Guilt, be gone!

I ring up the purchase and pack it up, silently celebrating my commission. But when the woman waltzes off, Dash is still there, waiting for me. “So,” he says arrogantly. “Now I’ve done your job for you, you have plenty of time for lunch.”

I scowl. The nerve of this guy! “I’m working.”

“I can cover!” Lorelei pipes up from behind me.

“There,” Dash grins. “You’re set.”

“But—” I try to think of another reason not to be alone with this guy. Because based on how he’s managed to get under my skin in one minute flat, I’m either going to kill the guy—or kiss him.

I’m not sure which would be more dangerous to my long-term health.

“Come on,” Dash beckons imperiously. “As long as we keep you away from train tracks and moving vehicles, we should be fine.”

OK, I’m definitely not kissing him.

I snatch my purse. “You’re paying,” I say, ducking around the counter. I shoot a look back at Lorelei. “Traitor.”

She just grins. “Eat up.”

And I do. After the cocky show Dash just put on, you better believe that I marched us straight down the block to the most expensive sushi bar around. I’ve never actually stepped foot over the exclusive threshold, but with Dash holding the door, I waltz straight in.

And then proceeded to gape at the prices. And fill my plate sky-high.

“Mmm, delicious,” I sigh, biting into the silky salmon roll. I flag down a waiter, and gesture. “Another round of these, please. And…?”

I look to Dash, but he’s just watching me demolish my weight in prime-grade sushi with a faintly dazed look on his face.

“I’m good, thanks.”

“Your loss.” I shrug and keep on eating. “So, what did you want to talk to me about? You could have just written me a check.”

“For what?”

“To pay to replace my makeup samples?” I frown, confused. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”

“Kind of…” Dash pauses and sits back in the booth, one arm resting on the seat-back, totally at ease. I swear, this guy could have a photographer follow him around and shoot half the new Esquire edition, down cold. He waits another moment, piquing my interest, then says, “I have a… proposition for you.”

I smirk. “Way to sound sketchy,” I say, far more cheerful now that I’ve reached the uni portion of the buffet. “But if you need help for that, try the bar of the Bleeker Street Hotel. I’ve heard that’s where the high-class escorts hang.”

Dash splutters on his sake. “What? No! Are you crazy?” He wipes down his shirt. “You really think I need to pay for that kind of… company?”

I smile sweetly. “It takes all kinds. For all I know, you have issues in the bedroom department. Or a micro-penis.”

“A micro—” Dash’s jaw drops. “There’s nothing micro about any part of me, thank you very much.” He exhales, shaking his head. “I knew this was a bad idea,” he says, almost to himself.