Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 77171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
I am.
“Samson, please,” I say.
“All right. You may call me Delaney, then.”
“I was going to.” I take my seat across from her, watching as she settles.
No fidgeting. No unnecessary movement. She places her hands lightly on the table. She tries to look relaxed even though I know she isn’t.
Our server arrives. “Mr. Vexley, it’s wonderful to see you here. I’m Brian, and I’ll be taking care of you and your guest tonight. Would you care for a cocktail?”
I nod to Delaney.
“Just a glass of water for me, please.”
“Of course.” He gestures to me.
“Twelve-year Pappy’s. Double. Neat.”
“Right away.” Brian bows and leaves.
Delaney and I sit in silence for a moment.
It stretches between us, but it’s not empty silence. To the contrary, it’s full. Full and thick with the energy I already feel between us.
“Manhattan doesn’t seem like your scene,” I finally say.
She offers a small smile. “And what might be my scene?”
I lean in slightly. “Something quieter.”
“Less crowded?”
I tilt my head. “More thought-out.”
Something shifts in her eyes. “Meaning?”
“Someone like you chooses where she goes. You don’t follow the crowd.”
“And do you?”
I catch myself before I chuckle. The mere suggestion of me following anyone is laughable. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re comfortable in your own space.”
Interesting. She’s not wrong. What she doesn’t realize, though, is that I make every space my own.
Brian returns with my bourbon and Delaney’s water. “I understand you’ve already spoken to the sommelier about your wine selection and the chef about your meal.”
“That’s correct,” I say.
“Good. Then I’ll get everything started for you. Please let me know if you need anything else.” Another bow as he leaves.
Delaney reaches for her water, takes a small sip, sets it back down. “Do you always order for the people you dine with?”
I raise an eyebrow. “You disapprove?”
“I didn’t say that.” She takes another sip of water. “Do you spend most of your time in the city?”
“Most.”
“Not all?”
“No.”
“And when you’re not here?”
“I’m elsewhere.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “That’s vague.”
“It’s accurate.”
She looks at me a bit longer and then returns to her water.
I take a sip of my bourbon. It’s smooth like mother’s milk, smoky like a Cuban cigar, with some subtle caramel and a touch of clove.
Fucking perfection.
I lean forward slightly, trying to close the distance between us.
Her breath shifts, and her pulse quickens at her throat.
But she doesn’t move back.
“What do you do, Delaney?” I ask.
“I’m a freelancer,” she says. “Writing. Research.”
I wrinkle my forehead. “About what?”
Her expression doesn’t change. “Depends.”
“And right now?”
She lifts her glass again. A small sip. “Old disputes. Things that don’t get much attention.”
I keep my gaze on hers. “And you find that interesting?”
She narrows her eyes. “I find what people miss interesting.”
I don’t push. Instead, I reach across the table and close my fingers around her wrist. Her skin is warm, and her pulse jumps hard under my touch. She widens her eyes, but she doesn’t pull away. Not even slightly.
Something deeper shifts between us. Not just awareness. Something more.
“You notice a lot,” I say quietly.
“So do you.” Her voice is lower now.
“Anything specific you’re looking for?” I slide my thumb once along the inside of her wrist.
Her breath catches. Again. And again she holds it together.
But for a fraction of a second I sense a break in her rhythm. It’s fleeting. But it’s there.
She covers it quickly. But it’s too late. I saw it, and she knows I saw it.
I release her wrist. Not because she moved. Because I decide to.
I don’t do anything unless I decide to.
“You didn’t answer me,” I say.
“About what?”
“What you’re looking for.”
A pause. Then, “I didn’t come here looking for anything specific.”
That’s a lie. But I won’t press it. I lean back slightly, giving her space again.
Brian arrives with our appetizer. “Ahi tuna tartare with a soy and wasabi glaze, garnished with radish sprouts and melba toast points.”
“Thank you.” I nod to him.
Once he’s gone— “You’re serving me raw fish?” Delaney says.
“You don’t like it?”
“Oh, I love it.” She furrows her brow. “It just doesn’t seem on brand for you.”
“And what might be on brand for me?”
“A two-inch tomahawk ribeye, seared on the outside and raw on the inside.”
I can’t help a smile. “Are you describing what you think I’d like to eat? Or are you describing me?”
Her cheeks flush.
Good. I’ve knocked her off balance.
But something has shifted.
She spreads some of the tuna onto a toast point and takes a bite. After she swallows, she wipes her lips on her napkin. “Delicious.”
I simply nod and take a bite myself.
And I don’t tell her she’s right about my preference for a giant blood-rare steak.
6
DELANEY
My grandmother always told me it was tacky for a man to order for his date. I never went on a second date with anyone who did that with me.
Tonight?
I’m not even sure this is a date.
I’m sitting across from Samson Vexley, watching him drink bourbon that costs more than my rent, and eating tuna tartare—the most sinful and buttery thing I’ve ever put into my mouth.