I don’t remember meeting him, can’t picture him, feel no connection to him now. It’d be pointless to have drinks. Just because he’s a man and I’m a woman doesn’t mean we’d have anything in common. “Good.” What else can I say?

“I really enjoyed getting to know you last night.”

Getting to know him? Just how long did we talk? “Yes.”

Glancing up, I see everyone file into the glass-walled conference room, and the idea of being the last one to the meeting makes me warm and prickly—and not in a good way. “How do you know Aimee?”

“I don’t. She’s a friend of a friend of mine. We only met last night.”

Oh, God. I really don’t want to go out with him. Aimee doesn’t even know him. Aimee’s just passing out phone numbers because she’s bored today. “Listen, Tom—”

“So you’ve only been here three months?”

“That’s right.”

“How do you like San Fran?”

“It’s good.” The glass door to the conference room is closing. Everyone’s taking seats at the massive ebony-and-chrome table. Everyone’s there but me. “A little chilly.”

“It’ll warm up. Fall’s always nice. October especially.”

“You’re a native, then?”

“Hell, no. Moved here from Detroit.”

Ah. No wonder the weather doesn’t bother him. He’s used to humidity and ice storms. I didn’t have either in Visalia. “Listen, Tom—”

“So we’re on for drinks tomorrow night?”

“Uh...” I can see Olivia flip open her laptop, watch David take his position at the head of the table while everyone else settles into their chairs, pens lifted, ready to take copious notes. “I’ve a meeting—”

“You’ve got to go.”

“Right.”

“Promise me you’ll still have drinks—”

“Tom.”

“Promise.”

Olivia’s looking at me, frowning. I know exactly what she’s thinking: Holly, you get your ass in here now.

“Promise,” he repeats, a singsong in his voice.

Damn it. “I promise.”

“Give me your home number; I’ll call you later.”

I do not want to give him my home number. I do not want to continue talking as if we’re old friends, but the meeting’s started, I’m terrible at fibbing, and I have to get off the phone.

I rattle off my number, hoping that perhaps he’ll write it down wrong, and say a hurried good-bye.

It’s not until I’m taking my place at the conference table that I realize I’ve just accepted—even if inadvertently—my first date in two years.

Two years since I went out with a man who wasn’t Jean-Marc.

Eighteen months since I had sex.

I’m in worse shape than I thought.

But David’s frothing at the mouth, and it takes me all of five seconds to realize this is not a good meeting; and all thoughts of Tom and drinks and the fact that I’ve just given my phone number to a man I know very little about fade from mind.

Did I already say this was not a good meeting? I’ve heard David lose his cool before, but at the moment he’s in the middle of a serious rant, and the rant has to do with his highly compensated, overrated staff making stupid mistakes. Fortunately, he’s directing most of the flying spit at the staff in charge of this year’s Hospice Foundation’s Leather & Lace Ball—Tessa and her team.

I catch Olivia’s eye. Olivia isn’t smiling, but there’s a certain fixed smugness at her mouth, which makes me think she’s enjoying this. Olivia used to be in charge of the ball—in fact, the ball’s wild popularity dates to Olivia’s involvement. A couple of years ago she insisted on pushing the edge of the envelope, moving the Leather & Lace away from a ‘70s Stevie Nicks fantasy to a very urban S and M fetish.

Of course everybody in polite society cluck-clucked, and there were many—and not just the Hospice Foundation’s board members—who inundated David and City Events with protests. For nearly ten years, City Events has organized the foundation’s ball, including underwriting huge chunks of money, ever since David’s partner died from AIDS and David learned the value of hospice care.