Chapter 7
Nora
I’ve never met a man like Andreas. So straightforward, so unabashedly clear about what he wants, so infuriating and honest at the same time.
So full of testosterone. He intrigues me; I couldn’t say no.
Even if I wanted to, my body was screaming yes.
I bet my panties have been damp since he made that remark about playing games.
At that moment, I wanted to slap him out of sheer frustration, but I also wanted him to play with me.
Something tells me he knows how it’s done, and I can barely remember what it even feels like.
I still can’t believe a man like Andreas wants me, finds me attractive, and has been plotting to see me.
It’s all too good to be true and yet I can’t seem to say no to him.
He reminds me of a predator bird circling lazily above its prey.
I know he wants to catch me. I know he only wants one thing, and I know I should run while I still can.
Yet here I am, sitting still, waiting for him to devour me.
It’s so wrong to yearn for the predator; it never ends well for the prey.
Compared to Andreas, David was a harmless dove, and even he managed to destroy me.
The restaurant is small but cozy. It has a modern vibe, with white walls, minimalist art, and dim lighting.
A large bar with stools is the focal point of the space.
We’re warmly escorted to a table for two by the window.
We’ve barely sat down and the champagne is already there.
Andreas raises his glass, and we toast to the purchase-slash-sale of the house.
He thanks me again for the unique opportunity and the work I’ve done.
“For the record, Andreas, since you sent Bertrand walking, you’re the one treating tonight, and I plan to order only the most expensive cocktails,” I tease him.
My revenge will be sweet, delicious, and alcoholic. Andreas bursts out laughing, nearly choking on his champagne. A childlike joy takes over him, and my heart melts. When he laughs, it’s impossible not to be charmed. I can’t get enough of it. Seeing him so happy makes me happy too.
“Of course, I’m treating. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Besides, you’ve already cost me nearly four million; a few cocktails won’t hurt,” he says, laughing.
I’m relieved to feel the heavy atmosphere from earlier completely dissipate. Relaxing, I enjoy perusing the menu. The chef himself approaches our table and greets Andreas personally—it’s clear he’s a regular here. Their exchange is brief but warm.
“Do you bring all your dates here?” I ask as innocently as possible when the chef leaves, but the blush on my cheeks undoubtedly betrays my insecurity. I try to focus on the menu, but reading is no longer an option.
“I bring all my business partners here, and occasionally someone from the team when we need to discuss work. Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I went on a dinner date.”
So, he takes his dates straight home—no restaurant required.
The thought of Andreas with other women makes my stomach churn.
My mind drifts to our kiss and his plan to have me here alone.
Am I just another business partner, or is this something else entirely?
To hide my unease, I take another sip of champagne.
The waiter comes by and asks if we’ve made a choice.
“We certainly have. We’ll both have the chef’s menu. Oh, and the most expensive cocktail on the menu, please.” He winks at me as the waiter, ignoring me entirely, heads off to the kitchen with our order.
“Are you always this bossy, Andreas?” I ask, dead serious.
“Absolutely,” he replies without hesitation, holding my gaze.
A shiver of anticipation runs down my spine, but I try to keep my wits about me, refusing to drown in his eyes.
“Why not let me choose? Maybe I’m lactose intolerant or have a gluten allergy,” I try again.
“Do you have a food allergy, Nora?” he asks with a smirk.
“No,” I say curtly.
“Well, then there’s no problem. We’ll have the chef’s menu, and you’ll drink the most expensive cocktail on the menu.”
His eyes sparkle with mischief, making it hard to stay genuinely annoyed. Truthfully, I’m relieved he made the decision for me, reading the menu had been impossible with all the tension crackling between us. But I’ll never let him know that.
The food is absolutely divine. I can see that Andreas genuinely appreciates good food.
We talk about our own cooking skills—or rather, the lack thereof.
I tell him about my trip to Italy last summer with Anna and my love for the wonderful Italian cuisine.
Andreas travels a lot, but only for work.
He can’t remember the last time he took a leisure trip.
We mostly talk about our work. I tell him how I started my career as a real estate agent this year.
He’s genuinely interested and asks a lot of questions.
He shares stories about his company and the business challenges he faced to get to where he is now.
I’m impressed; B-Tech is so much bigger than I thought.
Andreas clearly leads a busy, fascinating, and demanding life.
Still, when he talks about his work, there’s little excitement in his voice.
Instead, he seems reserved, almost melancholic.
His emotions don’t match the success story he’s narrating.
It feels as though he’s holding something back, often giving polished, interview-ready answers rather than personal insights. He’s keeping me at arm’s length.
“You’re very modest about your impressive career. It seems like you’re not entirely enthusiastic about it. Do you even enjoy what you do?”
“I definitely enjoy it, absolutely. I can’t really imagine doing anything else. Do you enjoy what you do? Is this what you see yourself doing for the rest of your life?”
His response only confirms my suspicion. He’s unwilling to open up about himself. As much as I’d like him to, I can’t force him to tell me everything. He redirects the focus to me, which, while flattering, is also a clear attempt to avoid attention on himself.
“You know you’re kind of dodging all the questions about yourself, right?”
“What do you mean?” He looks genuinely puzzled.
“I want to know who you are, Andreas. What makes you happy or sad. Who you are as a person. I might be wrong, but I get the feeling that when it’s about you, really about you, you avoid the questions.”
“I didn’t know you also studied psychology,” he jokes.
“You’re doing it again, Andreas.” Don’t think I don’t notice.
He looks at me and stays silent. His gaze is dark and pained.
With the next bite he takes, it’s as if he’s chewing his food a little harder than before.
His jaw muscles tense, his face is strained.
He might be angry because of my comment, but I don’t do superficial conversations.
Non-negotiable. He puts down his cutlery and looks at me.
“I’ve had a tough year. One of the reasons I was looking for my own house was to find some peace and also to create some distance from everything.
I don’t know if my work makes me as happy as it used to, but I also know I can’t give it up, so I keep going.
I’ve always been very private about my personal life.
I don’t want the gossip columns or social media to get wind of what’s happening in my life, but it’s not my intention to shut you out, Nora. ”
I see a mix of sadness and determination in his eyes.
A man who wants to move forward but is haunted by his past. It’s like rain on a beautiful spring day.
In his words, I catch a glimpse of his vulnerability, but once again, he doesn’t give much away.
I can’t expect him to open up completely just yet.
We don’t know each other that well, and I have no claim on Andreas, even though part of me wishes I did.
His comment does give me hope, though. He doesn’t want to shut me out, and from his confession, I sense our bond has gotten a little stronger.
If he’s struggling, I’ll just have to give him more time.
I place my hand gently on his, giving it a soft squeeze.
It feels like a bold move on my part, but I want to show him that I’m here for him, without pressuring him.
He responds to my gesture, his thumb gently brushing over my hand.
The tension between us is back immediately, if it ever left.
It feels like he’s not just caressing my hand, and I bite my lip, looking down at our hands, dreaming of his touch on other parts of my body.
I snap back to reality when the waiter arrives with a new dish.
Dessert is served, and the moment is broken.
For a second, I feel a hint of annoyance at the interruption, but as I look at the colorful plate of sweets in front of me, I decide it’s almost as delicious as Andreas.
A scoop of basil ice cream, a pistachio brownie, a limoncello mousse, something I have no idea what it is but looks divine, alongside fresh fruit and a few thick drops of raspberry coulis—it looks heavenly.
“A fan of desserts, Nora? I’ll have to remember that,” Andreas says, as if he caught me red-handed, his amused gaze on me once again.
“Absolutely! In fact, I’m the president of the fan club.”
I take my first bite and decide to savor this very slowly.
I can’t help myself and challenge Andreas by letting out an innocent moan as the ice cream melts on my tongue.
My eyes are closed, but I feel him watching me.
This sensation is entirely new to me—me, the seductress, holding all the power.
I can’t recall the last time I had this kind of effect on a man.
I feel sexy and desirable, wanted, and special.
I open my eyes and see Andreas looking at me with hunger in his gaze, his dessert untouched.