“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to wait somewhere more comfortable, Mr Prince?” Charles, the Altar Media office manager, asked as he hovered in the doorway. “We have a perfectly nice lobby with cold drinks and magazines just down the way.”

“Call me, Tristan.” He flashed his best you-can-trust-me smile. It had a surprisingly high effectiveness rate on the people who didn’t know him. “And don’t worry. I’m more than happy to wait here until Katie gets back from wherever she’s run off to.”

And Tristan certainly wasn’t going to take a seat in the lobby and risk her sending a message via Charles that her schedule was jam-packed and that he should have called first.

If he stayed here, she’d have to talk to him.   

To further stake his claim, he set his wicker picnic basket on the coffee table and sank into the familiar embrace of the comfortable old leather couch.

“Okay,” Charles said slowly. “I’ll just go and let her know that you’re here.”  

“You do that.” He watched Charles scurry off down the hallway with vague amusement and then looked around his old/new editor’s office with curiosity. 

The space looked a lot different, now that most the Joan-ness had been removed. 

It was a shock. 

For the twelve years Tristan had been one of Joan’s authors, this familiar room had remained essentially the same. It was a surprise to find that his editor’s office wasn’t actually a dark, musty, little hole filled with the faintly vanilla scent of decaying paper. 

An even more baffling realization was that the effect had apparently been intentional. 

Absent the towering stacks of books and godawful blackout curtains, there was a lot more light. The view down the avenue was pleasant. And what furniture Joan had left behind had a nice antique feeling, almost Hemmingway-esque.

Honestly, the change was a profound improvement.

Joan might be a gifted editor and have taught Tristan everything he knew. But she’d had all the decorating sense of a bridge troll furnishing its lair. 

Now that her cave had been excavated, a bright airy space remained. A little soulless without art on the walls or any other markers of personality, but he could see its potential.

Tristan got out his phone and started taking photos.

“What the heck are you doing here?” his new editor's voice startled him out of his Google-induced meditative state. 

“I think we want this one.” He held out his phone to show her the artisanal coffee machine he’d narrowed in on. 

“Don’t change the subject,” Katie snapped. There was a flush on her cheeks, her eyes sparkled, and she wore yet another stunning suit. This one was dark blue, slim cut, and had a blouse with silky bow knotted at her throat. 

It made her look like a present waiting to be unwrapped. For a brief pleasant moment, he imagined what that would be like.

“Tristan,” Katie growled, “are you listening to me?”

Focus, he reminded himself. 

“My bad.” He flashed her the same you-can-trust-me smile that had worked so well on Charles earlier. “I was distracted. What did you say?” 

Her eyes narrowed. “I told you to call, not drop by unannounced while I’m in a meeting with my boss.”

“Were you? I’m sorry.” Because those two words could end so many fights, especially with women. He waggled his phone to get her attention. “Now, what are thoughts on your future coffee machine?”

“I don’t need a coffee machine.” Her gaze dropped to his phone screen, went wide, and she choked. “Why on earth would anyone need a coffee machine that costs that much? My first car cost less than that.”

“Let’s not get caught up in the price.” He rose from the couch and went to stand in the space he’d already mentally designated. “I was thinking we’d put the coffee bar here.”

“The coffee bar?” Katie rubbed her forehead. “What are you talking about?”

“There’ll be a section for tea too. Oh, and maybe a prohibition style hidden compartment for the stronger stuff. Let me talk to my custom woodwork guy.”

“You have a custom woodwork guy?”

“What can I say? I like my built-ins.” Tristan could already see it in his mind. The gleaming wood and the polished brass accents. “Besides think of how much time and money you’ll save by making your coffee here, instead of needing to go out. And it’ll be a nice way to impress all your future authors. I mean is there a writer alive whose blood stream isn’t at least fifty percent caffeine?”

She was staring at him like he’d lost his mind.

“It’ll be amazing,” he said. “Oh, and what are thoughts on art? Are we going modern or classic?”

“Art?” she repeated. “Coffee? I don’t care about art and coffee. My thoughts are about my job. Do you have any idea what’s going on here right now?”

He faltered. “Uh, no? Do you want to tell me?”

“I was just pulled into a meeting with my boss. He wanted to make sure my coming back to work a week early wasn’t a sign of some kind of interpersonal disaster.” She gestured between them. “Because every department has been put on red alert since Mr Wertheim came to town.”

“Wertheim?” A distant bell in the back of Tristan’s head had started ringing.

“Altar Media’s owner.”

And the sound became clear. 

“Hans Wertheim?” Tristan grinned. “German guy? Looks a little like Captain von Trapp from the Sound of Music?” 

“You’ve met him?” Katie asked.

“He’s a friend of my father’s. Great poker player, lousy golfer. They’ll probably have drinks, if he’s in town. Do you want me to put in a good word for you?”

“No.” She sounded horrified. “I don’t want your father putting in a good word for me. I don’t want him to know my name. I don’t want to exist to him at all.”

He could see this was getting her worked up. But he didn’t know why. “Why not?”

“Because he’s so far up my chain of command, he’s practically in outer space.” She sucked in a deep breath. “Half my office already thinks we’re having some kind of torrid affair. Do you have any idea what that could do to my career?”

“I doubt Hans would have any strong opinion on it. I think his second wife was his secretary.”

“Tristan.”

“What? That’s what they called personal assistants back then. She was…” He did some mental math. “Three wives ago? I think?” He shrugged. “There’s a reason Hans and my father are friends.” 

“That’s not the point,” Katie snapped.

“Then what is?”

“This is serious to me.” Her glare was so intense it burned. “This is my job, where I have just been promoted, where there are already some serious doubts as to whether I’m up to filling Joan’s shoes. And that was before the company’s owner flew into town like the sheriff in a western looking to clean up trouble. Can you see why I don’t want to be the saloon madam caught having an affair with the local golden boy?” 

“Uh.” He’d been following along right up until the saloon madam comment. Then an image of Katie in a corset and himself in nothing but a cowboy hat had derailed his train of thought. “That’s quite the scenario you just painted. Are we talking high society madam or running the local ladies of the night madam?” 

Katie stalked toward him. “That’s what you're focusing on?” 

“In my defense, it was a very distracting metaphor.” He shook his head, trying to dislodge the image. But nope it was still there. “You do know I’d never let you be fired.”

Katie went stock still. “Let me?” She rolled the words around her mouth. “Let me?” Her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “You wouldn’t let me be fired?”

Tristan knew he’d made a misstep. He just wasn’t quiet sure how. “You’re saying that like it’s a bad thing?”

“My career should not depend on you protecting me.” She poked him in  the chest. “You’re not my boss, you’re not my knight in shining armor, and you’re definitely not my boyfriend. At best, we might be dating. And I’m not inclined to hang my future on a man who might lock me out of his house if he loses interest.”

“I wouldn’t.” Tristan protested.

Her expression turned to something darkly amused. “You already have.” The curve of amusement faded from her pretty mouth. “Everything’s a game to you. But this is serious to me.”

That was unfair. 

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d worked this hard to please a woman. Dozens of 'not'-dates, meeting his family, an hours long midnight car ride and they weren’t even having sex yet.

“It’s serious to me too,” he protested

“Is it?” She lifted an eyebrow. “You turning up to my work without calling and carrying a picnic basket is you taking the position I’m in seriously?” 

“It’s a seriously good picnic?” 

Admittedly he’d been focusing more on the romantic side of their relationship. But, damn it, Jean-Georges didn’t pack picnic baskets for just anyone.

Katie let out an involuntary snort of laugh and backed up a step, shaking her head. “I don’t need a picnic basket from you. I need…more.” 

Tristan wasn’t sure he trusted that calculating look. “More, how?”

“Talk is cheap.” Her smile was wicked. “I’m going to need you to put your fingers into it.” 

He choked. The images that conjured were even less helpful than the saloon girl comment.

Down boy, he told himself. She didn’t mean it like it sounded.

At least… she probably hadn’t. With the way she was smirking at him, he couldn’t be entirely sure.

“I’m going to need more context.”

“You want a date?” She cocked one hip against her desk, leaned back, and folded her arms. “I want your first draft.”