“That’s plenty of time. Do I pay for it now or when I pick it up?” Cal asked.

“Either one. I figure you’re good for it. And now I know where to find you if you try to skip out.”

Yes, she may have been flirting a little. Maybe more than a little. For the last few months, her family had been living under an intense spotlight because of the mess with her brother, and, frankly, dating had been the last thing on her mind. But things were finally starting to settle down—as much as things could ever settle down when one’s twin brother was locked up in prison—and it felt good to be flirting. And if the object of said flirtation just so happened to have polished, refined good looks and was a first-class connoisseur of cuisine, well, all the better.

“Maybe I should skip out, just to make you come look for me,” Cal teased.

And maybe she wasn’t the only one flirting a little.

He stood opposite her with the counter between them. “Since you read my reviews, I take it you trust my opinions on restaurants?”

Jordan shot Cal a look over the top of her computer as she finished entering his wine order. “As much as I’d trust a complete stranger about anything, I suppose.”

“Good. Because there’s this Thai restaurant that just opened on Clark that’s fantastic.”

“Glad to hear it. I’ll have to check it out sometime.”

For the first time since entering her wine shop, Cal looked uncertain. “Oh. I meant that I thought you might want to go there with me.”

Jordan smiled. Yes, she’d caught that. But a little warning alarm had gone off in her head as she wondered how many other women Cal Kittredge had used his “Do you trust my opinions on restaurants?” line on. There was no doubt he was charming and smooth. The question was whether he was too smooth.

She straightened up from her computer and leaned one hip against the bar. “Let’s say this—when you come back to pick up the Excelsior, you can tell me more about this new restaurant then.”

Cal seemed surprised by her nonacceptance, but not necessarily put off. “Okay. It’s a date.”

“I’d call it more . . . a continuation.”

“Are you always this tough on your customers?” he asked.

“Only the ones who want to take me to new Thai restaurants.”

“Next time, then, I’ll suggest Italian.” With a wink, Cal grabbed his gloves off the counter and left the store.

Jordan watched as he walked past the front windows and noticed that snow had begun to fall outside. Not for the first time, she was glad she lived only a five-minute walk from the shop. And that she had a good pair of snow boots.

“My God, I thought he’d never leave,” said a voice from behind her.

Jordan turned and saw her assistant, Martin, standing a few feet away, near the back hallway. He walked over, carrying a case of zinfandel that he’d brought up from the cellar. He set the box on the counter and brushed away a few unruly reddish brown curls that had fallen into his eyes. “Whew. I’ve been standing back there holding that thing forever. Figured I’d give you two some privacy. I thought he was checking you out when he came in last week. Guess I was right.”

“How much did you hear?” Jordan asked as she began to help him unpack the bottles.

“I heard that he’s Cal Kittredge.”

Of course Martin had focused on that. He was twenty-seven years old, more well read than anyone she knew, and made no attempt to hide the fact that he was a major food and wine snob. But he knew everything about wine, and he’d grown on her. Jordan couldn’t imagine running the shop without him.

“He asked me to go to some new Thai restaurant on Clark,” she said.

Martin was instantly impressed. “I’ve been trying to get reservations there for two weeks.” He lined the remaining bottles on the bar and tossed the empty box onto the floor. “Lucky you. If you start dating Cal Kittredge, you’ll be able to get into all the best restaurants. For free.”

Jordan modestly remained silent as she grabbed two bottles of the zin and carried them to a bin near the front of the store.

“Oh, right,” Martin said. “I always forget that you have a billion dollars. I’m guessing you don’t need any help getting into restaurants.”

She threw him an eye as she grabbed two more bottles. “I don’t have a billion dollars.” It was the same routine virtually every time the subject of money came up. Because she liked Martin, she put up with it. But with the exception of him and a small circle of her closest friends, she generally avoided discussing finances with others.

It wasn’t exactly a secret, however: her father was rich. Okay, extremely rich. She hadn’t grown up with money; it was something her family had stumbled into. Her father, basically a computer geek like her brother, was one of those success stories Forbes and Newsweek loved to put on their covers: after graduating from the University of Illinois with a master’s degree in computer science, Grey Rhodes went on to Northwestern University’s Kellogg business school. He then started his own company in Chicago where he developed an antiviral protection program that exploded worldwide. Within two years of its release to the public, Rhodes antivirus protected one in every three computers in America (a statistic her father made sure to include in every interview). And then came the money. A lot of it.

One might have certain impressions about her lifestyle, Jordan knew, given her father’s financial success. Some of these impressions would be accurate, others would not. Her father had set up guidelines from the moment he’d made his first million, the most fundamental being that Jordan and her brother, Kyle, earn their own way—just as he had. As adults, they were wholly financially independent from their father, and Jordan and Kyle wouldn’t have it any other way. On the other hand, their father was known to be extravagant with gifts, particularly after their mother died nine years ago. Take, for example, the Maserati Quattroporte Jordan had sitting in her garage. Probably not the typical present one received for graduating business school.