Mira, at the younger end of the table, could feel her taste buds anticipating a fresh dose of wine, but before her glass could get some attention, it was the thirtysomething man with sandy brown hair and pale blue eyes who received his refill first. He grinned as each ounce cascaded into the glass, a smarmy look that expressed an affection for company-sponsored unlimited refills. The smarm paired well with the hair gel sweeping his shaggy hair into a greasy salesman dome. Without all that product, he could’ve been one of those intensely handsome bedhead-ed men you’d see reading books on the subway, men whom Mira had been known to crush on during her A train trek to the office. Instead, the greasy gel had sealed his fate (and his hair) in her eyes.

Hair aside, he was tall and broad-shouldered and had probably been the captain of the rowing team in college (and had likely done a good job of making sure everyone knew it). She noticed him unfasten the top two buttons of his shirt, a sign that he was probably a few glasses in.

“It’s hot in here,” he said, before holding his fresh glass of wine to the light. “But it’s okay; I’m a glass-half-full kinda guy.” He snickered at his own lame joke, ignoring Mira’s immediate groan. After gulping some wine, he elbowed the male colleague to his left. “We men can handle our liquor, amirite?”

“It’s not liquor, it’s wine,” Mira muttered, her brown eyes narrowing in disapproval. She tucked a few strands of long black hair behind one ear, frowning at the presence of this irritating dude. She’d always heard that frowning was the dangerous road to deep-set wrinkles, but up until now her South Asian genes had been good to her, and she was often still mistaken for a woman in her twenties, despite being weeks away from turning thirty-five. This ego-boosting clerical error hadn’t yet occurred on the business trip, but for the moment she had other pressing problems on her mind. In addition to her latest groan, she’d served up two eye rolls, three smirks, and countless raised eyebrows in the hours since the evening had begun, all of it brought on by the irritating man-child sitting across from her.

She was Mira Attwal.

He was Jake Lewis.

And while they worked for the same company, the similarities ended there.

“I know liquor isn’t wine,” Jake finally said. “And so does he.” He gestured to his colleague. “And everyone.” He gestured to the air. “Which is why when you say it, it’s kind of interchangeable.” He nodded as if to convince himself that his word salad was legit.

“Thanks for the clarification.”

Mira’s eyes bore deep into Jake’s forehead, as she wondered about the size of the brain knocking around in that oversize skull.

Mira worked in branding.

Jake worked in sales.