Page 28 of Mister St. James

Cat’s eyes flick to me, something warm and private in them, before she turns back to Marcus. “Maybe he just needed someone who wasn’t intimidated by the calendar.”

“Truly, Catalina, thank you for whatever magic you worked on this uptight bastard, I haven’t seen him this human in years.”

I want to say something sharp in return, but all I can manage is, “You can both shut up anytime.”

Cat grins, finishes her wine, and leans into me. “He’s cute when he’s grumpy.”

They circle through more stories, some about college, some about the hellscape that is modern business, some about nothing in particular. The wine goes faster than I planned, but not in a bad way. I find myself talking more than usual, laughing at Marcus’s old stories, even correcting his facts when he tries to make himself look cooler than he was. Cat gets in on the action, teasing Marcus for his lack of Instagram presence—“Do you even exist if you’re not on social?”—and when he tries to roast her back, she torches him so thoroughly I almost feel bad.

Almost.

Eventually, I realize my hand is at the small of Cat’s back, thumb brushing circles over the fabric of her dress. When her glass gets low, I refill it without thinking. She does the same for me, and neither of us says a word about it.

At one point, Cat is describing the world’s most ill-advised tequila night, and Marcus slaps the table hard enough to threaten the glassware. “How have you kept her hidden? I would have assumed you’d show her off on every red carpet in the city.”

Marcus sets his glass down and looks at me the way he used to before a negotiation, patient, waiting, reading the room. He wants to know if she’s a one-off, a stunt, a midlife experiment. He wants to know if I’m serious.

I pause, reaching for my wine. “Listen, I’ve shown my girlfriend off more than you think.”

There’s a half-beat where the word ‘girlfriend’ hangs between us, bigger than it ought to be. I didn’t plan to say it. I feel the muscles in my jaw go rigid as the sentence lands. Cat blinks, then covers her smile by sipping her wine, her other hand gently crawling up my thigh.

Marcus sets his glass down, eyes wide, then lets out a single, impressed whistle. “Well, shit. I honestly never thought I’d hear you say that word.”

Cat grins. “Oh, he’s full of surprises.”

Marcus laughs again, but there’s something else now. A curiosity, maybe, or a kind of cautious pride. He looks at me, really looks, the way only someone with fifteen years of history can peer straight into your fucking soul. “Aiden St. James with a girlfriend. Hell must be freezing over as we speak.”

I shrug, but the gesture feels unnatural, like a borrowed movement. “You get older, things change.”

He watches me, then turns to Cat. “You know, he’s never kept a girlfriend. Not since…” He stops, then gives me a quick, apologetic glance. “Well, never. Not a single one made it past a week. Not that he didn’t try, but…the man is allergic to distraction.”

Cat doesn’t miss a beat. “Maybe I’m not a distraction. Maybe I’m just efficient.”

Marcus’s eyes crinkle with approval. “That must be it. The woman’s a logistics genius.”

She bows, mock formal, then excuses herself to the restroom. “Don’t talk too much shit about me while I’m gone,” she says, and lets her hand drag delicately across the back of my neck as she passes. Both of us watch her as she glides through the tables, disappearing into the dim corridor beyond.

The moment she’s out of sight, Marcus leans in, voice dropping. “All right, man. What’s the story? You actually into her, or is this just a phase?”

I know what he’s asking. He wants to know if this is another one of my engineered relationships, a calculated risk with a fixed endpoint, or if it’s something messier.

I look down at my plate, the remains of the duck cold and perfect on the edge of the dish. “She’s different.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Marcus says. “But how?”

I take a breath, steady and measured. “She gets under my skin. She doesn’t let me retreat into my own head. With her, I don’t feel like I have to be in control all the time.”

He digests this, swirling his wine. “She’s your assistant, isn’t she?”

“She is.”

He knows me better than I know myself sometimes and it’s scary.

He raises an eyebrow, skeptical. “And you don’t see how that could be problematic?”

“Of course it’s a problem,” I snap, then rein it in, raking my fingers through my hair. “It’s literally every fucking kind of HR violation and probably some they haven’t even thought to include yet.” I remove my glasses and set them on the table, before scrubbing my hand over my face. “If anyone ever found out, it could nuke both our careers. The company. Everything I’ve worked my entire life for.”

“So why do it?” he asks, and the tone isn’t judgmental. He really wants to know.