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not til four, am I right? Cody, you there?"
    "Yes. I'm here."
    "If you're not too tuckered out, maybe you wouldn't mind dropping by my office. We'll give you lunch."
    "Lunch?"
    "Yep. You know, food. Don't they do lunch on the West Coast?"
    "Yes. I mean, why?"
    He chuckled. "Because we've got a few details to hammer out on this contract. So should we say, oh, eleven-thirty?"
    "That's, yes, fine. Good," she said at random, and put the phone down.
    She stared at her bag. Clothes. She'd need to change her clothes. Was he really giving her the contract?
    The phone rang again. "Hello?" she said doubtfully, expecting anyone from god to the devil to reply.
    "Hey, Cody. It's me."
    "Richard?"
    "Yeah. Listen, how did it go?"
    "I don't . . . Things are . . . " She took a deep breath. "I got the contract."
    "Hey, that's great. But how did last night go?"
    "Christ, Richard, I can't gossip now. I don't have the time. I'm on my way to Boone's, iron out a few details." She had to pull it together. "I'll call you in a week or two, okay?"
    "No, wait, Cody. Just don't do anything you—"
    "Later, okay." She dropped the phone in its cradle. How did he know to call the Westin? What did he care about her night? She rubbed her forehead again. Food might help with the contract. The headache, she meant. And she grinned: the contract. She'd goddamned well won the contract. She was gonna get a huge bonus. She was gonna be a Vice President. She was gonna be late.
    In the bathroom, she picked up the toothbrush, rinsed off the smeared paste, and resolutely refused to think about last night.
     
    Cookie dialed the hotel.
    "This is Cody. Leave a message, or reach me on my cell phone," followed by a string of numbers beginning with 415. San Francisco. That's right. She'd told Cookie that last night: San Francisco with its fog and hills and great espresso on Sunday mornings.
    That might be okay. Anything would beat this Atlanta heat.
     
    Boone didn't want to talk details so much as to laugh and drink coffee and teach Cody how to eat a po' boy sandwich. After all, if they were gonna be working together, they should get to know each other, was he right? And there was no mention of strip clubs or lapdances until the end when he signed the letter of intent, handed it to her, and said, "I like the way you handle yourself. Now take that Austin fella, Dave. No breeding. Can't hold his liquor, can't keep his temper, and calls a woman names in public. But you: no boasting, no big words, you just sit quiet then seize the opportunity." He gave her a sly smile. "You do that in business and we'll make ourselves some money."
    And somehow, with his clap on the back, the letter in her laptop case and the sun on her face while she waited for the car for her trip to the airport, she started to forget her confusion. She'd had great sex, she'd built the foundations of a profitable working relationship, she was thirty-one and about to be a vice president, and she didn't even have a hangover.
    The car came and she climbed into the cool, green-tinted interior.
    She let the outside world glide by for ten minutes before she got out the letter of intent. She read it twice. Beautifully phrased. Strong signature. Wonderful row of zeroes before the decimal point. If everything stayed on track, this one contract would keep their heads above water until they could develop a few more income streams. And she had done it. No one else. Damn she was good! Someone should buy her a great dinner to celebrate.
    She got out her phone, turned it on. The signal meter wavered as the car crossed from cell to cell. Who should she call? No one in their right mind would want to have dinner with Vince. Richard would only want all the details, and she didn't want to talk about those details yet; he was in the Carolinas, anyway. Asshole.
    The signal suddenly cleared, and her phone bleeped: one message.
    "Hey. This is Cookie. I know you don't go until the afternoon. If you . . . I know this is weird