"You're not?"
"No." He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. "Everyone has their preferences. Their interests. There's nothing wrong with knowing what you like."
The way he says it. The way he's looking at me.
I swallow hard. "Right. Of course."
"Have you finished it?"
"The... the book?"
"Yes."
"I, um. No. I finished the one before it. The first one you found. This is the sequel."
"And?" There's a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Did you enjoy the first one?"
This is a test. It has to be. He's seeing if I'll squirm. If I'll get flustered and change the subject.
But something in me straightens. Maybe it's the way he's looking at me. Maybe it's the fact that I've spent the last twenty-four hours thinking about him in ways I absolutely should not be thinking about a client. Maybe it’s because I want to know what he’ll say or do next.
"I did," I say, meeting his gaze. "It was well-written. The characters had depth. And the dynamic between them was... compelling."
"Compelling."
"Yes."
He doesn't break eye contact. "What did you find compelling about it?"
My pulse is racing. I should not be talking about a Daddy Dom book with a client. Especially not a sexy older client, one that looks like he’d fit the description. I should not answer his questions. What I should do is change the subject, bring it back around to the party and the gifts. Instead? I answer the man. "About the book or the relationship they built?"
"Both."
"It’s written by one of my favorite authors. When she writes, she puts her entire heart into each story. I loved the small town vibes but also the way her characters always find the person they need most. The trust the two develop together, and the way her Daddyreallysaw her. It’s like in these relationships, the Daddy can see past what the little shows the world, her outside persona and see through to what she really craves. A safe space where she can be vulnerable and let everything go."
Ethan's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes. Something that gives me butterflies in my stomach.
"That's a very mature observation," he says quietly.
"I'm twenty-six. I'm allowed to have mature observations."
"Twenty-six." He says it like he's tasting the number. "I'm forty-two."
"I know." I found that out when I Googled him. Please don’t ask how I know.
"Does that bother you?"
"Should it?"
"Some people would say yes."
I lift my chin. "I'm not some people. Besides, why would your age bother me? I’m just an employee hired to do a job."
The corner of his mouth lifts. Just barely. But I see it.
"No," he says. "You're not."
What does that mean? The moment stretches between us, taut and electric.
