I swore I heard a hissing snicker or two from the direction of the play pen. I scowled. “It was my father, not me … and it was a number of years ago. The chef knew what he was getting himself into. He willingly relinquished ownership in return for a Michelin star.” Whatever that was. I remembered Father laughing about it for weeks afterwards. A soul for a silly star, how inane humans were.

Jemma’s eyes widened. “You’re not talking about Stella, are you?”

I nodded. An expression of longing stole across her face, and my lips curled. “You’ve heard of it?”

“Heard of it? It’s almost impossible to get a reservation there! I know because Joe bragged about it for a solid month when he managed to snag a table three months in advance!”

“And did he take you?” I asked, heaviness settling in the pit of my stomach at the thought.

She frowned, biting into the donut again. “No, he had some client or other of his who needed schmoozing.”

The heavy feeling dissipated, leaving me suddenly lighter than air. “Well, now’s your chance. And, did I mention that I might have … secured the private dining room?”

“Get outta town!” she slapped at my arm, then looked horrified, staring at her palm, flexing her fingers. She cleared her throat. “So …” Her eyes met mine, her lashes fluttering. “I suppose it is a date after all.”

Her lashes … my stomach … everything seemed to be fluttering. I coughed. “Well … a fake one, of course.”

She pursed her lips, but I believed she was doing so to stop herself from smiling too wide at me. She brought the donut to her lips but didn’t eat immediately.

“Oh, it’s a date, big boy.”

What had I just gotten myself into?

* * *

“What have I gotten myself into?”

“I believe, Boss, that it’s called a date … ‘big boy’.”

I wanted to hurl Beezle across my chamber. Instead, I settled for ramming my horns against the wall.

“Aargh! That bloody hurt!” But I deserved it. I needed to knock some sense into myself.

“Aww, Boss, don’t chip your precious horns! They’re so pretty and black and shiny … and the demonesses love to stroke them!” Bub lamented. I scowled at him and rammed them again.

“Why do I feel as if humiliating her on this … this dinner date … is a terrible idea?” I spun and sank into my thinking chair, putting my head in my hands.

“Well,” Beezle began, trotting to my feet and leaning against my shin. “Because it’s supposed to be terrible. You’re the next in line for the Throne of Hell. If you weren’t being terrible, people would start to question your ability to rule …”

I massaged my aching temples. “I have to go through with it, don’t I?”