but not hard, still crispy beneath its layers of toppings, salty and savory and a little oily without being overly so. The white cream on top was rich and sour, the shavings of hard-boiled egg yolk on top softening its tart edges. But the star of the dish was the caviar, and it didn’t disappoint. Each little bubble burst on my tongue with the essence of the sea itself.

I’d closed my eyes as I chewed so that I could focus more intently on the food without getting distracted by anything around me, so it wasn’t until I opened them that I realized Bennett hadn’t eaten his yet. “What?” I asked, because he was staring at me, a little smile playing on his lips.

“Nothing,” he said. “You just . . . really looked like you liked it.”

I licked a smear of sour cream off my lip. “I did.”

He went in for his own bite then, popping it in his mouth with his eyes closed, head tilted to the side as if he were listening for some distant sound. He managed to get a smear of cream on his lip, too, and when he opened his eyes and the pink tip of his tongue darted out to retrieve it, my heart skipped a beat. “The amuse-bouche is always one of my favorite parts of the meal. It’s like a little experiment every time. It’s not on the menu, so the chef is allowed to take themselves less seriously.”

I liked them, too. Amuse-bouche literally meant something like “fun for the mouth” in French. How could you not like something with that name?

“I really hope this place is as good as I remember it,” Bennett said softly, leaning in. He paused as the waitress came by to collect our amuse-bouche plates. “I was scared to come do this review.”