I should be. This man is nothing like the safe, predictable Kevin I thought I was meeting. He's dangerous in a way I can't define, all sharp edges and barely contained power. But disappointed?
"No," I admit, surprising myself. "Not disappointed."
The admission hangs between us like a dare. He leans back in his chair, studying me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
"Tell me about this deal," he says casually.
I find myself talking.
I tell him about the Morrison condo, about the months of negotiations and the client who changed her mind six times before finally signing. I tell him about the view and the marble bathrooms. He listens without interrupting, asking questions that show he's actually paying attention.
I’m rambling. He doesn’t give a shit.
I don’t give a shit.
I just can’t stop talking.
Somewhere during my second drink—when did he order that? He starts asking about me. Not the usual dating questions about favorite movies and weekend hobbies, but real questions. What drives me. What I want. What scares me.
"Control," I find myself saying when he asks what I'm afraid of losing. "I've worked too hard to get where I am to let someone else call the shots."
"And yet you swiped right," he points out.
"Moment of weakness." The alcohol is making me honest in ways I don't usually allow. "I've been on that app for a year. Do you know how many messages I get from guys who want to split appetizers and talk about their crypto portfolios?"
He laughs—is it a laugh? It’s more of a low rumble that does things to my insides I'm not prepared for.
"So what changed your mind about me?" he asks.
I study his profile picture in my mind—professional, clean-cut, safe. Nothing like the man sitting across from me now. "Maybe I was tired of safe," I say.
The words surprise me as much as they seem to surprise him. I've built my entire life around safe choices. Safe job, safe apartment, safe relationships that never last long enough to get complicated. But sitting here with this stranger who calls me Red like he's known me for years, safe feels overrated.
"Dangerous confession," he murmurs.
"What about you?" I lean forward, emboldened by the whiskey and his attention. "What are you afraid of?"
For a moment, something flickers across his face. Something raw and unguarded. Then it's gone, replaced by that careful control.
"Losing what's mine," he says simply.
It’s not the words that send a shiver down my spine. It’s the way he’s looking at me.
Like I’m his.
The possessiveness in his tone should bother me. Should send me running for the exit with my feminist principles intact. Instead, it sends heat shooting through my veins.
"And what's yours?" I ask, my voice just a little husky.
"That depends," he says.
“On?”
“On how bold you're feeling tonight."
My breath catches. This is it—the moment where I either play it safe or dive headfirst into whatever this is. The old Hannah would make an excuse, thank him for the drinks, and go home to her empty apartment and her sensible life.
But I closed a three-point-seven-million-dollar deal today. I earned that commission through months of hard work and determination. If I can navigate real estate, I can handle a one night stand with a mysterious stranger.
