Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Her smile disappears, and I realize I pushed too far, was too flirty, especially after our argument earlier.
“I should go,” she says, scooting toward the edge of the booth.
I reach out a hand to stop her, almost touching her arm but not quite. “No, stay. You can point and laugh. I’ll even let you take pictures.” I soften my voice. “Just . . . don’t leave.”
She hesitates, and my stomach clenches with the realization that she’s going to walk away.
I should be used to it. Most of my life’s been spent braced for the moment where I’m shipped off to the next home, or told that scholarship kids aren’t welcome, or that I need a sponsor to get into whatever bullshit club only takes people related to the Rockefellers.
I thought I’d grown used to it—that rejection or dismissal no longer has the power to hurt me like it did my nine-year-old self or even my nineteen-year-old self.
But I’ve never wanted—needed—anything like I want her to stay.
To want me back.
Lara sighs, and then tosses her purse onto the seat beside her. “Okay, I’ll stay. But no pictures.” She holds up a warning finger. “I shouldn’t be seen with you out on a Friday night, and there definitely shouldn’t be any photo evidence of it.”
Slowly, the tightness in my chest loosens, the tension replaced by something even more dangerous. I clear my throat to hide my reaction.
“So, I, um . . .” She takes a deep breath. “I owe you an apology.”
I look up in surprise. “What?”
“I should have done my research before I came barging into your office today,” she says, holding my gaze. “I should have contacted Veronica Sperry first, seen if it was even a valid piece of evidence. I’ve looked into it since then, and I was . . . wrong. She laughed it off as a drunken moment, said she doesn’t even remember that night, much less the kiss.”
I feel a surge of hope. “Does this mean you’re dropping the case?”
She hesitates, and I deflate slightly.
“Never mind,” I mutter.
“Mr. Bradley—”
To change the topic from whatever SEC line she’s going to feed me, I nod in the direction of the table she left, where a very hot woman is talking to a guy with dark hair. “Friends of yours?”
She glances over her shoulder, her eyes assessing. “Gabby. That’s her ex.”
“Ah. Explains the intense conversation,” I say, noting the way the woman’s hands move furiously as she talks. Even from across the room, everything about both of their body languages screams unfinished business.
“I’m giving them space. They dated for a year. She was crazy about him, and she thought he felt the same. But he got a job offer in Amsterdam and took it.”
“She didn’t go with?”
“She wasn’t asked.”
I study her for a moment, trying to assess her mood. She seems nervous, but I don’t think it’s me. In fact, I get the distinct sense that it’s the club that has her slightly on edge, and I’m the familiar safe space in the room.
The theory pleases me more than I care to admit.
“Drink?” I ask, gesturing at the bottles of vodka and mixers on the table.
“Oh, I shouldn’t.”
I reach for one of the clean glasses and pour a splash of Grey Goose into it, as well as a scoop of rapidly melting ice from the bucket. “Tonic? Soda?”
“Mr. Bradley—”
“Lara,” I interrupt, and her gaze collides with mine at my use of her first name. “Have a drink with me,” I say, my voice a little gruff.
She swallows before her gaze darts to her friend’s table. Finally, she sighs. “Tonic. Please.”
I fill the glass with the tonic and slide it toward her.
She looks up. “You’re not having one?”
“I only like Negronis.”
“Perhaps you should reconsider,” she says, her gaze dropping to my shirt. “To something clear.”
I pretend to think this over. “Valid point.”
I make myself a vodka tonic as well, not because I particularly want it but because I want her to feel more at ease.
I lift my glass in a toast. “To . . . Well, hell. I don’t know that I’ve got a damn thing in my life to toast to right now.”
“That’s not true,” she says softly, putting her glass down. “You’ve got great friends. Your assistant would die for you. You probably make more money in a month than I will in my lifetime.”
“And I’ve got the SEC just waiting to take it all away,” I say. Not to punish her but to remind her—to remind both of us—just how much power she has over my life.
“Mr. Bradley—” She takes a breath. “Ian. I’ve told you since the very beginning that if you’re guilty, I’ll find the evidence. But if you’re innocent, I’ll find that, too.”
I force a smile. “How long until you think you’ll drop that if?”