He looks up at me, meets my eyes for a split second, then immediately looks away, clearing his throat loudly.
I sip the wine and let the silence stretch, watching him try not to squirm. “I’m curious,” I say. “This is the first time you’ve ever been to an event like this, isn’t it?”
He nods, a short sharp jerk of his head. “I grew up thinking parties were just an excuse for the rich to avoid taxes.”
“They are.” I let myself smile at the line, because it’s true. “What did you expect to happen tonight?”
He studies the far wall, where my father’s painting—ugly, valuable—hangs in a frame worth more than his car. “Honestly, I figured I’d get thrown out before dessert. Maybe block-listed from every job in the city. Or… dead.” He trails off, hesitates. “I didn’t think I’d end up here.”
“Here,” I echo. “With me.”
He clears his throat. “With anyone.”
His face is flushed, either from the wine or the context, and he’s careful not to look at me. There’s a vulnerability to him that’s both raw and deliberate. He’s not trying to be strong; he’s just too stubborn to be weak.
I lean towards him, opening my legs and subtly moving over a few inches, closing the space between us. He tenses, just perceptibly. “Yeah, I suppose the invite didn’t leave you much choice, now did it?”
He blinks, then nods, downing the rest of his wine and putting it on the table beside him. He doesn’t set it on the crystal coaster, which makes me smile. There’s not a single wealthy bone on his body and he would die if he knew how much that table cost.
I study his face. In this light, he looks young, but the set of his jaw says otherwise. “So, Landon, tell me—what did you do for Valentine’s last year?”
He makes a face. “I watched a documentary on serial killers and ate half a pizza.” He shrugs. “The year before that, I think I worked late.”
“Anyone special?” I ask, as if the question is benign.
His gaze hardens. “No.”
“No girlfriends in college?”
He stares at the wall again, thinking. “A few, maybe. Nothing that lasted.”
The answers come fast, almost rehearsed, like he’s used to fending off these questions and is waiting for the real one.
I decide to dig deeper. “What’s the longest you’ve ever been with someone?”
He laughs, but it’s not self-deprecating; it’s a little mean, a little self-aware. “If you add up every date, maybe three weeks?”
I like the answer, mostly because it’s unembellished. “So you’re not sentimental.”
He picks at an invisible piece of lint on his pants before finally looking at me. “You don’t really care about this stuff. Why are you asking?”
I tilt my head, considering. “Maybe I want to see what makes you so interesting.”
“Why?” He puts the glass down, and I can see the tension in his hand, the way his fingers curl, then uncurl. “I don’t think there’s anything interesting in there.”
“I disagree,” I say. “You’re interesting because you’re not pretending. You’re the only one in this entire building who isn’t putting on a show.”
He considers this. “Maybe I just don’t have the energy for it.”
“You have enough energy to hack my board’s servers.” I let the line hang, gauging his response.
He flushes. “Yep. Sure did.”
“What did you find?” I already know, but I want him to say it out loud. To solidify the danger he is in if he chooses to back out on our deal.
His eyes narrow, searching my face. “Corruption, embezzlement, maybe evidence of a money laundering ring.”
“And did you?”
