Beautiful Stranger

myself.
    Stumbling to my desk, I sat down and tried to take stock of the situation. But directly in front of me was today’s New York Post, open to Page Six.
    There, smack in the middle of the page, was a story titled, Sex God Stella Goes Solo.
    The playboy millionaire venture capitalist tried something a little new Saturday night at MoMA.
    No, it wasn’t looking at art, and it most certainly wasn’t raising money (let’s be honest: the man already raises money better than every slot machine in Vegas). Saturday night at his annual fund-raiser to benefit Alex’s Lemonade Stand Foundation, Max Stella arrived . . . alone.
    When asked where his date was, he simply said, “I’m hoping she’s already inside.”
    Unfortunately for us, photographers were forbidden from the event.
    We’ll get you next time, Mad Max.
    I stared down at the paper, knowing George had put it here for me to see and was probably now laughing to himself.
    My hands shook as I folded it and shoved it in a drawer. Why hadn’t it occurred to me that a photographer could have been in there? That there were no photographers in the event at all was a miracle. And although Max had certainly known this, I hadn’t, and I hadn’t even thought to care .
    “Crap,” I whispered. I knew, with sudden clarity, that this thing between us either needed to end absolutely, or I needed some semblance of control. Feeling relieved in hindsight was a slippery slope, and I’d already dodged three bullets in my first week.
    I hit the spacebar on my laptop to wake up my computer and googled the location of “Stella & Sumner.”
    I couldn’t help but smile. “Of course.”
    Thirty Rockefeller Plaza.

    Stella & Sumner took up half of the seventy-second floor of the GE Building, one of the most iconicbuildings in the city. Even I recognized it from blocks away.
    However, for such a well-known venture capital firm, I was surprised how little space it required. Then again, it took very little to run a company that basically just raised and invested money: Max, Will, some junior executives, and assorted math brainiacs.
    My heart was hammering so fast I had to count ten deep breaths, and then duck into a bathroom just outside their office doors to get myself together.
    I checked each stall to ensure it was empty, and then looked myself right in the eye. “If you’re doing this with him, remember three things, Sara. One, he wants what you want. Sex, no strings. You don’t owe him more. Two, don’t be afraid to ask for what you want. And three”—I stood up straighter, taking a deep breath—“be young. Have fun. Turn the rest off.”
    Back in the hall, the glass doors to Stella & Sumner opened automatically when I approached and an older female receptionist greeted me with a genuine smile.
    “I’m here to see Max Stella,” I said, returning it. She had a familiar smile, familiar brow. I glanced down and read her name placard: B RIGID S TELLA .
    Holy crap, did his mother work as his receptionist?
    “Do you have an appointment, love?”
    Her accent was just like his. I jerked my attentionback to her face. “No, actually. I was hoping I could just get a minute.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Sara Dillon.”
    She smiled—but not a knowing smile, thank God —looked at her computer, and then nodded a little to herself before picking up the phone. “I’ve got a Sara Dillon here hoping for a chat.” She listened for barely three seconds and then said, “Right.”
    When she hung up, she was already nodding. “Straight down the hall to the right. His is the office at the end.”
    I thanked her and followed her directions down the hall. When I drew closer, I saw that Max stood in his doorway, leaning against the frame and wearing such a self-satisfied smile that I pulled up a good ten feet short of my destination.
    “Get over yourself,” I whispered.
    He burst out laughing, turning and walking into his office.
    I followed him in, closing the door behind me. “I’m not here for what you think I’m here for.” And then I paused, reconsidering. “Okay, maybe I am here for what you think I’m here for. But not really. I mean not here, and not today here, when your mother is right out there! Oh my God—who hires their mother as their receptionist ?”
    He was still laughing, that damn dimple etched into his cheek, and with each rambling word I unleashed he seemed to laugh harder. Goddamn if he wasn’t the most playful, adorable . . . infuriating . . .