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Does he not want to come because he’s aware he’s my boss?

Does he think I’m hitting on him? Oh my gosh, am I hitting on him?

But before my thoughts can travel down that road into a new set of questions, the expression on his face dissipates.

And in its stead comes a resolutely carefree smile. “Lead the way.”

I pick the least grimy option of the five establishments surrounding me, and we make our way for the doors. The bar is oddly hot, given the cold January air on the neon-lit street outside. People swarm under at least a hundred industrial lightbulbs hanging from wires, and somewhere off in the corner another band plays. We order and slide onto two stools lining the exposed-brick wall bordering a pool table.

Will looks at me expectantly the moment we sit down. “So? Is this . . . what you do for fun, then? Impersonate booking agents on the weekends?”

“If you must know, yes,” I reply over the speakers and people and general sense of managed chaos. “It’s one of my prime hobbies these days. Gives me something to do in the evenings.”

I grin and take a sip of my beer.

“I see,” he says, eyeing me with mock critique. “So your social life in its natural state is as riveting as mine.”

“You can always join me. I’ve already seen your work tonight. I can tell we’d make a good team.”

Shoot. I’m doing it again.

I want to throw my hands out, insisting that I’m not trying to hit on him, but then realize, of course, that would only succeed in confirming those suspicions. Instead I sit here, forcing (and failing at) a nonchalant smile while pretending to be suddenly quite interested in a woman’s purse as she passes by our table. Sequins. Riveting.

But when he speaks, it’s on an entirely different topic. As if he just took the words I said and slid them neatly off the table. “So, our marketing manager and graphic designer wants to be a country star.”

“Yes,” I say, nodding eagerly, more than happy to jump to this new topic. “Yes, I think the cat is officially out of the bag. What tipped you off?”

“Well, aside from her actually singing onstage, which was the big clue, of course—”

“Of course,” I repeat.

“—I’d have to say it was the Dolly Parton hair, bedazzled belt buckle she wears to staff meetings, and framed photograph on her desk of her singing with her guitar with the words in pink puffy paint, ‘The Next Taylor Swift.’”

“Ah. Yeah,” I say, leaning against the wall. “I may be partly responsible, then. I made that frame for her back in college.” My smile carries a wince, recalling how cool and chic I thought I was back then for the metallic-gold spray-painted frame with about a thousand shakes of glitter when in reality it was (and still is) hideous. But Lyla declared she adored it and, honest to goodness, has kept it on one desk or another since.

“You’re a good friend,” Will says.

I laugh. “If you think demoting the beauty of someone else’s world with hideous homemade gifts they feel compelled to keep means I’m a good friend, then yes, I agree.”

He grins patiently, as though acknowledging my joke but wanting to stay on point. “Not just for the frame.” He waves a hand around the bar. “For what you’re doing here. For everything. Few would go out on a limb like this for their friends, simply in hopes they become a rock star.”

His expression is one of sincerity, and feeling the sudden discomfort that comes from a direct compliment, I smile. “It’s country star,” I correct. “Country star or nothing. I do have my limits.”

“Of course. My apologies. Country.”

His expression is bright—merry, even—as he grins at me. The change from his work posture to off-duty posture is astounding. His forearm resting casually on the table. Eyes dancing as we play our little games.

You could almost believe he was two different people. Will—the guy who hangs out with you after work, cracking jokes, squeezing out stories. And William Pennington—the man in the impeccable gray suit who strides down the halls like he’s in the middle of Manhattan surrounded by slow tourists and has somewhere to be.

I have been to at least six meetings this week with him and he has yet to smile. In any of them.

“Do you like your job?” The words pop out of my mouth before I can catch them. “This new one, I mean.”

Immediately, his relaxed face tightens.

“I’m just wondering because,” I add quickly, “I imagine there’s a lot of pressure. You know, being at the top. Tough economic times. All that.”

You shouldn’t have brought it up, Sav. Clearly the man doesn’t want to be reminded. I’m terrible. I’m like that stranger in the grocery store who asks you if you feel bad because you look terrible.