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goodness’ sake, show some cleavage!”
    Sharleen cracked up. She couldn’t help it. Mrs. Fontaine was in her thirties and was a chic dresser with a unique sense of style, but the more her boss encouraged her to “sexify” her look, the harder she laughed.
    â€œYou have a great figure, but you dress like someone twice your age,” Mrs. Fontaine complained. She paused, as if deep in thought, then adamantly shook her head. “I take that back. My mother’s sixty-one, and she dresses
way
sexier than you.”
    Oh, my goodness, she’s serious; I thought she was joking!
    â€œI’ll give you one more crack at Mr. Morretti, but if he blows you off again, Brad’s in, and you’re out. Understood?”
    Sharleen nodded and stepped aside to let Mrs. Fontaine pass. She was happy to see her boss go. Her next session was about to start, and now she had a business dinner with Emilio Morretti to prepare for, too. Mrs. Fontaine marched down the hall without another word and disappeared into the staff room.
    Slumping against the door, Sharleen released a deep sigh. This was her last chance to impress Emilio Morretti, but she wasn’t going to dress like a Pussycat Doll to get his attention. She was better than that. And besides, she didn’t own any tight, low-cut dresses.
    I’m not sexy, that’s why. I could never pull off that kind of look.
    Sharleen dismissed the outrageous advice Mrs. Fontaine had given her seconds earlier. More determined than ever to prove her worth—and land that coveted VP position—Sharleen stalked over to her desk, snatched up her phone and punched in Antwan’s number.

Chapter 4
    W
here is everyone?
Emilio glanced at his platinum wristwatch and scanned the waiting area for his golf buddies. He had a gnawing feeling that something was amiss and sent another text message to Antwan. His friends were thirty minutes late, and if his seafood appetizer hadn’t tasted so damned good, he would have left a long time ago.
    Signed jerseys hung from the ceilings, country music blared from the overhead speakers and a tantalizing aroma consumed the air at the sports bar. Emilio was sitting at a corner booth, far away from the other patrons, but he felt them staring at him, watching him on the sly. A redhead sashayed past his table, switching her hips and flipping her hair, but he ignored her. He didn’t want female companionship. He enjoyed sitting alone at the back of the lounge—thinking about Sharleen Nichols.
    For the first time in years, he didn’t ponder his nephew’s death or his overwhelming sense of loss. Instead, images of the bubbly life coach with the infectious smile filled his mind. The Southern beauty had an aura of youth and vitality, and if he hadn’t been in a miserable funk on Wednesday he would’ve spent the rest of the morning getting to know her better.
    Emilio tasted his soda. Though his conversation with Sharleen had been brief, she’d made an indelible impression on him. She was full of personality—a bundle of excitement and positive energy that intrigued him. She was
just
that lively, that appealing and engaging. He didn’t date and hadn’t been intimate with anyone since losing his nephew, so his attraction to Sharleen shocked him.
    Emilio considered what he’d learned about Sharleen in the past forty-eight hours after an extensive online search. The Duke graduate was everything Antwan had said, and more. She was active in the community, passionate about health and wellness and a self-described foodie. Her Instagram page was filled with recipes, pictures of her gourmet kitchen and her closest friends. He liked that she wasn’t obsessed with money and fashion like the women he’d hooked up with in the past, and he wondered if she was dating anyone.
    Why do you care?
You kicked her out of your estate, remember?
    Emilio felt like an ass for the way he’d treated Sharleen.