6. Delaney
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.
When we’re finished with the appetizer and salad, another man—the sommelier, I assume—arrives with a bottle of wine.
He holds it out to Samson. “Your Pauillac, Mr. Vexley.” He uncorks it expertly and pours a small amount into Samson’s glass. “Cabernet dominant. You’ll notice darker fruit, blackcurrant, a bit of cedar. It opens slowly, but there’s depth once it does.”
Samson nods, picks up the wineglass, and swirls the wine. “Nice nose,” he says. “I smell the cedar.” He takes a sip. “Delicious. Thank you.”
The sommelier fills my glass without asking.
I like wine, but I don’t know much about it. I can only imagine what this bottle costs.
The sommelier fills Samson’s glass and leaves the opened bottle on our table as he leaves.
Samson nods toward the glass. “Try it.”
I purse my lips. “I’m afraid it may be wasted on me.”
“Good wine is never wasted on anyone.”
It’s not a command. He’s not demanding that I taste it. So why do I feel compelled to obey him?
I pick up the goblet, swirl the wine in the glass, and take a sip.
Wow. It bursts across my tongue. It tastes like red wine, for sure, but it’s smoother, more complex. I’m actually thinking about it as I swallow.
“What do you think?” he asks.
“I’m not sure how to describe it,” I say. “I guess the word that comes to mind is ‘lush.’”
He clears his throat. “Lush is a good word.”
I’m not sure what to say to that, so I say nothing. I’m doing a lot of saying nothing on this date. This date that may not even be a date.
Samson Vexley doesn’t talk a lot. That’s not surprising, given what I know about him, which is precious little except that he’s the brawn of the Vexley family. Brawn doesn’t talk a lot by nature.
Why did he invite me here? And why did I come?
I know the answer to my own question. I’m looking for answers.
But I don’t seem to be getting any. Probably because I’m not sure of which questions to ask this man. And even if I was sure, he wouldn’t answer them anyway.
The dinner passes without any conversation of note. Everything is delicious, from the spinach and strawberry salad with pecan vinaigrette, the filet mignon with baby bella mushrooms and petits haricots verts—which turn out to be thin green beans—and the cinnamon crème br?lée for dessert.
I have to give Samson Vexley credit. He ordered a perfect meal, from the tuna tartare and the wine all the way to the espresso we enjoyed at the end.
“Thank you,” I say, finally laying my napkin across my empty dessert plate. “Everything was delicious.”
He doesn’t reply. Simply looks at me, those amber eyes smoldering.
God…what is he after?
“I… I suppose it’s getting late,” I say.
“Of course.” He rises, pulls out my chair, and offers me his hand.
When I take it, a tingle rushes through me. I’m not surprised. He’s ridiculously attractive in that rugged “I’m going to get what I want no matter what” sort of way.
Outside, the night air is cooler. The city moves around us, yet I almost feel like we’re the only two people here.
I look at him.
And for a moment, I hope he’ll close the distance between us, kiss me with those full and glistening lips.
“I’ll have the car take you home,” he says.
I shake my head. “I can manage.”
His eyes burn into me. “It’s already waiting.”
I tilt my head, try to read his gaze.
He’s unreadable.
What the hell was this night for him? I know why I went. I want answers. Not that I got any. But what was he looking for?
The driver arrives and opens the door.
I get in, declining help from Samson. I look at him, trying to find something—anything—in his expression that will tell me what this evening was about.
Instead, he closes the car door for me and then takes out his phone.
The car begins to move. I watch the streetlamps go by. The motion should settle me.
It doesn’t.
My hand is still on the door handle.
I force myself to let go.
This is ridiculous.
It was dinner.
One conversation. One man. One—
My wrist pulses.
I look down at it before I can stop myself.
There’s nothing there. No mark. No lingering pressure.
And still—
I can feel exactly where his thumb moved.
I curl my fingers slightly, pressing into the inside of my wrist as if I can override the sensation.
It doesn’t help.
My pulse jumps under my touch.
I drop my hand into my lap.
No.
That’s not what this is.
I shift back against the seat, crossing my legs, trying to put distance between myself and the memory.
It doesn’t work. Because it isn’t just the touch. It’s everything around it.
The way he leaned forward—not abruptly, not aggressively—just enough to change the atmosphere between us.
The way his voice lowered when he spoke, like the rest of the room didn’t matter.
The way he looked at me. Not at my dress. Not at my body. At me.
I’ve sat across from men like him before. Men with money, power, influence. They usually look at you like you’re a commodity.
He didn’t.
He looked at me like I was…
God…
Almost like I was a riddle. Or a puzzle he desperately wanted to solve.
I turn my head toward the window and watch the city pass.
I replay the evening because that’s what I do. I break things down. Find the patterns. It’s what makes me a good investigative journalist.
Our conversation was useless. It didn’t go deep into anything.
What the hell was he looking to get out of all of it? And did he get it?
And why was I dying for him to grab me and kiss me?
A chill moves through me.
He didn’t push.
That’s what’s wrong with this.
Men like Samson Vexley are supposed to push. To take up space. To make their presence obvious.
To overwhelm.
He didn’t do any of that.
“That makes him worse,” I murmur under my breath.
Because brute force is predictable.
Samson Vexley is anything but.
I close my eyes for a second.
And that’s when it hits me—not as a thought, but as something lower, more physical.
The memory sharpens.
Not just that he stood when I walked in.
How he looked when he did it.
Dark suit, yes, but that’s not what held my attention.
It was the contrast.
The white shirt underneath, crisp and clean and open at the collar.
No tie.
Everyone else in that room had one.
Every man was playing by the same rules of presentation.
And he just…wasn’t.
Like he didn’t need them.
Like he never had.
I noticed it immediately because it was the only thing in that room that didn’t match everything else.
Then his hair.
Dark. Not perfectly styled. Not careless either. Unruly in a way that didn’t quite obey whatever it was supposed to. Like it refused to be fully contained.
Like him.
I swallow.
And his face.
Strong lines. Clean. Not softened, not exaggerated.
The kind of face people don’t question.
The kind that doesn’t need to try.
And his eyes—
Amber. Warm but not soft. Focused. Always focused.
On me.
I felt it.
His hands…
They’re large. Steady. Perfectly shaped.
The way one of them closed around my wrist.
My pulse jumps.
Hard.
It was just a touch.
That’s all it was.
Except it wasn’t nothing.
It felt—
I shift in my seat, pressing my knees together against the warmth between my legs, desperately trying to ground myself.
The weight of his hand. The heat of it. The way my body reacted before I could stop it.
That’s the part I don’t like. Not him. My reaction to him. I didn’t pull away. I didn’t break the moment.
And worse…
I didn’t want to.
And now I can’t stop thinking about it.
Not about what happened.
About what didn’t.
The space between us. The fraction of distance he left untouched.
If he had leaned in…
I wouldn’t have stopped him.
I open my eyes abruptly and turn toward the window.
Enough.
Think about something else.
The marina. The bartender. Already going to happen.
My breathing evens out as my thoughts sharpen again.
Multiple men. Raised voices. Someone pulled back. Not pushed. Pulled back.
If he was pulled back, then the fall wasn’t the beginning. It was the end. Which means someone knew where it was going.
My stomach tightens again.
Was Samson Vexley there?
The question settles heavier than I want it to.
If Samson Vexley was standing on that dock, he knows what really happened.
Not the version that made it into a report.
The truth.
And if he knows, I’m not going to get it from a conversation across a table he chose, where we dine on a menu he ordered.
He dictated everything about tonight.
The place. The distance. The timing. The food and drink.
Even the moment it ended.
I was inside something he controlled completely.
That’s why I didn’t get what I needed. I was playing inside his space.
I need to see him somewhere else.
The car slows. We’re nearing my building.
Good.
I can work with this.
I grab my purse and notice my phone. I put it on silent during dinner, so I grab it to see if anyone has called.
Damn.
A text from Samson. I click on it.
Next time, you come to me.
My breath catches.
It’s not an invitation. Not even a question.
A direction. A command.
And my God… I want to obey. I want to see him again. More than I want my next breath of air. But if I go to him, I end up in his space again.
An unsettling awareness settles into me.
The driver says something I don’t hear.
I’m still looking at the screen. At Samson’s words.
I don’t respond to the text. Instead, I slip the phone back into my purse.
The driver opens the door for me, and I step out into the night.
I don’t just need answers.
I need access. Which means his space isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
Next time you come to me.
Is he opening the door?
And will I be brave enough to step through?