Chapter 4
VIVIAN
The restaurant doesn't have prices on the menu, which means either the food is genuinely exceptional or they're embarrassed to print the numbers. Knowing Matthew, it's probably both.
I smooth my dress—off-shoulder, midnight blue, fitted, the one I bought for a brand launch last year and never had any other occasion to wear—and try not to fidget with my wine glass. The sommelier poured something crisp and French, and I think I'm better off not knowing how much each bottle costs.
Matthew sits across from me, perfectly at ease in a charcoal suit that fits him perfectly. If he has someone hand-deliver his ties, then I'm pretty sure one of the dozens of designers he employs is tasked with his suits.
The top button of his shirt is undone, and there's something about the hollow of his throat that makes my brain malfunction slightly.
New detail to add to the ever-growing list of things about Matthew Astor that are going to ruin me: the way the low amber lighting catches the edge of his jaw, sharper in shadow, and the faint scar near his left eyebrow I've never noticed before.
It's small, barely there, but now that I've seen it, I can't stop looking.
"You're staring, Vivian."
I point at my eyebrow. "You have a scar here."
"Yes, I do, and I have Levi to thank for that."
"He beat you up?"
Matthew snorts, and the sound is so unexpected that my eyes widen. Matthew and snorting don't belong in the same sentence. It's a lot like watching a monk break dance. "Levi wouldn't hurt a fly if his life depended on it."
"So…?"
"He threw his baseball, and I just happened to walk into it."
"Ouch."
The waiter appears with appetizers I don't remember ordering—oysters, caviar on tiny toasts, scallops with what looks like white truffles, and something with gold leaf.
I work with luxury brands, but I will never, ever understand people who'll throw money at things that, in my opinion, aren't worth twenty dollars
I'll take mozzarella sticks over gold leaf any day.
Matthew thanks him without breaking eye contact with me, and the waiter melts away. Plus points for Matthew because I always appreciate rich folks who treat the waitstaff with kindness.
I pick up an oyster. "Do you come here often, or is this the kind of place you save for impressing people?"
"Are you impressed?"
"I work in luxury brands, Matthew. I've seen rich people pay five hundred for a bag charm that looks like a rock."
"That's not an answer."
I tip the oyster into my mouth. Briny, cold, weirdly sexual in a way I'm not ready to unpack right now. "The scallops better be life-changing or I'm judging your life choices."
"Noted."
A woman in a red dress that I know was released just this season appears at our table before I can take another bite.
Long blonde hair that shampoo commercials would kill for, skin with absolutely no visible pores, and the kind of effortless elegance that makes me want to check if I have lipstick on my teeth …
or worse, gold leaf even if I haven't touched that thing yet.
"Matthew!" Her manicured hand, with nail polish in the same shade of red as her dress, squeezes his shoulder. "I didn't know you were in town."
Something nasty and unfamiliar slithers in my stomach at the sight of someone else touching him with such casual familiarity. With the slightest hint of intimacy.
He darts his gaze to her hand then her face. "Caroline, how are you? I'd like you to meet Vivian."
I'm so surprised he thinks I'm worthy of being introduced that I have to quickly swallow my second oyster. I can do nothing but smile and nod.
Caroline looks at me, rakes her eyes from the top of my head to my hand, and her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Lovely to meet you."
I have to clear my throat because no one told me an oyster could choke you to death. "You too."
She lingers for another beat, fingers still on Matthew's shoulder, before drifting away toward a table near the windows.
"Friend of yours?"
"Acquaintance."
"She touched you like you were a limited-edition handbag she was considering purchasing."
Matthew's eyes crinkle at the corners. "That's disturbingly accurate and very on-brand."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
The thing is, he didn't give her anything. Not a lingering look, not a shift in posture, not even a hint of interest. She was just … there. Background noise. And when she left, his attention came right back to me like it had never moved.
That shouldn't do the things to me that it does, but here we are.
"Does this happen everywhere you go?"
"Does what happen?"
"Women giving you googly eyes."
"I don't know. I don't notice."
"Well, they notice you."
Matthew smirks as he studies me with that unsettling focus. "Do you want me to be friendlier with them?"
"No." The word is out before I realize, and I mentally punch myself for saying it.
"You don't have to worry, Vivian. Right now, the only person I'm interested in talking to is sitting across from me, so the rest doesn't matter."
Oh.
Oh no.
That should not have hit as hard as it did. I take a long sip of wine to cover the fact that my face is burning. But since he's clearly in the mood to be honest, I take a risk and ask something that's been bugging me. "Can I ask you something?"
"You will ask regardless of my answer."
"Yes would have been shorter."
"Your question, Vivian."
The main course arrives, and we go silent for a few minutes. The dry-aged beef melts in my mouth, and I don't know how much Matthew's about to pay, but I do know it's worth it … especially since I'm not footing the bill.
The universe knew better than to make me rich because I'd have this for breakfast, lunch, and dinner until I get sick of it.
I almost forgot I'm about to ask him, so I set the fork down and say, "Why are you a little terrifying at work? I mean, Levi can be a bit demanding too, but his employees don't feel like peeing when he calls them in his office."
Matthew swallows his steak before responding.
"Vivian, you have to understand. The Astor Group has around fifteen thousand employees.
Their mortgages. Their kids' college tuition.
Their retirement funds. They depend on the company for these things and more.
I can't fuck it up. I can be tough, sure, but at least everyone can sleep soundly at night, knowing they'll still have jobs in the morning and that the company isn't at risk of going under. "
It's not the answer I expected, but it's the one that makes most sense. Because this Matthew and the one at the bar are the real versions of him. "That's a lot of weight."
He shrugs. "Somebody has to carry it."
"For what it's worth," I say slowly, "you're not the worst boss I've had."
"High praise."
"I once worked for a woman who carried a stress ball everywhere, and whenever she got stressed, she’d throw it … at anything."
"At people?"
"At people. Makes you wonder if she misunderstood what a stress ball is actually for. I learned to duck before I learned her middle name. She also didn't use our actual names—just descriptions. I was 'the brunette who's always late.'"
"Were you always late?"
"Once. I was late because my neighbor, Alice, couldn't find her cat, and she was crying. I spent an hour looking for it, only to realize it was lounging on my couch."
Matthew laughs but almost instantly quiets. "Dance with me."
The sudden change in topic almost gives me whiplash."What?"
He nods toward the small section of the restaurant where a couple is swaying to soft jazz piped through invisible speakers. "Dance with me."
"That's not really dancing. That's just swaying. Stylishly, but still just swaying."
"Then sway in style with me."
On the dance floor, we move … barely, just shifting weight from foot to foot in a way that probably looks ridiculous from the outside. See, I have many talents, but dancing is definitely not one of them.
"You're tense," he whispers against my ear.
"I'm always tense. It's part of my charm."
His thumb traces a slow circle against my spine, and the casual intimacy of it sends heat pooling low in my stomach. My pulse starts pounding between my thighs, insistent and impossible to ignore, and I shift slightly—just enough to press closer.
Matthew notices, and his hand tightens on my back, his body going rigid for half a second before he pulls me flush against him.
I lift my gaze towards his face. What I see in his eyes makes my knees tremble and go weak with want.
"I-I need to use the restroom."
I don't wait for his permission. I just slip out of his arms and head toward the back of the restaurant, past the bar and through a hallway lined with black-and-white photographs of people I don't recognize.
The bathroom is all marble and gold fixtures, and normally, I'd take my time admiring it. But not now. Not when my heart feels like it's about to escape its cage.
I'm still staring at my flushed face in the mirror, trying to get my pulse under control, when the door opens.
Matthew steps inside and locks it behind him.
"This is the women's room," I say stupidly.
"I'm aware."
He crosses the space between us in two strides and kisses me.
The kiss hits like a fuse igniting. His mouth is hot, demanding, claiming mine with a hunger that sends sparks of pleasure skittering down my legs. My arms wrap around his neck as I pull him closer, needing to feel every rigid inch of him against me.
Matthew backs me up until the cold marble wall slams into my spine, the shock of icy stone against my overheated skin ripping a sharp gasp from my throat that he devours.
The contrast is dizzying—a chilled wall at my back, his scorching body molding to my front, the hard length of his cock already pressing insistently against my stomach through our clothes.
My thighs clench together on instinct, but it only makes the ache worse, that deep, throbbing need that's been building since the moment he pulled me onto the dance floor.
God, this is reckless.