Chapter 26
twenty-six
SADIE
“If I’d known we were eating in public, I’d have changed into something nicer,” I say, glancing around the softly lit hotel restaurant. “Are you sure you want people to see us together in public?”
I tug at the hem of my T-shirt – it’s white, slightly wrinkled, and emblazoned with Stop Staring At My Books in bright red script across the chest – another of Romy’s gifts. Paired with faded jeans and the remnants of a stress headache, I’m definitely not dressed for a date night.
If that’s what it is. I’m not sure, right now. All I know is that as soon as we dropped my bags in his apartment, Zach marched me here, to the hotel’s swankiest restaurant, and told me to order whatever I want, whether it’s on the menu or not.
Zach looks across the table at me. His eyes are warm, his mouth is curved in that slow, devastating way that makes every cell in my body explode.
“I don’t care what you wear to eat with me,” he says. “Though I admit, the t-shirt’s a bonus.” And for what it’s worth, he really can’t stop looking.
We’re tucked beneath a wide window with a view of the ocean beyond. Zach ordered us drinks before we sat down, and now he’s leaning back, his long legs stretched out, his hand cradling a whiskey like he’s done it a thousand times before.
“Aren’t you worried that people will talk about us?” I ask him, genuinely curious for his response.
“No.” His answer is unequivocal. “Are you?”
Weirdly, I’m not. I shake my head, his eyes catching mine again with the kind of look that makes my thighs squeeze tighter.
An elegant waitress appears beside our table, carrying a bread basket and two menus.
Her gaze flicks to Zach, then back to me.
Her smile seems polite, but her curiosity piqued.
She sets the bread between us, tells us the specials, and disappears before I can decide whether I imagined the way her eyes lingered on him.
Zach tears a piece of sourdough from the basket and slides it onto my plate. “Eat,” he says, like he’s challenging me to refuse him.
But I am hungry, so I slide the crust between my lips. God, that’s good. I let out a contented groan. “If the bread tastes like this, what’s the rest of the food like?”
“You’ve never eaten here before?” he asks, sounding surprised.
I shake my head. “No. Never had the need. And nobody’s asked me.”
“Fucking fools.” He smiles and offers me another piece of bread. I attack it hungrily. “Have you decided what you want to eat?” he asks me.
I wrinkle my nose, because no. I was too busy staring at him.
“Want me to order for you?” he asks.
It’s weird how I like that he offers. Because right now I don’t want to choose, and I think he knows that. I really agonize over the stupidest of things sometimes. “Yes, that sounds good.”
A smile flickers over his lips.
He orders in a low voice, and the waitress nods with the kind of reverence usually reserved for royalty. I sip my wine, trying not to stare as he speaks.
There’s something so completely attractive about a man who knows exactly what he’s doing. Maybe it’s the confidence. Or the way his voice turns husky when he talks about food, like it’s something intimate.
When the waitress leaves, he catches me watching him over the rim of my glass. “What?” he asks, that half smile playing at his lips again.
“Nothing.” I shake my head and smile into my drink.
“Come on, what’s that look about. Did I choose the wrong thing?”
The smile pulls harder at my cheeks. When I look up, he’s got that intense expression on his face again, like he’s trying to figure me out.
“Not at all. You chose good things. I guess I haven’t had a man order for me before.” I tilt my head. “Maybe I like you taking care of me.”
He swills his whiskey around his glass. “Maybe I like it too.”
It’s strange how easy this feels. Like we’ve slipped into a rhythm of something that’s meant to be. Even if it feels as natural as breathing, I know this isn’t real. But when he looks at me with those stormy eyes, I can’t help but wonder how it would be if we were real.
If we were a couple.
I push that thought away, because nothing good ever comes from wishing for something you can’t have.
“Tell me about your work,” I inquire, because I’m genuinely interested. And I’m tired of talking about myself. “You said as well as the gallery you travel a lot.”
He takes a sip of his whiskey, a bead clinging to his bottom lip.
I have to fight the urge to reach across and touch him.
“I mostly source expensive art for very rich people. They build an extra wing on their mansion, they need art to make people know they still have money.” He shrugs, like it’s nothing.
“So they give you a shopping list or something?” I ask.
“Sometimes. But mostly, they ask me to suggest what would work. With the age of the building, the aesthetic they want, their personal tastes. And then I go hunting. Find a piece, negotiate a price, take a cut.”
“You make it sound easy,” I murmur. “And I’m sure it’s not.”
“It involves a lot of travel, which is tiring. And of course a lot of negotiation.”
“I bet you’re good at that,” I say.
He laughs softly. “What makes you say that?”
“Because you have a golden tongue,” I say, running my finger around the rim of my glass. “You could persuade me to do whatever you want me to. And I’m sure you have the same effect on other people.”
He grins, slow and smug, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “I think you’ll find it’s the other way round.”
That makes something low in my belly tighten. He’s too good at this. At toeing the line between playful and intense. At looking at me like he’s memorizing the curve of my lips or the shape of my thoughts. Like he wants to unwrap them, one at a time.
“And how does Larry fit into this?” I ask. “You said you do investigative work?”
“I’m mentoring him among other things,” he says. “He started out working in the gallery part time, when he was in college. Then he had an accident. He was pretty messed up for months. And although he came back to work eventually, it was clear he wasn’t the same.”
“What kind of accident?” I frown.
“He was run off the road at night. Drove through a barrier into a storm drain. Nobody found him until the next morning. According to the doctors, it was a miracle he survived,” Zach says, his voice lower.
“Broken ribs, fractured skull, concussion, collapsed lung. But the worst part was the effect it had on him long term. After he healed.”
He takes a breath and I stay quiet, watching him as he swirls the amber liquid in his glass.
“He barely leaves the gallery or the apartment above it,” Zach continues. “Crowds make him panic. Loud noises. Being in cars. Some days are better than others, but he hasn’t left the building in over a year.”
My breath catches. “God.”
“And since I’m away so much, he’s the one who keeps everything running day to day. I send pieces in, he catalogs and sells them. We have a couple of assistants who help with outside appointments. But Larry’s got the eye.” There’s a strange expression on his face.
“So you’re training him so he can do more?”
Zach doesn’t answer right away. His jaw shifts like he’s grinding something between his teeth. “Something like that. I want him to feel capable. So he knows he’s more than what happened to him.”
I study his face, the quiet set of his features. The way he hides how much he cares under all that sharp-edged calm.
“You’re a good man,” I whisper.
For some reason that makes him wince.
“No,” he says. “I’m really not.” He pulls his gaze away from me, like he’s afraid for me to see what’s there. But all I can think about is the way he takes care of the people who work for him.
And me.
“Yes, you are,” I say.
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t look at me. Not yet. Instead, he tastes his drink in one slow swallow, his throat working as the whiskey disappears.
“People like to paint me a certain way,” he says when he puts his glass down. “But they don’t know the full picture.”
I reach for his hand across the table, my fingertips brushing his. “Maybe not. But I know what I see.”
His eyes meet mine then, darker than before, but softer too. And this time, he doesn’t look away.
“Then maybe you’re the one who’s not seeing clearly,” he says, his voice rough. He slides his fingers into mine, his thumb curling until he’s holding my hand.
“Or maybe,” I murmur, sliding my fingers into his, “I see you better than you do.”
He doesn’t answer. He only looks at me like he’s memorizing something, some part of me I can’t see. Then he sets our hands gently back on the table.
“Did I ever tell you about the first time I saw you?” he asks.
The shift catches me off guard. “At the resort?” I say. “When you called me mediocre?”
He shakes his head. “I called the art mediocre. Not you. And I was in a bad mood. I’d been traveling for days, I’d gotten some news I wasn’t happy with. I’m sorry you bore the brunt of it.”
“Maybe I like bearing the brunt of you,” I murmur. His gaze darkens on mine, like he knows what I’m talking about.
The waitress arrives, balancing two steaming plates on her arm. She murmurs something polite as she sets them down, but I don’t catch a word of it. Zach leans back in his chair, offering her a nod of thanks, and when she leaves, the spell between us shifts but doesn’t break.
The scent hits me first. Truffle, butter, and pasta, rich and warm. My mouth waters. I look down and blink. “You ordered this for me?”
“You’ll love it,” he says, casually picking up his fork.
I do. The first bite melts on my tongue, and I let out a soft moan that makes him groan under his breath.
“You keep making that noise, and I’m going to have to carry you out of here,” he murmurs.
“Maybe I want you to,” I say, before taking another bite.
The pasta slides down too well. And all I can think about is how I love this. Being here with him, eating with him.
Feeling the way he can’t tear his gaze away from me.
“Did you ever think it was strange,” I ask him. “That I wanted you to chase me? That I got…” I let out a breath. “I don’t know. Turned on by it?”
He blinks, like he’s really considering my question. Another thing I like about him. He doesn’t give glib responses. He really thinks about his words.
“No.” He shakes his head. “There’s nothing strange about being turned on by power plays. Which is really what that night was about. And it’s nothing to be ashamed about either. You wanted something, I wanted to give it to you. And I think we both enjoyed it.”
The way he says it, so honestly, so clear, makes something in my chest twist. “You enjoyed being the hunter?” I ask him.
His lips part. “There’s something, I don’t know, primal I guess, in most men.
Including me. It’s not like I want to be constantly dominant, the same way you don’t want to be constantly submissive.
But there are times and places when playing those roles can be very enjoyable. Especially when sex is involved.”
I let out a breath. “So you enjoyed it too?”
He smirks. “Couldn’t you tell?”
A smile pulls at my lips. “Well, yes. But…”
“But nothing. I enjoyed it very much. Seeing you give something so precious up to me, if only for a few hours, was a turn on.”
Our eyes meet. And I feel the need rising in me again. “Would you do it again?”
“Hunt you?”
I shake my head. “Not necessarily a hunt. I mean, just play with the power part. Is that what you like?”
The corner of his lip lifts. “Is that what you like?” he asks softly, like he’s trying to read my thoughts.
“Sometimes,” I whisper.
His gaze dips to my mouth. “Is that what you need, baby?”
The way he says it sends a shot of pleasure through my body. “I think so,” I breathe.
He pauses for a moment, like he’s considering my words. Then he nods at my pasta. “Eat your dinner.”
And I don’t know if this is part of the play, or just his need to boss me, but I pick my fork up anyway, spearing a noodle into my mouth.
He does the same, eating his steak, and when he’s done, he drains the last of his whiskey.
Then he looks at me like a man with a plan. Maybe a man who needs this as much as I do.
“Go to my apartment,” he says, his voice low, sliding the key across to me.
I arch a brow. “Now?”
“Yes. Take a shower. Get relaxed.”
I shift in my seat, my thighs pressing together. “And what will you be doing?” But I think I already know.
His smile pulls at his eyes. They’re fixed on me, storm-dark and burning with promise. He leans in, his voice dropping until it’s a growl meant only for my ears.
“I’ll be coming to find you when I’m fucking ready.”
My breath catches. How does he know I need this? The same way I needed the pasta? The man has to be a mind reader. Or at least a me-reader.
And I can’t help but fall for him a little more.
The key sits between us, shining like a dare. I glance at it. Then at him.
My fingers hover for a moment, breath caught somewhere between my chest and throat. I’m not sure if it’s anticipation or nerves, but my skin tingles with both.
When I slip the key into my palm, my heart pounds so hard I can hear it in my ears.
“Now go,” he says, his voice a rough command, his gaze leaving my face.
So I stand up, and let out a long breath before I turn on my heels, and start walking away from him.
Knowing he’s watching my every step.