The hallway is completely dark, and I kiss him before I know who he is. That's the part I'll spend the next week trying to explain away. I was looking for Marco, the catering manager who was supposed to let me in through the service entrance. I'd been standing in the dark corridor outside the Morrow Grand's private event floor for three minutes, and when I heard footsteps and felt someone stop close to me, I went up on my toes and pressed my mouth to his. He doesn't pull back. That's the second thing I'll spend a week explaining away. He stands there, still, letting the kiss happen — and for one absurd second it's warm and certain and completely wrong. Then the corridor lights flood on, motion-activated, and I see him. Tall. Dark suit, no tie, collar open one button. A jaw that looks like it was cut with something expensive. His eyes are a pale, unsettling gray, and they're already looking at me with an expression that is not surprise. He's perhaps thirty-five, with the kind of face that is handsome in a way that makes you feel slightly accused — sharp cheekbones, a mouth that doesn't smile easily. He holds himself the way men do when they have never once worried about a room. I know who he is before he says a word. Rael Morrow. His face is on the lobby wall downstairs. He owns this building. "I thought you were someone else," I say. "I know." He knows. He says it like it's a simple fact, not a reassurance. I am Zoe Vass, pastry chef, currently three weeks behind on rent, wearing a borrowed blazer and a catering badge that belongs to my friend Petra. I crashed this party because Petra said Marco would get me in front of the hotel's head of desserts, and apparently I have catastrophically misread the darkness. "I should go." I step back. "You're Zoe," he says. I stop. "How do you know my name?" He tilts his head slightly. "You're on the catering list." That's plausible. That could be true. I tell myself it is, because the alternative — that this man who owns half the city's skyline knows exactly who I am — is a thought I'm not ready to have. "Right," I say. "The list." Rael Morrow looks at me for one long, quiet moment. Then he smiles. It's slow, deliberate, and it reaches nothing behind his eyes — and the feeling that moves through me is not warmth. It is the feeling of something closing. ---