“She’s more like family,” she says.

Okay, so the lust is one-sided, and for a moment I wonder if she realizes how lovely she is. She eyes the blueberry muffin as I peel back the paper, and for a moment I imagine her on her knees beside me as I feed her, a morsel at a time. The thought is diverting—and arousing. “Do you want some?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No thanks.” Her voice is hesitant and she stares once more at her hands. Why is she so jittery? Maybe because of me?

“And the girl I met yesterday, at the store. She’s not your girlfriend?”

“No. Yuri’s just a friend. I told you yesterday.” She frowns again as if she’s confused, and crosses her arms in defense. She doesn’t like being asked about these girls. I remember how uncomfortable she seemed when the kid at the store put her arm around her, staking her claim. “Why do you ask?” she adds.

“You seem nervous around women.”

Her eyes widen. They really are beautiful, the colour of the ocean at Mediterranean, the darkest of black seas. I should take her there.

What? Where did that come from?

“I find you intimidating,” she says, and looks down, fidgeting once more with her fingers. On the one hand she’s so submissive, but on the other she’s…challenging.

“You should find me intimidating.”

Yeah. She should. There aren’t many people brave enough to tell me that I intimidate them. She’s honest, and I tell her so—but when she averts her eyes, I don’t know what she’s thinking. It’s frustrating. Does she like me? Or is she tolerating this meeting to keep Yoona’s interview on track? Which is it?

“You’re a mystery, Miss Hwang.”

“There’s nothing mysterious about me.”

“I think you’re very self-contained.” Like any good submissive. “Except when you blush, of course, which is often. I just wish I knew what you were blushing about.” There. That will goad her into a response. Popping a small piece of the blueberry muffin into my mouth, I await her reply.

“Do you always make such personal observations?”

That’s not that personal, is it? “I hadn’t realized I was. Have I offended you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“But you’re very high-handed.”

“I’m used to getting my own way,Tiffany. In all things.”

“I don’t doubt it,” she mutters, and then wants to know why I haven’t asked her to call me by my first name.

What?

And I remember her leaving my office in the elevator—and how my name sounded coming out of her smart mouth. Has she seen through me? Is she deliberately antagonizing me? I tell her that no one calls me Jessica, except my family…

I don’t even know if it’s my real name.

Don’t go there, Jessica.

I change the subject. I want to know about her.

“Are you an only child?”

Her eyelashes flutter several times before she answers that she is.

“Tell me about your parents.”

She rolls her eyes and I have to fight the compulsion to scold her.

“My mom lives in LA with her new husband, Charles. My stepdad lives in Jeonju.”

Of course I know all this from Welch’s background check, but it’s important to hear it from her. Her lips soften with a fond smile when she mentions her stepdad.

“Your father?” I ask.

“My father died when I was a baby.”

For a moment I’m catapulted into my nightmares, looking at a prostrate body on a grimy floor. “I’m sorry,” I mutter.

“I don’t remember him,” she says, dragging me back to the now. Her expression is clear and bright, and I know that Ray Lambert has been a good father to this girl. Her mother’s relationship with her, on the other hand—that remains to be seen.

“And your mother remarried?”

Her laugh is bitter. “You could say that.” But she doesn’t elaborate. She’s one of the few women I’ve met who can sit in silence. Which is great, but not what I want at the moment.

“You’re not giving much away, are you?”

“Neither are you,” she parries.

Oh, Miss Hwang. Game on.

And it’s with great pleasure and a smirk that I remind her that she’s interviewed me already. “I can recollect some quite probing questions.”

Yes. You asked me if I was gay.

My statement has the desired effect and she’s embarrassed. She starts babbling about herself and a few details hit home. Her mother is an incurable romantic. I suppose someone on her fourth marriage is embracing hope over experience. Is she like her mother? I can’t bring myself to ask her. If she says she is—then I have no hope. And I don’t want this interview to end. I’m enjoying myself too much.

I ask about her stepfather and she confirms my hunch. It’s obvious she loves him. Her face is luminous when she talks about him: his job (he’s a carpenter), his hobbies (he likes European soccer and fishing). She preferred to live with him when her mom married the third time.

Interesting.

She straightens her shoulders. “Tell me about your parents,” she demands, in an attempt to divert the conversation from her family. I don’t like talking about mine, so I give her the bare details.

“My dad’s a lawyer, my mom is a paediatrician. They live in Seoul.”

“What do your siblings do?”

She wants to go there? I give her the short answer that Krystal works in construction and Ian is at cooking school in Paris.

She listens, rapt. “I hear Paris is lovely,” she says with a dreamy expression.

“It’s beautiful. Have you been?”

“I’ve never left South Korea.” The cadence in her voice falls, tinged with regret. I could take her there.

“Would you like to go?”

First Black Ocean, now Paris? Get a grip, Jessica.

“To Paris? Of course. But it’s England that I’d really like to visit.”

Her face brightens with excitement. Miss Hwang wants to travel. But why England? I ask her.

“It’s the home of Shakespeare, Austen, the Brontë sisters, Thomas Hardy. I’d like to see the places that inspired those people to write such wonderful books.” It’s obvious this is her first love.

Books.

She said as much in Melatone yesterday. That means I’m competing with Darcy, Rochester, and Angel Clare: impossible romantic heroes. Here’s the proof I needed. She’s an incurable romantic, like her mother—and this isn’t going to work. To add insult to injury, she looks at her watch. She’s done.

I’ve blown this deal.

“I’d better go. I have to study,” she says.

I offer to walk her back to her friend’s car, which means I’ll have the walk back to the hotel to make my case.

But should I?

“Thank you for the tea, Ms.Jung,” she says.

“You’re welcome, Tiffany. It’s my pleasure.” As I say the words I realize that the last twenty minutes have been…enjoyable. Giving her my most dazzling smile, guaranteed to disarm, I offer her my hand. “Come,” I say. She takes my hand, and as we walk back to Northern Lights I can’t shake how agreeable her hand feels in mine.

Maybe this could work.

“Do you always wear jeans?” I ask.

“Mostly,” she says, and it’s two strikes against her: incurable romantic who only wears jeans…I like my women in skirts. I like them accessible.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” she asks out of the blue, and it’s the third strike. I’m out of this fledgling deal. She wants romance, and I can’t offer her that.

“No, Tiffany. I don’t do the girlfriend thing.”

Stricken with a frown, she turns abruptly and stumbles into the road.

“, Fany!” I shout, tugging her toward me to stop her from falling in the path of an idiot cyclist who’s flying the wrong way up the street. All of a sudden she’s in my arms clutching my biceps, staring up at me. Her eyes are startled, and for the first time I notice a darker ring of hazel circling her irises; they’re beautiful, more beautiful this close. Her pupils dilate and I know I could fall into her gaze and never return. She takes a deep breath.

“Are you okay?” My voice sounds alien and distant, and I realize she’s touching me and I don’t care. My fingers caress her cheek. Her skin is soft and smooth, and as I brush my thumb against her lower lip, my breath catches in my throat. Her body is pressed against mine, and the feel of her s and her heat through my shirt is arousing. She has a fresh, wholesome fragrance that reminds me of my grandfather’s apple orchard. Closing my eyes, I inhale, committing her scent to memory. When I open them she’s still staring at me, entreating me, begging me, her eyes on my mouth.

. She wants me to kiss her.

And I want to. Just once. Her lips are parted, ready, waiting. felt welcoming beneath my thumb.

No. No. No. Don’t do this, Jessica.

She’s not the girl for you.

She wants hearts and flowers, and you don’t do that .

I close my eyes to blot her out and fight the temptation, and when I open them again, my decision is made. “Tiffany,” I whisper, “you should steer clear of me. I’m not the woman for you.”

The little v forms between her brows, and I think she’s stopped breathing.

“Breathe, Tiffany, breathe.” I have to let her go before I do something stupid, but I’m surprised at my reluctance. I want to hold her for a moment longer. “I’m going to stand you up and let you go.” I step back and she releases her hold on me, yet weirdly, I don’t feel any relief. I slide my hands to her shoulders to ensure she can stand. Her expression clouds with humiliation. She’s mortified by my rebuff.

Hell. I didn’t mean to hurt you.

“I’ve got this,” she says, disappointment ringing in her clipped tone. She’s formal and distant, but she doesn’t move out of my hold. “Thank you,” she adds.

“For what?”

“For saving me.”

And I want to tell her that I’m saving her from me…that it’s a noble gesture, but that’s not what she wants to hear. “That idiot was riding the wrong way. I’m glad I was here. I shudder to think what could have happened to you.” Now it’s me that’s babbling, and I still can’t let her go. I offer to sit with her in the hotel, knowing it’s a ploy to prolong my time with her, and only then do I release her.

She shakes her head, her back ramrod stiff, and wraps her arms around herself in a protective gesture. A moment later she bolts across the street and I have to hurry to keep up with her.

When we reach the hotel, she turns and faces me once more, composed. “Thanks for the tea and doing the photo shoot.” She regards me dispassionately and regret flares in my gut.

“Tiffany…I…” I can’t think what to say, except that I’m sorry.

“What, Jessica?” she snaps.

Whoa. She’s mad at me, pouring all the contempt she can into each syllable of my name. It’s novel. And she’s leaving. And I don’t want her to go. “Good luck with your exams.”

Her eyes flash with hurt and indignation. “Thanks,” she mutters, disdain in her tone. “Good-bye, Ms. Jung.” She turns away and strides up the street toward the underground garage. I watch her go, hoping that she’ll give me a second look, but she doesn’t. She disappears into the building, leaving in her wake a trace of regret, the memory of her beautiful dark eyes, and the scent of an apple orchard in the fall.