Stephen pulls back as if nothing untoward is happening and picks up his wine just as my mother walks over from near thedoor with several of her friends. Out for dinner themselves, no doubt to gossip and speak down on those who are unfortunate enough not to be as wealthy as they are.
“Mother.” I smile, although my body mourns the touch of Stephen. My mother glances at my date, and I see the moment she disapproves of my choice. Stephen stills beside me, and I know he’s discerning her dissatisfaction also.
“I didn’t know you had a date this evening, darling,” she says, watching Stephen.
“Ah, yes, surprising, I know…” I clear my throat. “Mother, this is Stephen. Stephen, this is my mother, Susan.”
“A pleasure,” he states and says nothing else.
My mother’s lips turn down in distaste as her gaze lingers on the tattoos on Stephen’s hands.
“Hmm, likewise,” she responds, her tone meaning the opposite. “Well, dear, I hope you have a lovely evening. Do ring me tomorrow. We should do lunch.”
I nod, smiling at her friends who are watching the exchange. “Yes, of course.” She moves on when a waiter notifies them their table is ready, and I take a deep, relieved breath that she’s gone.
“I didn’t put you down for a mummy’s girl. Mother?”
I don’t know if I like being put in such a box, and to be fair, I’ve never really thought about what I call my parents as sounding odd to others. “Call it instinct, but I believe my mother will not approve of me calling her ‘Mom.’ My father, however, is happy to be called ‘Dad.’” He doesn’t say anything, and I feel the need to explain. “She’s from a wealthy founding family of New York. The term is common practice on her side of the family. Formal speech is the only way they know how to communicate.”
He doesn’t respond, merely sips his wine and finishes another glass. I wonder if it’s a turnoff hearing a woman calling their parent such a formal form of address. “Does it matter what I call my parents? You disapprove?”
“Your mother dislikes me, that is clear. It makes me wonder if this is worth pursuing if you’re the type of daughter who’ll do whatever the parent thinks best. I’m not ever going to be what’s best for you, no matter how much you may want me to be. I’m not an untattooed banker from a good family with aristocratic roots.”
I frown, fighting not to allow my rage to trigger me into a fiery exchange with Stephen. “You’re being very judgmental, considering you barely know me or my relationship with my parents.” Even if what he states is true up to a point, what does it matter that I obey rules? Of course, I rely on my parents and their advice. They are my only family after losing Daniel.
“It’s clear you’re a good girl until I fuck you in my car and take your virginity. Is this just sex for you? Not that I have an issue scratching your itch—you’re hot as fuck—but I won’t change to please anyone, and it’s pointless if that’s your intention.”
His bluntness steals my breath, and I look around, hoping no one hears us. I wave over a waiter, who comes immediately, and without waiting, I reach into my purse and hand him my card. “Please put the meal on me, thank you.”
Stephen leans back in his chair, and I can feel him staring at me. “You’re leaving?”
I scoff. “I’m certainly not staying.” I pick up my wine, hoping my hands don’t shake. He is right in a lot of ways. I am naïve and perhaps lean on my parents too much, care too much about what they think. But to have that opinion shoved in my face isn’t what I want to hear—not five minutes after he’s been fingering me at the table.
I’m a lawyer. Of course, I’m not a criminal or a woman who changes partners as often as her panties. I’ve always struggled to put myself out there in an intimate way. He’s the first man Iwant, really desire, and to feel ridiculed isn’t what I expect after such a lovely meal together.
Hurt coils inside me, and I blink, fighting the tears that threaten.
The waiter returns, handing my card back. “Thank you,” I say before starting to collect my things. “It was nice meeting you, Stephen. A shame you think the way you do. We may have suited, no matter our differences in upbringing.”
I feel his gaze—hot and a little unhinged—on me as I pick up my bag. I push back my chair and start for the door. I hear his chair scrape, and before I reach the door, his arm is on the small of my back, pressing me in the direction he wants.
Not where I was heading.
Home.
NINE
STEPHEN
I shouldn’t pushDallen or practically insult her mother on our first date, but fuck that judgmental bitch. And I know, just by looking at Dallen’s mother’s face, that she is just that. A woman who will not approve and will probably have a stroke if she learns who my family is.
There is no point to us. Even so, the sight of her leaving—of casting me aside—isn’t something I can stomach. Maybe I just can’t stand being abandoned again, or maybe pride stings sharper than truth. Panic, sharp and foreign, grips my chest. I’m not the kind of man to panic over a woman walking away.
What on earth is wrong with me?
I catch up to her at the door, the cold wind cutting between us like a blade as we exit the restaurant. A gust sweeps down the street, rattling the metal chairs stacked outside, the city’s noise momentarily muffled beneath the rush of air.
“Dallen, wait.”
