“You didn’t really give me a choice.”
“You always have a choice.”
We sit, and a waiter appears with wine. Cassian must have ordered before I arrived because the man pours without asking what we want.
When we’re alone again, Cassian leans back and watches me. “You look nervous.”
“I am nervous.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m lying to my family about where I am. If Julian finds out I’m here with you, there will be consequences. This is reckless and stupid, and I’m doing it anyway.”
“Does that bother you?”
I take a sip of wine to buy myself time. The answer is yes and no. Yes, because I’ve never been that good at lying, and the guilt sits heavily in my chest. No, because sitting across from Cassian in this quiet restaurant feels more right than anything has in years.
“Sometimes,” I say finally.
His mouth curves. “Just sometimes?”
“Don’t push.”
“I’m not pushing. I’m asking.”
The waiter returns to take our order. We choose things at random because neither of us is really thinking about food.
When he leaves, Cassian reaches across the table and takes my hand. The gesture is simple. Almost innocent. But the way his thumb brushes across my knuckles makes heat pool low in my stomach.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” he says.
“I know.”
“Do you think about me?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think about?”
“That this is a terrible idea. That we should stop before someone gets hurt.”
“And yet you’re here.”
“And yet I’m here.”
We talk through dinner. Small things at first. He tells me about a deal he’s working on, a legitimate real estate development that has nothing to do with his usual operations. I tell him about Julian’s efforts to transition the family business, how he’s trying to clean up decades of Victor’s mess.
We don’t talk about the important things. The secrets I’m keeping. The children he doesn’t know about. The inevitable moment when everything falls apart. We just exist in this space where we’re two people having dinner, and for a few hours, that’s enough.
When we finish eating, he pays the bill, and we walk outside. The street is quiet, just a few people passing by on their way to somewhere else.
“My apartment is ten minutes from here,” he says.
It’s not a question, but I answer anyway.
“Okay.”
His apartment is in Tribeca. Top floor, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
