Chapter 17
Mira
Pushing send on my phone, I snuck a glance at Mr. Reid’s door. He’d kept the blinds closed all day and hadn’t come out once. I’d learned he had his own restroom in the back of his office, which explained why some days he didn’t leave even for food.
Mr. Cross was out doing damage control. I wasn’t sure where Mr. Hale had disappeared to, but the last time I’d suggested bringing Micah in, Mr. Reid had all but bitten my head off.
I understood wanting to keep the circle small, but ours was running out of ideas.
And without new ones soon, we’d all be out of a job.
If he weren’t so damn unbearable, he might actually listen to reason.
Had I really just asked my master to tell me about his day? Of course he’d deflected. Why had I expected anything else?
I sighed. It was past seven. Was he going to stay the night again? I’d been here past eight last night and came in this morning, and he’d still been here.
The floor was silent now. Past seven. He’d probably stay the night again. He had the last two, still here when I’d arrived before dawn, still wearing the same dark shirt suit that somehow never wrinkled.
The floor was empty except for me. With Hale and Cross out and Missy on leave, I’d been the only one fielding whoever came and went.
After four, even that died down. The quiet settled in like static.
I’d spent the last few hours cross-checking accounts, flagging payments due to go out tomorrow.
Without knowing who was compromised, we couldn’t reroute funds or correct vendors. Even the client list was frozen.
Mr. Reid didn’t know who he could trust.
My phone buzzed and heat rushed through me, my whole body flushing.
I’d barely been able to sit on Monday. The bruises along my ass and thighs, along the ache that bloomed every time I sat, were constant reminders of Saturday night.
Of him, of my master. I still didn’t know what possessed me to ask him how his day had gone or offer to listen, but the question had slipped out before I could stop myself.
I glanced at his door again, hoping he’d go home soon but knowing he wouldn’t.
When the door clicked open, I jumped.
“Ms. Rhodes, what are you still doing here?”
“Just finishing up.” I slipped my phone into my purse and stood, trying not to fidget. I’d go through my messages again once I got home, replaying every word from that last night, wishing it were him—my boss—doing those wicked, beautiful things to me and whispering my name as I begged for more.
“Good,” he said, closing his office door behind him. “I’ll walk you out.”
He was leaving. That was… good. Maybe he'd sleep in a real bed and be less grumpy tomorrow. Damn it to Hell—now I was thinking about him in bed.
Even with that ridiculously comfortable couch in his office, I doubted he actually slept. At some point today, he’d changed his shirt, and when the faint trace of sandalwood drifted toward me, my mouth went dry.
Damn it. My body had decided betrayal was its full-time job. It was the same, but yet different in the presence of my master.
He punched the button for the private garage and dialed a number on his phone before I could even think to object.
“This is Reid,” he said, clipped as usual. “A table for two. My usual.”
My stomach tightened. He had a date. That made sense why he was leaving now.
He checked his watch. “Can you have the table ready in twenty?”
The elevator slid open, and he stepped out without hesitation. I stayed frozen, until he glanced back and blocked the door with his arm, his brow arched in question.
“My car isn’t on this level,” I managed.
“I know.” His tone didn’t waver. “You’re riding with me.”
My mouth opened but no words came.
“You’ve been working non-stop, Ms. Rhodes.” He adjusted his cuff as if that was the end of the discussion and the decision had been made. I just didn’t know what decision that had been. “You’re having dinner with me.”
He waited patiently but didn’t move. The elevator door pressed against his shoulder as if even the building bowed to him.
Before my brain could catch up, my feet betrayed me. I stepped off the elevator.
The doors slid shut behind me with a hiss as his hand found its way to the small of my back, as he led me to a gun metal gray Aston Martin parked in the back. Its smooth lines caught the overhead lights, a perfect reflection of the man beside me. Restrained power, precision.
The cabin smelled faintly of leather and sandalwood—his scent, familiar in a way that made my chest tighten. Especially since I’d moved upstairs, it lingered everywhere: in the hall outside his office, the conference room, now here.
But tonight, with the low hum of the engine surrounding us, it felt different. Closer. Almost intimate. And I couldn’t, for the life of me, explain why.
I wanted to ask where we were going but didn’t. With my master, I always knew the rules. Questions were asked before I stepped into the room. Here, I didn’t know what was allowed.
So I stayed quiet.
The city blurred past in streaks of rain and light. Traffic thickened near the waterfront, headlights cutting through the mist rising off Elliott Bay. For a Wednesday night, Seattle felt alive—bustling, unaware of the storm gathering inside me.
Fifteen minutes later, we turned into Belltown. I didn’t spend much time here, but I’d always liked it. Trendy, a little artsy. Rows of brick buildings lined the narrow streets, warm light spilling from boutique windows and small restaurants with chalkboard menus. Cozy, yet somehow still refined.
Nothing like the sleek, steel world he occupied.
He pulled to the curb in front of a narrow storefront tucked between a record shop and an old bookstore.
A brass sign hung above the door, Bastian’s Bistro.
Its letters are worn smooth by years of rain.
Through the window, I caught a glimpse of amber lighting and the flicker of candles on polished wood tables.
It wasn’t what I expected. Not even close.
Canlis, Six Seven, Spinasse—those fit the version of him I knew.
Not… this.
I’d pictured Sebastian Reid surrounded by glass walls and skyline views, sipping something expensive while discussing breaches and contracts—not stepping out onto the sidewalk in front of a cozy bistro with fogged windows and a flickering neon Open sign that buzzed weakly against the drizzle.
A single valet stand sat out front, manned by an older gentleman in a wool cap. He brightened the second we pulled up.
“Evening, Mr. Reid,” he said as Sebastian rounded the front of the car. “Good to see you again.”
Sebastian handed the valet the keys with a nod, and reached for my door.
He opened it and offered his hand before I could reach for the handle myself, still trying to process what was happening.
Rain misted against my face as I stepped out, the air rich with the scent of garlic and baked bread drifting from the open door ahead.
“Thank you, Arthur,” he said, his tone softer than I’d ever heard it at the office.
I blinked.
Arthur.
Mr. Reid didn’t do first names. Not with staff. Not with anyone. The valet smiled at me warmly before heading to the driver’s side, like this was routine—like he’d known Sebastian for years.
Arthur tipped his head and smiled at me as he headed to the driver’s side of the car.
Inside, the space was small. Ten, maybe twelve tables, all wooden and charmingly mismatched. String lights hung along the exposed beams, their glow catching on old framed photos. Someone laughed near the kitchen.
It wasn’t high-end. It wasn’t even close.
And that was what made it startling.
This place didn’t match the sharp, polished world Sebastian Reid lived in. Nothing about Bastian’s—the creaking floorboards, the fogged windows, the scent of rosemary and real butter—fit the image I’d built of him.
Yet somehow… it suited him in a way I couldn’t explain.
I shook my head. This wasn’t a date. He probably didn’t want to be seen with me somewhere recognizable. That had to be why we were here.
He nodded once, and without glancing at me, placed a hand at the small of my back to guide me forward. The gesture was simple, professional even, but it sent a ripple through me all the same.
I didn’t understand this version of him—the man who came to a cozy little bistro where the lights were warm and the floors creaked, who spoke gently to the valet and tipped his head in thanks. It didn’t fit. And yet, somehow, it did.
The waitress led us to the corner booth in the back. Not quite hidden but removed from the other enough to make everything fade into the background.
A bottle of wine already waited for us on the table, two glasses sitting neatly side by side.
I frowned. His usual table? How often did he come here? Apparently often enough to have a preference and for the staff to know it.
He thanked her, using her first name but I hadn’t noticed a name tag. She smiled warmly before disappearing toward the kitchen and returning a moment later with a basket of bread and a small dish of olive oil dusted with cracked pepper.
My stomach growled.
Loudly.
Great.
I’d made sure he ate today, but I’d forgotten to feed myself. A sandwich at noon, a protein bar at three. That was it.
He gestured toward the bread. “Go ahead.”
I tore off a piece, dipped it into the oil, careful not to make a mess as I brought it to my mouth. The bread was soft, warm, and just the right type of crisp on the crust. God, it tasted heavenly.
“You’ll like this,” he said quietly as he poured half a glass of the deep red wine before he poured his own. “It’s my favorite Bordeaux.”
I lifted the glass and hesitated. The wine was dark and elegant in the light, a lot like the man I sat across from. I sniffed it, buying time. What would he do if I declined? Should I? Could I? Was drinking with my boss a good idea? This wasn’t a date. This was the man who wrote my paychecks.
Would saying no make me seem ungrateful?
I took a small sip, the rich velvety flavor sliding down my throat as I closed my eyes. Something my sessions with Master had taught me was that when I shut out one sense, the others got stronger. Damn, that was good.
When I opened my eyes again, he was watching me.
“What’s going through that head of yours?” he asked, quiet enough, I wasn’t sure he meant to say it aloud.
I swallowed, my heart racing. “Just…trying to figure out the rules,” I admitted, the truth slipping out before I could stop myself.
His mouth curved into a smirk. “There aren’t any. Not tonight.”
He’d never smiled at me before, not really, but this was close. The faint lift of his mouth, the spark in his green eyes under the candlelight.
Before I could decide what to do with that, Hannah returned and set a small charcuterie plate between us.
“What can I get you tonight?”
“Two specials.” Then he glanced at me. “Unless you prefer something else?”
I shook my head. I hadn’t even seen a menu, but honestly, the sooner we ordered, the sooner I could go home and overanalyze this entire night in peace.
“Perfect,” he said, handing her the menus we never opened.
She smiled, jotting it down before slipping away toward the kitchen.
I reached for a slice of cheese—more for something to do than out of any real hunger. “You didn’t even ask what the special was.”
He looked up from his wine, expression unreadable. “I didn’t need to.”
“Trust issues much?” I muttered, mostly to myself.
His lips twitched, the faintest hint of amusement. “You’ll like it.”
That shouldn’t have sounded like a promise. But it did.