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  "The bartender will be back in fifteen minutes," the woman says. "You're welcome to wait for her. On the other side of the bar."

  Trisha emerges from the bathroom. You'd forgotten all about her. She walks right past the bar and stands by the entrance, scanning the room for you. When she sees you behind the bar, she gives you a sultry smirk.

  "No, that's okay," you say to the woman. Stepping out from behind the bar, you tell Trisha you'll be right back, then follow the woman to the register at the far end of the bar.

  "Two dark 'n stormies and four sex on the beaches?" she asks, looking at something you can't see on the counter.

  "The sex on the beaches weren't mine."

  She frowns at you, the cutest frown you've ever seen. "It says they're on the same tab."

  "Oh, yeah. They are. I meant that I didn't drink all of those by myself."

  Her eyelids flutter closed for an instant, then she starts ringing up the drinks. You take a long, slow breath, determined to recover your dignity.

  "I got an investor for my start-up today."

  Unimpressed, she continues her task.

  "Yup. Three million dollars. And that's only for the first round."

  Her lips flatten out. She doesn't even look at you when she says, "$59.82."

  Handing her your credit card, you notice Trisha by the door, arms crossed, looking impatient. You wave, ostensibly to let her know you're almost done, but mostly you want to make sure she stays where she is.

  Desperate not to lose your chance with this woman who makes you feel like a clumsy teenager, you lean forward, lower your voice, and break all the rules. "I don't usually do this," you say, "but I want to celebrate my success with someone tonight, and even though I already have a willing partner, she really is not my type."

  The woman freezes in the middle of tapping buttons on the register. When her mesmerizing eyes slowly lift to meet yours, a pulse of fiery heat runs through your body, making your blood race.

  "This is my last night in town," you whisper, trying to act confident but feeling more nervous than you have in years, "but I swear I'll make it the best night of your life."

  Her beautiful face, barely a foot from yours, holds steady, unflinching. You notice a delicate spray of freckles across her forehead and cheekbones, and wonder where else you'll discover them on that divine body of hers.

  She hasn't spoken a word, but her silence is all the answer you need. If she was offended -- or resolutely straight -- she would have said no immediately.

  She wants you. She's going to say yes.

  The register beeps, startling her. Returning her gaze to the screen, she rips out the receipt tape and hands it to you with a pen. "Sign here."

  You scribble a signature then hand it back to her. But when she takes hold of it, you don't let go, drawing her eyes back to yours. "Please say yes," you say gently.

  Instead of pushing her over the edge, your words seem to shut her down. Her eyes harden. She jerks the paper out of your hand.

  "I don't think so," she says harshly.

  "You done yet?" Trisha asks, appearing at your elbow.

  "Yeah," you say, surprised at how guilty you feel. The woman behind the bar doesn't even glance up, tossing your receipt on the bar and going to serve Green Suit Man another drink.

  "I have an idea," Trisha says. You can feel her moving close to you, her breasts grazing your arm, but you can't take your eyes off the woman who said no.

  No one's said no to you in years. Why would she do that? She obviously wants you as much as you want her.

  "You know that strap--"

  "I'm actually really wiped," you say, cutting Trisha off, "and my flight's super early, so I think I'm just going to hit the sack."

  She backs off, studying you closely, then glances suspiciously over at the other woman, who has her back to you. Pulling out your wallet, you hand her forty bucks. "Since I cost you your ride. Take care."

  Stunned, she takes the money, but you leave before she can reply. You go to the other end of the bar where the woman is, hoping for a second chance, but as soon as she sees you she disappears into the back room. You glance at Trisha, who's now tapping on her phone, but any appeal she once held for you is lost.

  "Alone again," Green Suit Man says. The MILF is nowhere to be seen. His bleary gaze travels down to your chest. "But the night is still young."

  Rejected -- and now feeling in need of a shower -- you go up to your room and spend the rest of the night chasing the woman with gray eyes. In the middle of the night you wake up from a dead sleep, saying to the darkness, "I don't even know her name."

  Chapter Two

  Present Day

  Anne is the loudest lover you've ever had. Already howling, she shrieks your name, her fingers digging into your shoulders as you both near ecstasy. With a wordless scream she constricts her body around you, disrupting your rhythm and making it impossible to find your own release.

  "There!" she cries, quivering in bliss. "Don't move!"

  Like you have a choice.

  Trembling, you wait until she finally relaxes her hold and drops back onto the bed. With a few last pumps of your hips, the exquisite tension inside of you breaks, and you ride the wave in silent rapture.

  Running a finger up and down your arm, she says, "You should stay."

  "I can't miss work," you say, catching your breath.

  "What about tonight?" Her finger snakes its way down your stomach, but you grab hold of it before it travels too far south, giving it a kiss as you ease off of her.

  "It's Friday," she says. "You could stay over and we could spend tomorrow together."

  Your euphoria dissipates as reality comes crashing in. You knew this would happen eventually -- it always does -- but you didn't think it would be so soon.

  "I told you I don't do that," you say, heading to the bathroom to clean up. "I like sleeping in my own bed."

  "We could go back to your place," she says from the other side of the shower curtain. "I've never been there. I don't even know where it is."

  "It's not just you. No one ever comes to my house. I don't like having people over."

  You haven't washed your hair yet, but you know where this conversation is going, and you don't want it to last any longer than necessary. Shutting off the water, you step out and start drying off.

  "Besides," you say, "we agreed this was only physical."

  Anne's wearing her bathrobe, her hair still snarled by sex. "Maybe I'm ready for more now."

  Wrapping the towel around yourself, you meet her hopeful gaze and earnestly try to imagine what a relationship with her would be like, but the truth is you hardly know her. You met at a bar two months ago when she'd just broken up with someone, and over drinks you both agreed that relationships are a flawed concept doomed to end in misery. Then you came back here and rocked her world. Since then you've come over almost every night after dinner, and the longest conversation you can remember having was deciding on a safe word.

  As gently as you can, you say, "I'm not."

  Her vulnerability vanishes. "Get out of my house."

  You comply as quickly as possible and go straight to the office. It's still early -- you went to Anne's at five this morning to fulfill her fantasy of waking up with someone between her legs -- and the place is empty. You use your private bathroom to fix your hair and make yourself up, and by the time your personal assistant Wade arrives, you're already at your desk answering emails.

  A few hours later he knocks on the door. "We're ordering from that new Mexican place on Somerville Ave. Want in?"

  "No thanks, I'm having lunch with my mother.”

  "And you thought keeping this a secret from the person in charge of your schedule was a good idea?"

  "Sorry," you say with a wince.

  "You're lucky you're too adorable to stay mad at," he says. "When and where?"

  "That Italian place she loves, at two."

  "Late lunch. Are you sure you don't want a burrito to tide yo
u over?" he asks. "They're supposed to have the hottest salsa in the city."

  "No thank you. I still have taste buds."

  "Suit yourself."

  He closes the door behind him, but a minute later it opens again. "What's up?" you ask, still focused on the latest report from marketing.

  "My profits," says a voice you don't recognize.

  A man in a burnt orange suit enters your office, closing the door behind him. The unconventional color would look ridiculous on most men, especially a man old enough to be your father, but with his trim figure and authoritative air, the outfit is surprisingly flattering.

  "No one was at the desk outside," he says, walking over to you.

  His face is familiar, but you're having trouble placing him. Maybe he was one of the investors who turned you down... or a presenter at the last recycling expo?

  You take his outstretched hand. "I'm sorry, but I have a call in just a few minutes, Mr..."

  "Tristao Cassatt," he says, leaving you to connect the dots -- the huge, flashing, holy-crap-is-this-really-happening dots.

  "What brings the CEO of Won't Waste to my office?" you ask, straightening up. You gesture to the chairs in front of your desk, but he shakes his head.

  "I try not to sit if I can help it -- sitting too much makes a man go soft. You'd better sit, though."

  "It's fine. I've been in that chair for too long anyway."

  He strolls around the office, taking in the simple space with an appreciative nod. "This is my kind of office -- private, closed off, none of those glass walls that the young upstarts love. Glass walls are a sign of someone who has something to hide."

  He circles back, smiling at the company logo on the wall behind you. "Spare. That's a clever name. The first time I heard of your company, I thought, 'That's clever. That company is run by someone clever.' And here you are, six years in, one of the most exciting names in the waste management industry -- or, what do you call it? Reusables management. I read the article in the Globe about you. Very impressive."

  His demeanor is friendly enough, but warning sirens won't stop going off in your head. Why is the head of the country's biggest waste management company in your office? Without an appointment?

  "Thank you," you say. "We've all been working hard."

  "Speaking of 'we,' is your cofounder here? Jabir Helou, isn't it?"

  "He's on vacation this week, but as CEO I'm the one you want to talk to regarding any company matters."

  He raises a hand in deference. "No insult intended. I simply wanted to ensure I wasn't insulting him by talking only to you."

  Your patience is wearing thin. You really do have a call starting in two minutes, so if he's only here to size up the competition... Who are you kidding? Spare is only operating in Rhode Island and half of Massachusetts; Won't Waste provides services across the entire U.S. Although, that article he mentioned, laying out out how Spare is using artificial intelligence to connect waste with those who can reuse it, definitely garnered your company a lot of attention. Business has skyrocketed ever since. That's what the call is about, actually: implementing the next phase in your company's growth strategy. Even Jabir's taking time out of his vacation to be on it.

  "I know you're a busy woman, so I won't waste any more of your time," he says with a grin. "I want Spare to become part of the Won't Waste empire."

  The blood drains from your head and pools in your feet. You sit down, take a breath, then dial Wade.

  "Can you let my 11:30 call know I'm going to be late?"

  Tristao takes off his suit jacket and drapes it over one of the chairs, then starts circling the room again.

  "Jabir's not going to be happy," Wade says. "Is there someone in there with you? I thought I heard a man's voice."

  "Actually, cancel the 11:30. Tell Jabir to expect a call from me in a bit."

  "I take that back -- Jabir's going to be pissed."

  You hang up and fold your hands on your desk. "You want Spare?"

  He leans against the wall, right next to a framed copy of the Globe article. "This A.I. technology angle of yours is getting people to think differently about their trash. You're changing the game, but you're a long way from the playoffs, and Won't Waste is exactly the kind of partner you need to get you there."

  "Won't Waste is undeniably an industry leader," you begin, "and the advantages to becoming a part of that ecosystem are obvious."

  Your cell phone is on the desk, already on silent in preparation for the call. It lights up with a call from Jabir. You flip it over.

  "However," you add, "the disadvantages are pretty glaring too."

  Tristao smiles with understanding, but says nothing.

  "Spare would have to retain a significant amount of autonomy," you say.

  "You mean you would need autonomy." He chuckles. "I understand. I don't like having a boss either. That's why I started my own business -- and why I flunked out of college."

  His warm, casual manner is slowly winning you over, setting you at ease despite the magnitude of his offer.

  "Is this how you usually approach a potential acquisition?" you ask, leaning back in your chair with a smirk. "Barging into offices unannounced with no legal counsel, no letter of intent, no NDA, nothing but a question?"

  "I like doing business face to face. You learn more about a person that way. And I've been around the dog track a few times; I don't need some lawyer telling me what I can and can't say. There'll be plenty of paperwork coming down the pike, if that's your fancy."

  He moves to stand in front of the chairs, not sitting in either of them. "I want to know what you know," he says, growing more serious with every word, "and there are two ways to make that happen. The most cost-effective way is for you to teach me. You would become vice president of Won't Waste, second only to me, working side by side to integrate your innovations with my manpower and experience. In return for adding your expertise to my company, you will gain access to millions of new customers, making a greater impact on this country's waste crisis in a year than you could in a decade through organic growth. Not to mention..." He shrugs, the humor returning to his eyes. "...you'll be a very rich woman."

  As appealing as all of that sounds, you're still not sure. Ideally, Spare would gain access to Won't Waste's clientele and facilities without losing its identity. That is clearly not what Tristao is envisioning, however, what with all this talk about "integrating" and "my company" and "my manpower."

  But you can't deny that a big part of you wants to take him up on his offer. As great as the recent growth has been, it's taken too long to get here. You wanted to be operating throughout New England by now. Tristao is handing you an opportunity to grow exponentially almost overnight.

  "And the second way?" you ask.

  "You're too smart to ask that question," he says, putting his jacket back on. "It would be easier for both of us if you just say yes."

  Coming out from behind your desk, you start for the door. "It's certainly an interesting offer. I'll bring it before the board and --"

  "I don't want to know what your board thinks," he says firmly. "I want to know what you think. A true leader makes a decision and then tells the board about it, not the other way around. The day you start letting other people tell you how to run your company is the day your company starts to die."

  His intense gaze stays fixed on yours. He may be around double your age, but you've had men even older than him hit on you at bars and conferences, so the fact that he hasn't given your body the faintest glimmer of interest this entire meeting is refreshing, and makes his offer all the more tempting.

  "Look," he says, "I know you can't officially accept, but I need to know if you're in my corner on this. I won't waste my time on a dead end. So what do you say? Is your board the boss, or are you?"

  If Jabir were here, he'd go on and on about how they need to do their due diligence, run it past the board, go through the proper channels, and he wouldn't be wrong. But he's not here. And it's not like you're si
gning anything...

  You hold out your hand. "I look forward to working with you."

  He accepts it with a grin, clamping it between both of his. "Same here. Won't Waste needs talent, and if your team's anything like you, we're getting a bargain, no matter what the price."

  He opens the door, and Wade looks up in confusion as Tristao passes by.

  "Where did he come from?" Wade asks worriedly. "I was only gone from my desk for a minute to take lunch orders."

  "It's okay," you say, calmly returning Tristao's wave as he steps into the elevator. As soon as the doors close, you let out a whoop of excitement that makes Wade jump. Heads pop out from behind doorways and partitions.

  "Who was that?" Wade asks.

  "That, my friend, was fate." Bouncing back into your office, you shut your computer off and grab your purse. "Clear my day, please," you say, heading for the elevator. "I'm off to celebrate."

  Chapter Three

  Spare's original office was almost an hour south of Boston, but even though the company -- and you -- moved to The Hub four years ago, Jabir's wife didn't want their kids to grow up in the city, so he still lives in your old neighborhood, on a dead end street with trees and cows for neighbors. It's a nice place for what it is, a big brick Colonial in the middle of nowhere, and the patches of tiny blue and purple flowers blooming across the wide front yard are pretty. However, while those cows may be quiet, they're awfully stinky when the wind is wrong.

  Without bothering to knock, you walk in, welcomed by the scent of freshly baked treats. Six-year-old Yvonne is on the couch watching TV, a half-eaten cookie in her hand. Her older brother Jake is beside her, licking his fingers and reading. They both glance over at you, but their eyes immediately snap back to their chosen activities. Apparently their dad's weird friend isn't as interesting as unicorn cartoons or polar bear pirates.

  "Are you guys sick?" you ask. "Why aren't you in school?"