Stacey holds up two dresses—one coral, one navy—and squints at Jessie like she's solving a math problem.

"The coral makes you look like you're going to church," Stacey says. "The navy makes you look like you're going to a job interview you want to nail."

"I am going to a job interview," Jessie says. "Sort of."

"Sort of nothing. It's dinner with your boss. You want him to see you as a professional, not a Sunday school teacher." Stacey tosses the coral onto the bed and holds the navy against Jessie's chest, stepping back to appraise. "Yeah. This one. It's modest enough—sleeves, neckline's fine—but it fits you. Shows you've got a shape without showing it off."

Jessie takes the dress, running her fingers over the fabric. It's soft, simple, a shade of blue that almost matches her eyes. She'd never have picked it herself—too bold, too adult—but standing in Stacey's cramped apartment bedroom, surrounded by clothes and perfume and the faint smell of vanilla candles, she feels something flutter in her chest.

Excitement. Or nerves. She can't tell the difference anymore.

"You sure?" Jessie asks.

"I'm sure. Now put it on. I want to see how it sits on your hips."

Jessie changes behind the half-open closet door, shimmying out of her blouse and skirt and into the navy dress. It slides over her hips like it was made for her, the fabric hugging her waist before flaring just slightly. She steps out and turns, and Stacey whistles.

"Damn, Miller. You've been hiding that."

Jessie's cheeks flush. "It's not—it's just a dress."

"It's not just a dress. It's armor." Stacey walks around her, adjusting the collar, smoothing a wrinkle at the shoulder. "You walk in there wearing this, you're not the shy little Georgia girl who says 'sir' and 'ma'am.' You're a professional. You're his new outside sales rep. You belong there."

Jessie looks at herself in the mirror. The woman staring back is her, but different—older, somehow. More sure. The navy blue brings out her eyes, makes her look serious and capable. She tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear and straightens her spine.

"There she is," Stacey says softly. "There's the girl who moved across the country to become someone."

Jessie's throat tightens. She reaches for Stacey's hand and squeezes it. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. Let's see if that dress survives the dinner." Stacey grins, but her eyes are sharp. "You remember the code word?"

"Pineapple."

"Good. Text me when you're done. No matter how late. And if he tries anything—anything at all—you say pineapple and I'll call you with an emergency so fake it'll win an Oscar."

"Stacey."

"I mean it. I know you want this job. I know you think he's just being nice. But I saw the way he looked at you, and I've been around long enough to know when a man's already picturing you naked."

Jessie's stomach drops. She looks away, at the floor, at the pile of rejected clothes on the bed. "Maybe you're wrong."

"Maybe I am. But better safe than sorry." Stacey steps closer, her voice losing its edge. "I'm not trying to scare you. I'm trying to keep you from getting hurt. You're my best friend, and you're so damn innocent it's practically a superpower, but out here? That innocence looks like an invitation to men like Steve Calder."

Jessie nods, not trusting her voice. She knows Stacey means well. She knows there's truth in the warning. But underneath the fear, underneath the cold stone in her chest, there's something else—a quiet, curious voice that wonders what it would feel like to be seen that way. To be wanted.

She pushes the thought down and smiles at Stacey. "I'll be careful. I promise."

---

The cab drops her at La Plaissance at five to seven.

The restaurant is nestled between a luxury hotel and a high-end boutique, its entrance marked by a discreet brass sign and a velvet rope. A host in a crisp black suit greets her before she can reach for the door, his smile professional and warm.

"Reservation for Calder," Jessie says, and the host nods, guiding her inside.

The interior is all dark wood and soft lighting, with private booths lining the walls and a piano player in the corner filling the room with something jazz and melancholy. It smells like garlic and butter and money, and Jessie feels suddenly, acutely underdressed, even in her navy armor.

Steve is already there, standing as she approaches the booth. He's wearing a charcoal suit, perfectly fitted, with a pale blue tie that matches his eyes. His dark hair is silver at the temples, neatly combed, and his face breaks into that easy smile as she reaches him.

"Jessie. You look lovely." His voice is low, smooth, the kind of voice that could sell ice to an Eskimo. "Please, sit."

She slides into the booth across from him, and he waits until she's settled before sitting down. A small gesture, but it feels deliberate. Calculated.

"Thank you for inviting me," she says, folding her hands in her lap. "This place is beautiful."

"Only the best for my new top performer." He pours her a glass of water from a crystal carafe. "I took the liberty of ordering a bottle of wine—a Pinot Noir, light, nothing too heavy. I hope that's all right."

Jessie hesitates. She's not much of a drinker—a glass of champagne at her cousin's wedding, a sip of her father's bourbon when she was sixteen and curious. But this is business, and Steve is being generous, and she doesn't want to seem ungrateful.

"That's fine," she says. "Thank you."

The wine arrives before the menus—a deep ruby in a bottle with a label she doesn't recognize. Steve pours her a glass, then himself, and raises his in a toast.

"To new beginnings."

She clinks her glass against his and takes a sip. It's smooth, fruity, with a warmth that spreads through her chest. She takes another sip, and Steve watches her with those patient eyes.

"So," he says, leaning back in his seat. "Tell me about Jessie Miller. The real Jessie Miller. Not the one on the résumé."

The question catches her off guard. She sets down her glass, fingers tracing the rim. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything. Where you grew up. What you believe. What keeps you up at night." He says it lightly, like it's small talk, but his eyes are intent. Focused. "I want to know who I'm investing in."

Jessie takes a breath, and the wine loosens something in her chest. "I grew up in Bainbridge, Georgia. Small town. My dad's a pastor at the local Baptist church. My mom teaches Sunday school. I have two older brothers, both married, both still in Georgia. I'm the baby."

"The prodigal daughter," Steve says, and there's a warmth in his voice that makes her smile.

"Something like that. They didn't want me to move out here. Said Las Vegas was too sinful, too dangerous. But I needed to see something bigger than Bainbridge. I needed to know there was more to the world than potlucks and prayer meetings."

Steve nods slowly, swirling his wine. "And have you found it?"

"I don't know yet. I've only been here three days." She laughs, and it comes out lighter than she expected. "Give me time."

"Time is the one thing you can't buy," Steve says. "But you can use it wisely." He sets down his glass and leans forward, elbows on the table. "Tell me about the men in your life."

Jessie's eyebrows rise. "Men?"

"Brothers, friends, ex-boyfriends. I need to know you can handle the kind of clients you'll be meeting. Some of them are... aggressive. In a business sense. They'll test you. Push you. See if you break."

She thinks about it, takes another sip of wine. "I've never had a boyfriend."

Steve's expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes sharpens. "Never?"

"Never. I grew up in a church that taught me to save myself for marriage. And I guess I took it seriously." She shrugs, feeling the heat creep into her cheeks. "I had plenty of friends who were boys, but none of them were ever... boyfriends."

"But they asked," Steve says. It's not a question.

Jessie blinks. "What?"

"The boys who were your friends. They asked you out at some point, didn't they?"

She opens her mouth to deny it, then closes it. Because he's right. One by one, through high school and college, the boys who'd been her friends—the ones who sat next to her in class, who walked her home from youth group, who called her just to talk—had eventually worked up the courage to ask for more. And she'd said no, every time, with a gentle smile and a Bible verse about waiting.

"Yes," she says quietly. "They did."

Steve smiles, and it's not a cruel smile. It's knowing. "You're beautiful, Jessie. I'm sure you know that. But there's something about the way you carry yourself—that innocence, that gentleness—it makes men want to protect you. And sometimes, it makes them want to corrupt you."

Her breath catches. The wine is warm in her stomach, and the room feels suddenly smaller, the piano music softer, the lights dimmer. She takes another sip to buy herself time.

"I don't think I'm—"

"You are." His voice is firm but kind. "And that's not a bad thing. In sales, perception is reality. If a client perceives you as someone worth impressing, they'll try harder to earn your approval. And that means they'll buy more."

She nods slowly, trying to follow his logic. "So I should... use that?"

"I'm saying you should be aware of it. Understand the power you have in a room. A woman's smile can close a deal faster than any spreadsheet. Her laugh can make a man want to give her everything just to hear it again."

Jessie's throat is dry. She takes another sip of wine, and the glass is almost empty. Steve refills it without asking.

"You have power over me, Jessie," he continues, his voice low. "I sign your checks, yes. I decide whether you pass probation. On paper, I'm the one in control. But if you perform—if you bring in the numbers I know you're capable of—then I need you more than you need me."

She stares at him, trying to process his words through the haze of wine and warmth. "I don't feel powerful."

"That's because you've never been taught to recognize it." He leans back, his smile returning. "Let me give you a different perspective. The clients you'll meet—CEOs, surgeons, hospital administrators—they have money. They have influence. They have power over you because they can choose to buy from someone else. But you have power over them, too."

"How?"

"Your smile. Your laugh. Your attention." He holds her gaze. "Men will do extraordinary things to feel seen by a beautiful woman. And you, Jessie, are the kind of beautiful that makes men want to be seen."

Her face burns. She looks down at the tablecloth, tracing the pattern with her finger. "I don't know if I'm comfortable with that."

"I'm not asking you to be comfortable. I'm asking you to be effective." His voice softens. "And I'm asking you to trust me. I've been doing this for twenty years. I know what works in this city. And I think you have something special—something most women don't have."

She looks up. "What's that?"

"You're genuine. You're not playing a game. When you smile, it's real. When you laugh, it's real. Clients will sense that, and they'll trust you because of it." He pauses, his eyes holding hers. "But they'll also want more of it. They'll want to be the reason you smile. And that's where the power lies."

The waiter arrives with their appetizers—seared scallops on a bed of something green and delicate. Jessie barely registers the food. Her mind is spinning, caught between the wine and Steve's words and the strange, unfamiliar feeling of being seen so completely.

They eat, and Steve guides the conversation through lighter topics—her favorite books, her dreams of travel, the time she got lost in Atlanta for six hours. He laughs at her stories, asks thoughtful questions, makes her feel like she's the only person in the room.

By the time the main course arrives—a perfectly cooked filet for him, salmon for her—Jessie has finished her second glass of wine, and the room has taken on a pleasant, golden haze. She's aware of her own words coming easier, her laughter coming quicker. She's aware of the way Steve watches her, the way his eyes don't miss a single movement.

And underneath the wine and the warmth, she's aware of something else: the small, cold stone in her chest is still there. But now it's wrapped in something new—something that feels like possibility.

"I should probably slow down," she says, gesturing at her wine glass as Steve reaches for the bottle again.

"One more glass," he says, pouring without waiting for confirmation. "To celebrate your first week."

She doesn't argue. The wine is good, and the warmth is pleasant, and there's something about the way Steve says her name that makes her want to hear it again.

---

Two hours later, Jessie is walking—floating—toward the exit, her hand resting in the crook of Steve's arm. He guided her through the restaurant, his palm light on her lower back, and she didn't pull away.

In the parking lot, the desert air hits her, cool and sharp after the warmth of the restaurant. She shivers, and Steve notices.

"Cold?"

"A little."

He shrugs off his jacket—the charcoal suit jacket that probably costs more than her first month's salary—and drapes it over her shoulders. It smells like him. Cedar and something clean, something expensive.

"Steve, you don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to. I want to." He steps closer, and his hand finds her waist, settling there like it belongs. "Tonight was good. Better than good. I'm glad you came."

She looks up at him. In the dim light of the parking lot, with the jacket warm on her shoulders and his hand firm on her hip, she feels small. And she feels safe. And she feels something else—something she can't name, something that makes her pulse quicken and her breath catch.

"Thank you," she says, and her voice comes out softer than she intended. "For dinner. For the advice. For believing in me."

"I believe in you because you're worth believing in." His thumb traces a small circle on her hip, barely there, almost accidental. "I'll call the cab. You text me when you get home, okay?"

"Okay."

He hails a cab with his free hand, his other still resting on her waist. When the car pulls up, he opens the door for her, helps her inside, and leans down to meet her eyes.

"Same time Monday. We'll start your training." He smiles, and it's warm, genuine, almost fatherly. "Welcome to the team, Jessie."

She smiles back, her heart hammering in her chest. "Thank you, Steve."

He closes the door, and the cab pulls away. Jessie turns to watch him through the rear window, standing in the parking lot in his shirtsleeves, hands in his pockets, watching her go.

She doesn't remember much of the cab ride home. The wine has left her pleasantly fuzzy, her thoughts drifting like clouds. But she remembers the weight of his jacket on her shoulders. The pressure of his hand on her waist. The way he said her name.

When she walks into the apartment, Stacey is waiting on the couch, phone in hand, eyes sharp.

"Well?"

Jessie hangs Steve's jacket on the back of a chair and sits down heavily beside her friend. "It was fine. It was good. He's... he's not what you think."

Stacey's eyebrows rise. "Oh, really?"

"Really. He was professional. He gave me advice. He talked about power and perception and how to use my..." She trails off, the word sticking in her throat. "He said I have power. Because I'm genuine. Because I'm... me."

Stacey is quiet for a long moment. Then she says, "Did he touch you?"

Jessie hesitates. "His hand was on my back. Guiding me out. And he put his jacket on me when I was cold."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Jessie." Stacey's voice is gentle but firm. "Did it feel appropriate? Or did it feel like he was testing a boundary?"

Jessie thinks about it. About his hand on her waist. About the way his thumb traced that small circle on her hip. About the way he looked at her across the table, like she was the only person in the world.

"I don't know," she says honestly. "It felt... good. It felt like he cared."

Stacey sighs, leaning back into the couch. "That's how they get you, babe. They make you feel cared for. Special. Like you're the only one who matters." She turns to face Jessie, her brown eyes soft. "Just be careful. Please."

Jessie nods, but her mind is still back in the parking lot, feeling the warmth of his hand on her hip. "I will."

She doesn't tell Stacey about the wine. Or the way Steve talked about her smile like it was a weapon. Or the way she felt when he said she was beautiful—seen, wanted, and for the first time in her life, powerful.

She keeps that part for herself.