"Something strong," I say. "Please."
"Finally, an honest woman." He signals a server with two fingers. "You're in good hands."
I look across the table at Bennet, who is leaning back in his chair watching us with the most relaxed expression I've seen on him since the moment I walked into his building. It does things to my insides that I've been trying to manage all day.
I avoided him after this morning. I had no real reason to be in the Sullivan offices after the board meeting was canceled, so I went back to my apartment and had some quality time with the shower head. By the time evening rolled around, I was a nervous wreck; the morning replaying on a loop in my head, wondering if it was doing the same in his.
When I opened the door after he knocked, I had to take a quiet second to collect myself. He was wearing a black Henley, sleeves pushed to the elbow showing off his ink, hair fully up in a bun that should not work as well as it does on a man his size. A simple necklace sat against his collarbone, two rings on his right hand, dressy black jeans and boots that managed to look effortless and purposeful at the same time. I stood in my doorway for a minute longer than was strictly necessary before I remembered I was supposed to be functioning.
Everything about this man was designed to make vaginas weep.
Mine included.
"Mrs. Monroe." He said with a smirk, hands in his pockets.
"Mr. Sullivan." I couldn't stop the blush. "Pleasure to see you again."
The ride was quiet, but not with our usual angry tension. His eyes kept grazing my thighs — I'd chosen a burgundy shorts suit, the shorts leaving very little to the imagination, paired with a matching jacket, a white low-cut blouse and stilettos that make my calves look magnificent.
My legs were crossed, giving him a full thigh view, and I could tell he was struggling with it, which I told myself was purely strategic and not at all because I'd learned absolutely nothing.
Now, here we are.
"How is Lauren and the kids?" Bennet asks.
"You're still a rude son of a bitch," Samson scolds, but there's no heat in it. He turns back to me like he's decided I'm the more interesting conversationalist at the table. "Bennet and I grew up together. Lost touch for a while around high school when I moved this way with my family, then reconnected whenhe partnered with my father-in-law to design this very building." He spreads his hands. "This guy is one of the smartest men I've ever met. Annoyingly so."
"That's lovely to hear." I reach for my wine glass and keep my voice light, casual, like I'm just making conversation and not registering every word. "So, you both grew up here in LA?"
"No, we were in—"
"Don't you have a kitchen to run, Monroe?" Bennet cuts in. He's looking at Samson with an expression that is warm on the surface and has a very specific message underneath it. "You're ruining my date with this beautiful woman of mine."
"Dracu. Of course." He stands, spreading his hands in mock apology. "Forgive me. I'll come back to check on you both before dessert." He leans down and punches Bennet in the arm — not a tap, a genuine punch, the kind that carries the weight of years of friendship and absolutely no restraint.
Bennet's face scrunches.
Samson walks away toward the kitchen, looking profoundly satisfied with himself.
"Motherfucker," Bennet says under his breath, pressing his fingers to the spot with a wince.
Whatever Samson was about to say, Bennet shut it down on purpose. I pick up my wine and say nothing. I just file it — the way he shut that sentence down, the specific look he gave Samson, the name of the city that almost came out — into the growing stack of things about Bennet Sullivan that don't add up and that I intend to find the bottom of, eventually.
"He seems to love you," I say.
"Yeah,” he nods, “he and his family are great people."
I set my glass down. "Can I ask you something?"
"Yeah." He takes a sip of wine. "What is it?"
"Are we passed the whole'I don't want to know about you and you don't need to know about mething?" I use what I now realize is a voice that sounds like a mock Batman, low and graveled, which was not intentional, but I'm committing to it.
He devilishly smirks. “Was that supposed to be me?”
I chuckle. “It was a pretty good impression, if I do say so myself.” I mockingly brush off my shoulders.
"It absolutely wasn't." He laughs — god, I hate how much I love that sound. "But to answer your question. I'm trying to be over it."
