Something primal and protective surges through my chest. My jaw clenches as I imagine Devon’s casual cruelty, how he’s trained this stunning woman to expect scraps instead of feasts. My hands flex involuntarily at my sides.
“Well,” I say, my voice dropping to a low rumble that surprises even me, “you should get used to it, because I intend to remind you regularly.”
Her gaze meets mine, cautious but curious, like a butterfly considering whether to land. “You’re not what I expected, Conor.”
“Is that good or bad?” I ask, suddenly aware of the thrumming in my chest, the slight dampness of my palms.
“Good. Definitely good.” She takes another sip of wine, her throat working as she swallows. “I expected anotherstuffed suit with an ego the size of Manhattan. Not someone who...” She trails off, searching for words.
“Not someone who what?” I lean forward, drawn by the invisible thread connecting us across the table.
“Not someone who sees me,” she finishes softly. “Really sees me.”
The pianist shifts to a slower, more sensual melody, notes hanging in the air like unspoken desires. I watch the way the light catches in her hair, how her fingers nervously trace the rim of her wine glass. Devon’s words from the dossier echo in my mind—“reliable backup plan”—and my stomach clenches with renewed anger.
“May I ask you something personal?” I venture, keeping my voice low enough that only she can hear.
She hesitates, then nods, her eyes wary but willing.
“Why do you let him back in? Devon.” I keep my voice gentle, though the question feels dangerous and necessary between us. “You deserve so much better than being someone’s second choice.”
Her face darkens, vulnerability replaced by something harder. She stares into her wine glass as if it holds answers. “History,” she finally says. “Six years is a long time to invest in someone. And he knows exactly what buttons to push—when to apologize, when to remind me of the good times.” A bitter laugh escapes her. “He’s like a virus my system can’t quite flush out.”
I fight to keep my expression neutral, though rage bubbles just beneath my surface. “And tonight? What did he want?”
“What he always wants when he shows up unannounced. To remind me that I belong to him.” She spits thelast words with unexpected venom. “But I don’t. Not anymore.”
Something shifts in the air between us, charged with possibility. I watch as she straightens her shoulders, chin lifting with defiance.
“I told him I was having dinner with my new boss,” she continues, a small, dangerous smile playing at her lips. “He didn’t like that.”
“I imagine not,” I reply, satisfaction warming my chest. “Men like Devon don’t like competition.”
“Is that what this is?” she asks, her eyes suddenly intense, searching my face. “Competition?”
The question catches me off guard, strips me of my careful defenses. “No,” I answer honestly. “This is something else entirely.”
She holds my gaze for a long moment, then slowly, deliberately places her hand over mine on the table. Her touch is electric, sending currents racing up my arm. Her skin is soft, her fingertips slightly cold from the wine glass, her burgundy nails stark against my skin.
“I should go,” she whispers, though her hand remains on mine. “Early meeting tomorrow.”
“Let me drive you home,” I offer, already signaling for the check.
Fear flashes across Betsy’s face. “What if he’s still there? Waiting?”
My jaw tightens. “All the more reason for me to see you safely inside.”
The night air hits us like a wall of cool silk as we step outside. The city hums around us, neon lights painting the wet sidewalks in impressionistic smears of color. I place my hand at the small of her back, guiding her to my car,hyperaware of the warmth of her body through the thin fabric of her dress.
In the confined space of my Audi, her scent intensifies—vanilla and spice mingling with wine and chocolate. I grip the steering wheel tighter, forcing myself to focus on the road rather than the woman beside me, her dress riding up slightly to reveal the curve of her thigh.
“You’re very quiet,” she observes as we turn onto her street.
“Just thinking,” I reply, scanning the parked cars for any sign of Devon’s silver BMW.
“About?”
I pull to a stop in front of her building, turning to face her in the intimate darkness. “About how much I want to kiss you right now,” I admit, the words escaping before I can stop them. “And about how complicated that would make things.”
