Page 33 of Broken Vows

What can I possibly say to that? I think if Theo weren’t a doctor, he’d make a good lawyer. How can I tell him that he was once my heartbreak? We have history together that he doesn’t even remember. Theo has never been just a job. “Aren’t I just an employee?”

“You are not just an employee.”

An unexpected warmth zips through me. “What would you call me then?”

Slowly, his lips tug into a smirk. “Complicated.”

The word flutters down like dirty snowflakes. Theo picks back up his fork and knife. When my phone rings with a vendor’s name on the screen, he stops mid-cut and holds my gaze. “Do you need to take the call?”

“Probably a good idea.” And I can use this excuse to escape whatever we’d just shared a few moments before. How is it that I both know this man and don’t? That seven years have passed since I last saw him, and our interactions back then were minimal at best, and yet I know him. He wants to know that he’s my first choice, that I’ll sacrifice for him, that I want him. And I refuse to let him live in this delusion. Because no matter how surprisingly civil this day has been, I have not forgotten the woman from the hotel, or what happened in Boston.

I step away from the table, out of earshot, and confirm an appointment with a decorator for early Tuesday. I spend another minute speaking into a dead line, knowing, but really not caring, how fucking twisted it is that I’m fueled by this power trip.

I return to the table and slide my phone into my bag as I sit down. The air between us is different now—thicker, heavier. Theo’s posture is relaxed, almost too relaxed, but his eyes are anything but. They track my every move, sharp and unyielding, like a predator sizing up its prey.

“You get your date lined up for tonight?” he asks, his voice low and smooth, but there’s a bite beneath the surface.

I freeze at the tone before forcing a casual shrug. “Not sure that’s any of your business.”

His lips curve into a faint, humorless smile. “Must be nice to have so many… interested parties.”

This is not a compliment. My stomach tightens, but I refuse to let it show. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He leans back in his chair, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass. “Nothing. Just an observation.”

I want to claw his face. A silent standoff ignites as my chest burns and his eyes narrow. The waiter appears at our table, placing the bill between us like a grenade. Theo reaches for it without hesitation, but my hand shoots out, my fingers brushing his as I grab the other side.

“I’ve got it,” I say, firmly.

Theo’s grip doesn’t falter. “No, you don’t.”

My eyes snap to his, and his intense gaze sends a shiver down my spine. “I’m not letting you pay for me,” I say again, enunciating each word with a knife-sharp edge. I will never owe this man. Not even for a meal.

“And I’m not letting you pay for me,” he counters, his voice dropping lower, almost a growl.

We’re close now, leaning over the table, our faces inches apart, tension palpable. “Do you not like the idea of a woman paying for you?” I say, keeping my voice quiet, but no less cutting.

A muscle in his jaw flexes, his fingers still gripping the tray holding the bill. “No. I don’t.”

My lips curve into a slow, wicked smile. “Afraid of being in my debt, Theo? What do you think I’d do with that kind of power?”

His eyes darken. “I could think of worse things.”

“Fair enough,” I say, my voice lowering to a near whisper. “Because you should be.” I say this almost to myself, but by the way he stills, I know he caught it. We stay locked in a silent battle of wills. He wants to feel like he won? Sure, I’ll let him. But it’s all part of the game. The more he lets his guard down, the more I can uncover his secrets.

With deliberate slowness, I release my hold and sit back, my smile never wavering.

“Fine,” I say, my tone dripping with mock sweetness. “I’ll let you pay. Consider me… indebted to you.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something dark and unreadable flickers in his eyes.

“Careful, Lexie,” he says in a soft warning. “Debts have a way of coming due.”

I stand, grab my bag, and sling it over my shoulder. “I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” I quirk up a brow in a silent challenge. “Thanks for lunch.”

Without another word, I pivot and bolt away, leaving him at the table, the bill in his hand and a storm brewing in his eyes. God, it feels good. Too good. For years this man held the power. Back in school. With my future. My career. These little wins would make my nineteen-year-old-self proud.

A small, satisfied grin grows as I exit the restaurant and reach outside. Finally, I have the last word. We still have more venues to visit, but I’ve decided, right now, that I’ll go on my own to pre-vet.