“Amelia, dear, you’re tardy again.”

When did I warp back to high school? Maybe next time I have to pee, I should ask her for a hall pass. Then again, high school doesn’t sound so bad. I wouldn’t mind getting caught in the locker room, lip-locked with a boy with his hand down my pants.

That never happened to me, but it sounds nice right about now.

My dry spell is turning into a damn drought with nothing but clear blue skies. That just makes my thoughts flicker to Davis, and oh my, is he sexy as all hell. I don’t care what Todd says—Davis is trouble. I’m sure of it.

I’ve been at CHOPs for a week now, and Todd was right. The staff is friendly. I think I’m beginning to fit in. I’ve even exchanged some private jokes about the regulars.

Those three girls who were huddled around the cell phone my first day—Heather, Cindy and, Ashley—shared some inside gossip with me the other night when we were closing. It was the usual restaurant crap—who’s slept with whom, who might have an STD, and who to stay away from because they absolutely do have an STD.

It’s the restaurant business, and I’m used to the whole everyone-knows-everything bit by now. In every restaurant I’ve ever worked at, the dating pool seems to consist of only coworkers until there’s no choice but to move outside of the circle to find someone. Not much can surprise me. I’ve heard it all.

The odd part of the whole conversation was that Davis wasn’t mentioned once. A flirty, hot boss should definitely be something to gossip about. He must have a serious girlfriend or a string of unattached women. I wouldn’t dare ask unless I wanted to be pinned with a scarlet letter on my uniform as the one who wanted to nail the boss.

I enter the stark gallery with art just as plain adorning the whitewashed walls. Weaving by the few sculptures sporadically placed throughout the middle of the room, my heels click on the medium-brown hardwood floor. Bette does everything to the norm, a conformist at her best. She never steps out of the box, even with the art she spotlights. I’m certain the only reason she’s teasing with the idea of showcasing me is because her friend just returned from Chicago. There’s a hoity-toity gallery that has a nude photographer, and everyone is raving about the pictures.

“Amelia, dear, you’re late,” she calls out from her office.

I know better than to respond until I reach her. According to Bette, there’s absolutely no reason for anyone’s voice to rise above a whisper in Art on Wells. She even made up plaques that said, Don’t disturb the art. Whispers only, please, and placed them around the gallery.

“I’m sorry, Bette.” I should’ve thought of my excuse in the short distance to her office. Crap. “The new model I was shooting had some problems with her wardrobe . . . er . . . car,” I manage to stutter out.

In actuality, I was late because I couldn’t tear myself away from The Real Housewives of Orange County. Those women might be crazy, but the catfights make the lecture from Bette worth it.

“You aren’t using that hunky blond fellow you have in all your other pictures?” she asks, completely disregarding my lie.

Hunky? Did I just step back into the eighties during the fifteen-minute walk to work?

As if.

“Todd? Yeah—I mean, yes, I’m using him. But I thought I would get some more options, maybe a woman.”

She takes off her glasses and bites one arm between her heavily applied lipstick-covered lips. “Amelia, dear, my clients don’t care for women. It’s the men, like Todd, who will draw them in to buy your art. I don’t think I have to remind you how fortunate—” Her phone buzzes and she stops her usual feel-privileged-Amelia speech that goes something like, I treat you like shit, but hey, you can display your art for one night only, and I’ll take forty percent from the top.

“I know. Thank you again, Bette, for considering to showcase me.” I cower down, denying my urge to lean across her ornate desk and scream about how ignorant she is to any form of art, let alone the nude form. “I’ll go finish that invoice from the Gecko exhibit this past weekend,” I tell her, detailing my plans so I don’t have to adhere to her nails-on-the-chalkboard instructions.

I’m two steps away from escaping the confines of her office when she calls out, “Amelia, dear, take Jasmine and Jackson to the dog park for a while, will you? I’ve been terribly busy, and I haven’t had the time to even walk them for two days.”

My head drops, and my shoulders slump. “Love to.”

I turn around and enter their room, which would be most dogs’ wet dream. I’m fairly certain Wag Avenue, the elite store for dogs, came in and decorated the large space especially for them.

“Hey, guys. You want to go for a walk?” I attempt to inflect some sort of excitement in my voice.

Bette’s ears are always pointed and on alert, like her dogs.

The two Egyptian Pharaoh Hounds’ ears perk up, and they hop off their toddler-size loungers. I grab their leather collars, pink for Jasmine and blue for Jackson. Bette has no originality, even in her dogs’ attire.

Escaping through the back door, I inhale the cool fall air that breezed into New York a few weeks ago, mixing with the stench of trash. But I would rather endure a few minutes of this than have to pass by Bette’s office again. As I slowly stroll down the alley, the foul smell soon disappears, leaving me with only the warm sun heating the back of my neck. The dog park is only a few blocks away, and I’m happy the punishment, as Bette sees it, frees me from her for an hour.

I wrangle Jasmine and Jackson through the black iron fence, and I unleash them to run around. Completely exhausted, I plop down on a nearby bench and pull out my phone. Of course, a half-naked picture of Todd, that he posted himself, is the first thing on my News Feed on Facebook. He’s starting to develop a big head, and his abundance of selfies in front of the gym mirror is slightly annoying. Laughter erupts out of me when I read his caption: You need me to come over and put out the fire I just created?

“That’s a beautiful sound,” a male says as he winds around the bench.

I look over from the corner of my eye to find Davis taking the seat next to me with an English bulldog at his feet.

“Oh . . . hi,” I stutter.

I straighten my back against the warm metal as he bends over. A sweatshirt and jeans cover his body with a pair of sneakers. This casually dressed Davis is easier on the eyes than the chef-jacket or suit look I’ve admired him in all week.

His head twists my way, and he smiles. “Hi.” His tone is smooth and sexy.

His attention veers back toward his dog, and my eyes drift to his exposed back where his sweatshirt has risen up. His white underwear is embroidered with Flint and Tinder across the waistband. It costs as much as the blouse I’m wearing.

He finally unhooks the dog and leans back on the bench, his arm resting along the back. The hairs on my neck rise as I’m on high alert from the closeness of his fingers to my exposed skin.

“You look nice today.” His eyes take in my black blouse, black slacks, and black heels.

It’s Bette’s dress code.

“My other job.” I shrug. “I know. Drastic difference than the usual white.”

“I might have to think about changing the dress code for CHOPs. You look pretty sexy in black.”

I watch his eyes rake over my body again, and my stomach does a giant flip.

“Pretty sexy?” I give a cocky attitude, not sure why such a foreign side of me emerges in his presence.

He leans closer to me, and my breath hitches as the scent of his cologne wafts around me.

“If I told you what I was really thinking right now, I’d have to fire you.”

Before I can truly appreciate the presence of him so close to me, he’s back on his side of the bench. My neck scalds like boiling water, and heat flushes up my face from his flirting.