After working a full week at Malkah Enterprises, Yael's nagging self-doubt had subsided enough to allow her to function, but her nerves were frayed a little more by the end of each day. It was time for some sweet tooth therapy. Pulling eggs, almond milk, and butter from the fridge in her apartment, she eyed the container of rice flour. How was it empty already? She'd bought a five-pound bag last week. Her cell rang, causing her eyes to dart to the clock on the stove. How did it get to be midnight? Far too late to be yet another business call.

Wendy.

"I'm glad it's you," she answered, putting the call on speaker.

"You sound exhausted."

"Four days of nonstop phone calls and questions, meetings and paperwork." She located her favorite mixing bowl in the dishwasher and began tossing in the ingredients for strawberry cheesecake muffins. The trembling she hadn't noticed before in her hands subsided with the familiar routine. "Everyone else seems to think I can do this, but I don't know. Not to mention I'm working twice as hard to prove I can do it. I didn't realize how much this little undertaking was actually going to require of me."

"And what are you doing now?"

Smashing eggs and imagining they were Casey's head, as well as the very unhelpful Peter, she grumbled silently. To Wendy, she said, "Self-medicating." The silence on the other end told Yael the joke was missed. "Baking muffins for my meeting with Casey in the morning."

"Has he been better?"

"He's kept his distance, which automatically makes me suspicious. When he is around he watches me like a hawk. I am going to wow him tomorrow if it's the last thing I do. Assault via muffins and brilliant business savvy."

She attacked her mixture with a wooden spoon before slipping the bowl onto the stand mixer and selecting a low speed. Rice flour tended to be messy.

"You'll be great. Once he sees your genius, he'll wonder what the company ever did without you."

Yael chuckled. "I wouldn't go that far, not yet, but thank you."

"Well, I'll let you get back to the self-medication. Don't turn it into an all-nighter."

"I won't. Bye."

As she scooped the batter into the pan, her mind relaxed, and she was able to rationally go over her selling points and make lists of things that still needed to be done. The massive list only tempted her to dive into another recipe, maybe banana-nut muffins, but she needed to sleep tonight. Facing Casey warranted a long hot shower and at least six hours of rest.

The next morning, Yael made sure she was in the office at nine sharp, a basket of her midnight baking mania on her arm. Strawberry cheesecake and banana nut. Oh well. She was tired but felt more prepared than she hoped for.

Passing by Peter's office, she stuck her head around the corner. "Wish me luck."

"You'll need it." He came to the door and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. "Don't let it get you down if he makes you jump through a dozen hoops first."

She ignored his warning. Over the last couple of days, she had learned to take his quips about Casey with a grain of salt. Perhaps after today, she'd get a better gauge on the CEO, enough to form her own opinion. Then, and only then, would she inquire about joining the Casey Haters Club.

"Muffin?"

"As a matter of fact, I'll have two."

She left Peter and walked to her office, setting the basket on a table by the door before moving to her desk to make a few last-minute notes. A rustle of clothes drew her attention away from her frantic scribbling, and she glanced up. It took tremendous effort to suppress the groan tickling her throat. Casey leaned in the doorway, watching her with a friendly expression, and she sank back into her chair, wary of his smile.

"I guess I couldn't avoid this forever, could I?"

She didn't expect her dour greeting to make him chuckle, but it did. "You know, Miriam uses the same tone when she's speaking with someone she doesn't care for."

Setting the pen down, Yael crossed her arms and studied him as he surveyed her office.

"Not a lot of personality in here."

"I bet yours is filled with pictures of yourself?"

Another aggravating smile. "Did Peter tell you who this room belonged to?"

"He did." She tilted her head to the side. "I can't decide whether to be insulted or not. He's an old friend, so I doubt he meant it as a slight."

"Consider yourself lucky. It's full of my positive vibes." His cocky arrogance grated on her nerves, and she longed for a wooden spoon to clobber him over the head with. "I wondered if you'd use Michael's."

She ignored the quick jab of pain and steeled her expression, desperate not to show Casey any weakness. In this scenario, she was the gazelle, and he the hungry lion. She refused to offer him any opportunity to pounce and go for her throat. Yet, her mouth had other ideas.

"I went by the other day," she said with a hollow voice. "It's like a mausoleum. Peter has it locked up, which I find almost funny since Dad never kept the doors closed. What was once a warm place is now a cold empty cell holding the ghost of who he was. It's been almost a decade." Yael clamped her mouth shut, cutting off the melancholy her words carried. To her surprise, Casey's expression reflected compassion, and she recoiled, untrusting. "Regardless, I much prefer this office. I have no feelings about it whatsoever."

"Peter isn't the only one responsible, you know," he explained, ignoring her barb. "Miriam used to take the long way to the elevator or the break room and save herself the agony of walking past those damn doors. It became habit for both of them. A way to cope."

She examined him through narrowed eyes. "Maybe you're not as big of an ass as I thought."

"Maybe we both judged too soon." He cleared his throat and plopped into one of the chairs facing her desk, making himself at home. "What's this project you're all fired up about? I've heard snippets here and there."

"Do you require these meetings with everyone? Or am I being singled out?" She set her elbows on the cluttered surface of the desk and toyed absently with her wrist.

"Ultimately, whatever you do warrants my approval. That's how it works. Can't have you wasting the company's resources, right? Besides, I'm naturally curious and, I'm told, a wonderful listener."

She made no secret of rolling her eyes. Apparently, she wasn't the only smartass in the building. Drawing a breath, she decided to cater to Mr. Hotshot CEO, because he did make a valid point. Yael described the project for Casey, pausing to open a file and extract a printout of the property. She slid it over to him.

"This is the place I want to save."

"What are the benefits to Malkah Enterprises?" he inquired, his tone business-like as he perused the listing.

"Besides publicity, it exposes us to a different market. Most of our clients are business-oriented, or wealthy residents looking for homes with all the expected luxuries. This gives back to the city, supports small business owners, and creates a sense of community, a statement that we can relate to the little guy, too. Granted, it won't be a huge money maker in the beginning, but rehabbing these buildings tells New Yorkers we want to make their history part of Malkah Enterprises's legacy, that we don't want to tear down the old to make way for the new and gaudy."

She plowed on, terrified by his prolonged silence. "As for the publicity, it looks fantastic on our resume. We haven't been doing enough on a community level and this will place us back in the public eye. It shows we care about preserving history. This property was built in 1915, so it qualifies to be placed on the National Historic Register. We can get the papers to run articles about it, hold a ribbon-cutting ceremony, even a press conference. It's a great opportunity to do more than turn a profit. We can help the average person." She rummaged through more papers.

He grunted, whether in agreement or scathing amusement, she couldn't tell.

"Look," she handed a yellowed newspaper clipping to him, "I found this old article about the O'Brien family, who moved here from Ireland and first purchased the building. It's about how they built a newspaper, the New York Commoner, from the ground up. In its day, the paper was quite popular with immigrants, especially Irish ones. Mr. O'Brien hired Irish workers, who filled it with little scraps of home—recipes and stories and such. This kind of history shouldn't be lost. We could even track down any remaining family members, include them in the ribbon cutting."

As Casey stared out the window behind her, deep in thought, she attempted to wait patiently for his reply while suppressing the urge to drum her fingernails on the desk. Despite her personal feelings, he and Miriam had been right—his approval and support mattered. A fact he probably enjoyed.

"The PR department will eat this up," he said, slowly, as if measuring his words. Focusing his intense blue eyes on her, he continued, "Community relations are the bane of my existence. Don't get me wrong, I love giving back, but there are only so many Little League teams and hospital wings I can smile pretty for. Schmoozing is not in my vocabulary."

"I noticed."

"You're not going to let me forget our first meeting, are you?"

"Nope."

"I like your spunk." He sat up, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "You've done your homework. Wish I'd thought of it myself."

"I'm kind of an expert at rehabilitation."

"I bet you are." Casey paused dramatically. "Nice job here."

Pleasure skipped through her chest, stealing her breath for a moment. Finding her bearings, she doused her excitement and raised a curious eyebrow.

"Why are you being nice?"

"I'm not. I'm doing my job, and being polite in the process. Don't fall over with shock."

Caught off guard by his little quip, Yael fought the urge to smirk and delivered a cheeky remark of her own. "It's reassuring to know you're capable."

"I save it for rare occasions and holidays."

"What about birthdays?"

"Depends on who it is. Back to the matter at hand, I'm serious, it's impressive. Your father had great instincts, I assume you do as well."

"What's the catch?"

Her response amused him. "The catch is we'll be working together. Your grandmother thinks the life force of this company runs through your veins. I'm here to make sure she's right. After all, if you decide to stick and not run away again, we'll be working side by side every day."

In an instant, her defenses sparked, and her smile faded. "Uncalled for."

He shrugged and got up. Enraged, she balled her hands into fists, and heat flushed her cheeks. The tray of goodies she brought in this morning caught her eye. Through clenched teeth, she said, "Take a muffin."

Surprised, Casey faltered. "Really?"

"I don't want to take them home."

"Are they poisoned?"

"One way to find out."

He picked one up and winked at her before exiting.

Yael sat there, stunned, thankful he had actually listened to her and acknowledged the work she'd put in, but residual irritation rushed through her, and she refused to celebrate the victory of his approval. Instead, she got to work, determined to make this project a success and show Casey it wasn't a one-time fluke.

So are we shipping Yael with Haustin or Casey?