His sharp look cuts through my composure.
“Assumed you’d have plans tonight,” he says. The words are even, but I sense a deeper curiosity beneath them.
“How do you know I’m not meeting someone here?” I fire back, raising my brows and taking a sip of my martini, hoping the gesture masks my sudden unease.
He seems amused by my question. The hint of a smile plays at the corners of his lips.
“I find it hard to believe any man who has you would be dumb enough to leave you waiting here.”
I swallow.
“So,” he continues, “boyfriend must’ve been busy tonight.”
“Boyfriend?” I nearly choke on my drink, keenly aware of his eyes on me.
“The roses on your desk,” he answers.
“Oh. Um. I actually don’t know who they’re from.” My gaze flits around to the bottles lined behind the bar as I fumble for an explanation. “There wasn’t a name on the card. Guess I have a secret admirer,” I add, my voice a fragile attempt at levity as I chuckle, unconvincing.
He makes a hmph sound, his voice low and throaty over the noise of the other patrons.
“What?” I say, unable to mask the mix of curiosity and unease in my voice. “If you’re thinking I sent them to myself, I swear I didn’t.”
The bartender places a lowball glass with a dark liquid in front of James.
“It’s not that.”
“Then what?” I ask.
“Just figured you’d have a boyfriend.” He takes a sip of his drink, his movement slow and deliberate.
“Well, I did. For about three years.” My words come out softer than I intend.
“What happened?” he asks. His eyes are on me again, but they’re less piercing now.
I hesitate, fumbling for a moment, wondering how much I should say.
“I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business,” he says, and I can feel him snapping our professional boundaries back into place.
But tonight, for some reason, I don’t want them there. I just want to talk to him, the real person underneath that steely facade he puts on.
“No, it’s fine. He dumped me in the middle of bar prep.” I say the words faster than I mean to, as if speed will lessen their sting. “He said he wanted to marry someone who could focus more on giving him a family than her career.”
I let out a hollow laugh and take another, longer sip of my martini, trying to swallow down the bitterness that still lingers.
“Turned out it was his parents’ idea.” I meet his gaze again, expecting judgment but finding something closer to understanding. “And he just didn’t care enough to fight them on it.”
He sits in silence, contemplating everything I just laid out. I feel exposed, raw. Like there’s a part of me he sees past the polished exterior I try so hard to maintain.
“Idiot,” he says under his breath, his voice full of something that almost sounds like anger.
“What?” I reply, nervously taking a sip of my drink. The words catch me off guard, a flicker of intensity that makes my pulse quicken.
“I said he’s an idiot,” he growls, his tone leaving no room for doubt.
A warmth spreads in my chest, a reckless thrill at seeing him like this, showing a side of himself I didn’t expect. I realize I’m holding my breath, waiting to see if he’ll say more.
“Couldn’t agree more,” I say, finally exhaling.
