Chapter 109
Serena
The leather seat was impossibly soft. The dashboard glowed with ambient lighting. The entire car smelled like expensive cologne and new leather and something that was distinctly, maddeningly Lance.
But I couldn't focus on any of that.
Because he was smiling.
Not his usual composed, professional expression. This was different—satisfied, smug, like someone who'd just won a bet they'd been planning for weeks.
"What?" I demanded. "What's so funny?"
"You," he said simply, eyes on the road but that infuriating smile never wavering. "You actually showed up. I knew you would."
"Of course I showed up. Vincent told me about your date and—" I stopped mid-sentence as his words registered. "Wait. What?"
My brain caught up with my mouth about two seconds too late.
"What the fuck do you mean 'you knew I would'?" I twisted in my seat to stare at him. "You knew I was coming? How could you possibly—"
"Did you think," Lance interrupted calmly, "that I spent twenty minutes styling my hair for Isabella Lloyd?"
My mouth fell open.
"Or that I polished my shoes twice because I suddenly developed OCD about footwear?"
"You—"
"Or that I just happened to choose the white Brioni suit—the one I only wear for events that actually matter to me—for a first date I was already planning to turn down?"
The realization hit like ice water.
"You motherfucker," I breathed. "You did it on purpose. You made sure Vincent saw everything. You wanted him to tell me!"
Lance's smile widened into something absolutely triumphant. "Finally catching on?"
"You set me up!" I lunged across the center console, smacking his shoulder with my palm. "You manipulated me into showing up! You—you—"
"I gave you bait," Lance corrected, catching my wrist with his free hand without taking his eyes off the road. "Very specific, very deliberate bait. And you took it exactly like I knew you would."
"Let go of me!"
"No."
"Lance!"
"You showed up to my date dressed like a K-pop idol," he pointed out, his thumb brushing across my knuckles in a way that sent electricity shooting up my arm. "I think I'm entitled to hold your hand."
I tried to yank away, but his grip was firm. Not painful—just secure enough that I'd have to actually fight to get free.
"This is—you can't just—" I sputtered, then gave up and slumped back in my seat, glaring at him. "I hate you."
"No, you don't."
"I really, really do."
"If you hated me," Lance said, his voice taking on that insufferably knowing quality, "you wouldn't have blackmailed my driver into accompanying you on a surveillance mission. You wouldn't have spent thousands of dollars on a disguise. You wouldn't have ordered the exact same meal as us just to—what was that, exactly? Ensure we had matching digestive experiences?"
Despite everything, I felt my lips twitch.
"Shut up."
But Lance wasn't done. His hand tightened slightly around mine, and when he spoke again, his voice had shifted—less amused, more serious.
"I'm glad you came," he said quietly. "Genuinely. I was hoping you would, but I wasn't entirely sure you'd take the bait."
"Why?" The word came out smaller than I intended. "Why does it matter if I showed up or not?"
Lance was quiet for a moment, his eyes still on the road. Then:
"Because it proves something I've been wondering about."
"What?"
"Whether you're actually just interested in sleeping with me, or if there's something more."
My stomach dropped. "I never said I was interested in—"
"Serena." He cut me off gently. "You've made it abundantly clear that you want to seduce me. You've said as much, multiple times. But I couldn't tell if it was just physical attraction. A conquest. Something to prove to yourself or get over Wesley or—I don't know. A one-night stand with your boss to feel powerful."
He turned to look at me briefly, and the intensity in his gaze made my breath catch.
"But tonight you showed up ready to commit murder," he continued. "You got jealous. Possessive. You couldn't stand the thought of me being interested in Isabella. You literally tried to sabotage my date by forcing us to hold hands."
His thumb traced a slow circle on the back of my hand.
"That's not someone who just wants casual sex, Serena. That's someone who feels something more. Someone who cares more than they're willing to admit."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him he was wrong, that he was reading too much into it, that this was all still just about the physical attraction.
But my behavior tonight—hell, my behavior for weeks—spoke louder than any denial I could manufacture.
I'd been so obvious. So transparent. Every jealous glance, every possessive comment, every moment of barely-controlled rage when he'd touched Isabella or smiled at her or poured her wine.
I'd exposed myself completely.
"Well," I said finally, yanking my hand back with enough force that he actually let go this time. I crossed my arms over my chest defensively. "Fine. I admit it. You're not just—I mean, yes, I still want to sleep with you. I've wanted to sleep with you since that first day in the bathtub when you walked in and I saw—"
I stopped, my face heating.
"Saw what?" Lance prompted, and I could hear the smile in his voice.
"Saw enough," I muttered. "The point is, yes. I want you physically. But that doesn't mean I'm—that this is—"
I took a breath, trying to organize my thoughts.
"Look," I said, forcing the words out with more confidence than I felt. "I'm not jealous. I'm not possessive. I just have a very specific definition of what constitutes a potential hookup. And in my version, men I'm considering sleeping with don't get to date other people."
Lance made a sound that might have been a laugh, rich with disbelief. "A potential one-night stand with exclusivity clauses?"
"Yes!"
"Serena." My name came out slow, deliberate, like he was savoring each syllable. "Do you hear yourself right now? You're claiming territorial rights over someone you haven't even slept with yet."