I will see you in a few hours, and the rest of Sunday will be ours. I look forward to a delicious next encounter.

I must confess that I have never picked up a beautiful woman in a hotel bar before. Having now met you, I wonder what I've been missing all these years ...

I will see you later. Until then, imagine me, touching you.

Yours,

Damien

P.S. I suggest you wear something other than the shredded blue dress. Check the closet.

I am smiling so wide it hurts, and I hug the letter to my chest and sigh, then collapse onto the bed and replay every decadent moment of last night. Then I spend the rest of the morning doing as Damien suggested. There's a darling floral-print sundress for me in the closet, along with a cute pair of Yellow Box flip-flops. I wear those downstairs and have a mani/pedi at the spa. Once my nails are dry, I wander the lobby and buy both Damien and myself oversized Beverly Hills T-shirts and matching baseball caps.

After that, I sit by the pool with a magazine and drink two Bloody Marys while I read all about the latest celebrity antics in what will surely turn out to be a futile attempt to impress Jamie with my Hollywood knowledge. The magazine has only one small picture of Damien and me, and I immediately decide that this particular publication is a million times more responsible than its competitors.

At eleven, I still haven't heard from Damien, so I go back to the room to wait. The vodka goes to my head and I must drift off, because the next thing I know the mattress is shifting, and I'm opening my eyes and seeing the most gorgeous sight ever.

"Hi," I say.

"Hi, yourself. What have you done so far today?"

"Very little," I admit. "It's been heaven."

"Would you object to going out? I have someplace I'd like to take you."

"Yeah? Where?"

"Rollerblading on Venice Beach," he says, and I burst out laughingaat least until I realize he's serious.

"Really?"

"It's fun. Have you ever done it?"

I have to admit that I haven't, and Damien tells me that it's high time I tried.

"In that case, I have the perfect accessories." I unwrap the shirts and caps, then pull my shirt on over the dress and shove my hair into a cap. "The more we look like tourists, the less anyone will recognize us."

"Not to mention the fact that you look pretty damn cute."

I look at myself in the full-length mirror and decide it could be worse. It's not a fashion statement, but I look like a girl having a lazy, touristy Sunday afternoon.

Damien, of course, looks hot as sin in the gray T-shirt that hugs his body and the black baseball cap that accentuates his chiseled jaw and brilliant smile.

He has a leather backpack, and he offers to hold my wallet and phone. "Leave everything else," he says.

"Don't we have to check out?"

"It's my room," he says. "Well, the company's. We keep this suite permanently leased for visiting clients and execs from out of town."

Not a bad deal, I think, as we head down to the valet stand. Soon we're in the Jaguar and heading west down Santa Monica Boulevard.

Damien knows the small streets of Venice well and soon he has the car settled in an attended garage and we're sitting on a bench strapping on rented Rollerblades, kneepads, and helmets.

Twenty minutes later, we're back on the bench, taking them off and returning them to the little rental stand.

"I told you I'd be horrible," I say.

"You were pretty bad," he acknowledges. "I'm not sure how someone so graceful can actually have no balance whatsoever."

"I can balance," I say. "Just not on tiny little lines of wheels. What about bicycles?"

He eyes me dubiously.

I cock my head and raise my brows. "Yes. I can ride a bike."

We find a rental stand and then I spend the next two hours proving to him that I have in fact retained this childhood skill. Although, to be honest, it's not a childhood skill at all. My mother was too worried about potential scrapes and bruises. So I didn't learn to ride a bike until college.

"Another missing piece of your childhood," Damien says, when I tell him as much.

"That's okay. I'd rather one day biking with you on the beach than an entire summer as a kid."

"For that, I'll buy you an ice cream."

We park the bikes by a bright-blue painted ice-cream stand and order single dip cones with sprinkles. Then we put our flip-flops in Damien's backpack and walk down to the water's edge. Since it's the Pacific, the water is freezing even in the summer, and I am amazed that the people actually playing in the water haven't turned blue.

We walk in the breaking waves, letting the sand slide out under our feet, holding hands and eating ice cream. A teenage girl is tossing a stick for a big yellow dog, and I tell Damien how I always wanted a puppy and how, surprise surprise, my mother repeatedly refused. He tells me how he brought a stray Lab home one night, but his father wouldn't let him keep it.

"Considering how often I traveled, it was for the best," Damien says. "The poor dog would have been kenneled all the time."

"But wasn't that the point? You were telling your dad you wanted the dog because you wanted off the circuit. You wanted home. You wanted the dog. And you didn't want the traveling."

Damien looks at me with a curious expression. "Yes," he finally says. "That was it exactly."

"Did you ever get a dog? Once you quit tennis and became Mr. Business Dude, I mean."

"No," he says, and his brow furrows. "No, I never have." He nods playfully toward the girl. "Think she'll sell me hers?"

"I'm gonna say no."

We return to the bikes and head in the opposite direction, toward Santa Monica. We take it slow, watching the tourists and locals, talking, enjoying the day. When we reach the mall, we lock up the bikes and walk down the Promenade toward the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf. Armed with frozen mochas, we continue to stroll the shopping street until Damien says he's starving for real food and it's time he buys me dinner.

He suggests The Ivy, which even I know is a see-and-be-seen kind of place. "One, I don't think they'd even let us in dressed like this," I say. "And two, it's not exactly the best place to avoid the paparazzi."

"Pizza by the slice it is," he says, and we end up eating foldable slices of pepperoni pizza at tiny metal tables.

"There's no way The Ivy could be better than this," I say, and right now, for this day, with this man, I absolutely mean it.

I glance at the sky once we finish our pizza. "It's getting dark. Should we take the bikes back?"

"Soon," Damien says. "I want to show you something."

What he wants to show me is the Pier, though I tell him that I've been before. "But have you ridden the Ferris wheel?"

"No," I admit. "Is that where we're going?"

"Man of mystery, remember? I can't share my secrets."

"I'll take that as a yes."

"That's one of the things I most admire about you. Your cunning intellect."

I grin as we walk the rest of the way, then get in line for the ride. It's surprisingly short, and we only have to wait through two rounds of passengers before we're shown into our own little basket. Then the attendant shuts the door and up we go.

I laugh, delighted. Not only have I never been in this Ferris wheel before, I've never been in any Ferris wheel. It moves slowly, but the basket sways, which would be unnerving except for the fact that it's Damien beside me, Damien with his arm around me. And nowaas the basket stops at the very topaDamien reaches for the backpack he set on the floor beneath his feet.

"What are you doing?" I cry. "Don't let go!" I glance out at the world around us. The sun is down now, and the lights from the Pier glow. It's like living inside a fairyland. A little too high up in a fairyland, actually. "Why aren't we moving?" I ask.

"Passengers are loading and unloading below," Damien says. He's upright now and holding two wrapped presents. One about the size of a pack of index cards. The other slightly bigger. More like the size of an external DVD drive.

"You brought me gifts?"

"I did," he says.

I am speechless. "I didn't get you anything."

He points to the hat and the shirt.

"I charged those to your room."

"It's the thought that counts. But if you don't want the gifts ..." He bends over, pretending to put them back.

"No, no," I say. "It's all good."

We grin at each other. "The small one first," he says, handing it to me. As he does, the Ferris wheel starts to move again. I carefully peel back the paper to reveal a small gold box. When I pull off the lid, there are four chocolate truffles inside. "You've had the fondue," he says. "But the truffles are our specialty."

"Your company?" I ask. "The one in Switzerland?"

"I told you I'd have Sylvia order some for you."

I can't help the wide grin that tugs at my mouth as I pull one out. "Want a bite?"

He shakes his head. "They're all for you."

I take a bite and moan with ecstasy. These are easily the chocolate equivalent of nirvana.

I finish the truffle and hand the box back to Damien to carry in his pack. "Thank you," I say. "You really do amaze me."

"Because I bought you chocolates?"

"Yes," I say sincerely. "And so many other reasons as well."

He kisses me sweetly, then passes me the larger package.

"Now this one."

I unwrap it carefully, then gasp when I see what it is. An antique brass frame with a stunning picture of the two of us in evening wear. Damien had taken me to the opera, and the paparazzi had been buzzing all around. This picture ran in the paperaI have a digital copy in my scrapbook file. But this looks like the original.

"Oh, Damien. It's amazing," I whisper. My eyes are locked on the image of the two of us together. "How did you get the picture?"

"Called the paper and bought a print," he says. "You look exceptionally lovely in that photo. I suppose that means the paparazzi are good for something."

"I wouldn't go that far," I say, wrinkling my nose. "But this, this I will always cherish." Emotion squeezes my heart. I've been at Damien's side hundreds of times, and at least as many images have been splashed across magazines and websites. But thisaa picture in a frameait feels permanent and real. It feels like the future.

I blink, suddenly weepy, but very happy.

"I thought you could put it on your desk at work," he says.

"I will," I say. "Then I can look at us every day."

The Ferris wheel stops up top again, but I don't mind. I clutch the framed photo against my chest with one hand and lean in close to Damien.

"It's the best gift ever," I say, and I mean it. "And it's been a great day, too."

Monday morning at Innovative, Trish dumps about a pound of paperwork on me, and I write my address and sign my name until I'm certain my hand is going to cramp up and surgery will be required. After that, she walks me around the office and introduces me to everyone, and I smile and nod and pretend like I'm going to remember all the names she's throwing at me. I've had the tour before, but it's nice to see the place from the perspective of an employee. We end up at my office, a tiny space on the south corner with a view of a parking structure.

It is, however, all mine.

I am organizing my desk when Bruce enters. "Welcome to your second day. All settled in?"

"All I need now is access to the network and I'm good to go." I glance at my phone to check the time. "Carla said she'd have me in the system by the end of the hour, so I guess I'll be official soon."

Bruce nods, then gives me the rundown of what I'll find on my calendar today, which basically boils down to internal meetings and getting familiar with the various company products. By the end of the day, I'll have met my team and have a handle on the products I'm managing. I've got a lot to learnaboth product specs and staff namesabut on the whole, I'm pleased with the plan for the day.

Bruce stands. "I know I promised you a first-day lunch, but it turns out I have to meet with my attorney. Would you mind if we postpone?"

"Don't worry about it. To be honest, I'm pumped to get caught up with all this reading."

He looks relieved, and I flash my best Cooperative Employee smile. A moment later, his expression shifts, and I fear that my smile has missed the mark. But his thoughts have moved past work. "I feel like I should apologize again for Saturday night."

"No," I say, because I really don't want to go there again. "It's not necessary. Truly."