“That’s vague.”
“That’s intentional.”
“Do you enjoy being mysterious?”
“Not particularly.”
“You’re very good at it.”
“Comes with the job.”
There it is.
I lean in slightly. “Which is?”
He holds my gaze for a beat. “Complicated.”
I exhale a laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“So I’ve been told.”
The drinks arrive, and for a moment, we fall into something easier—small talk that doesn’t feel small, questions that lead to more questions, the kind of conversation that flows without effort.
He asks about my favorite spots in the city.
I ask about where he’s lived before.
He deflects some things, answers others. It never feels like he’s shutting me out, but it’s cagey.
And weirdly, it makes me want to learn more.
“So,” he says after a while, his voice a little lower now, “you mentioned being picky.”
“I did.”
“What made you bid on me?”
I open my mouth. Close it.
Because I could say something flippant. Something that keeps this light.
Instead, I find myself saying, “You didn’t look like you were trying.”
His brows lift slightly.
“Everyone else,” I continue, gesturing vaguely, “they were… performing. You just stood there like you didn’t need to.”
“And that worked on you?”
“Unfortunately.”
His gaze drops briefly to my mouth before coming back up. “Good to know.”
My stomach flips. This is bad.
This is very, very bad.
He straightens, like he’s made a decision. “Let me take you to dinner.”
