Page 66 of The Billionaire's Wake-up-call Girl

Apparently not.

An email notification pops up.

I’ll be there. What is it regarding? Should I bring anything specific?

~Sasha

I send a short reply.

No need. Just a little brainstorming.

~Theo

I arrive at Siefer’s at 11:30, well before it’s flooded by the office crowd that it caters to. I grab a coffee and choose a booth in the corner where we’ll have a bit of privacy. That also enables me to handle some phone business while I’m sitting there.

But a few minutes later I find myself Googling Sasha. There’s almost nothing I couldn’t have gotten in her employee file. I go to Facebook. I have an account there that I never use, set up by Willow, of course. I’m using it now, though—to look up Sasha Bale.

I get her picture. Lots of shots of her with a young girl—her niece. Herbs in small pots along a kitchen window. Not much else.To see what she shares with friends,send her a friend request.

What does she share with friends? Is the real Sasha there on Facebook? Does she swear and laugh and complain about her boss? Does she call people motherfuckers?

The place starts to fill up with the nine-to-five crowd, some of them vaguely familiar. Employees of mine, I suppose. It’s not as if I make a habit of memorizing their faces.

I loosen my tie, hot. I’ve worn my lab coat as a little inside joke between us.

“Mr. Drummond?”

I look up, and she’s there, smiling.

I stand. Put out my hand. “Thank you for coming, Sasha.”

She takes my hand. “My pleasure.” Her eyes sparkle. She pulls off her decorative scarf and drapes it over the back of the chair. “Are you eating? Should we order first?”

“I’ll handle it. Do you know what you want?”

She looks up at the chalkboard menu. “Areyoueating?”

This feels all wrong already. I want us to talk the way we do on the phone, the feeling of being in perfect sync. Maybe it’s too much to expect. Willow always talks about social niceties, how I don’t pay enough attention to social niceties. They comfort people, she always says.

Social niceties, then. I check the menu. “I’m having the soup of the day.”

“Tomato basil. I was thinking about that. Make it two.”

“Any dessert?”

“I’ll see how I feel.”

I nod and head to the counter, feeling as if I’m in the dating version of Jekyll and Hyde. It’s her voice. Her hesitancy. Even her order. Seven’s such a contrarian, she’d never match my order. But maybe she loves tomato basil soup. What do I know?

The line moves slowly. I look over to where she’s sitting. She smiles. She really is pretty. I should be glad. She wears a blue suit. Brass buttons, with a little trio of ribbons on the front pocket. Like a sexy admiral.

I put in my order and pay. The kid gives me a number on a small stand. I grab the silverware and head back to the table.

“Thank you,” she says. “I didn’t know you came here.”

“I don’t, typically.”

“The soup here is always delicious. And they have this rosemary bread that’s incredible,” she says.

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