Chapter72
Serena
I'd seen him in boardrooms, in elevators, even slumped in his bathtub nursing a drink after a long day, but tonight there was something different about the way the candlelight caught the silver at his temples, the precise way his fingers wrapped around the wine glass.
Ten minutes. I'd been staring for a full ten minutes.
The adrenaline from this morning's near-disaster hadn't quite left my system yet. That vertigo-inducing moment when Wesley's ambush could have ended everything, followed by Lance's impossible intervention—it all swirled together with the wine I definitely shouldn't be drinking on an empty stomach, creating a heady cocktail that made me feel simultaneously invincible and reckless.
"Are you planning to eat," Lance's voice cut through my reverie, his eyes narrowing with barely contained irritation, "or spend the entire evening conducting a visual inspection?"
I'm planning to eat you, my wine-addled brain supplied helpfully. I took a deliberate sip of my Bordeaux instead, letting the rich complexity roll across my tongue before answering. "I didn't think you'd actually show up."
He matched my movement, his own wine glass rising to his lips with that controlled precision he applied to everything. "I didn't think you could afford reservations here." A pause, weighted with unspoken questions. "Clearly, we're both full of surprises tonight."
"Seems we're harder to read than we thought." I set down my glass, studying the way his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the stem of his own. "Though I have to wonder—you just survived a board coup this morning. Doesn't dining with me in public seem... inadvisable? Either you're remarkably confident, or..." I leaned forward slightly, dropping my voice to something more intimate. "You just can't resist my invitations."
Something flickered in his eyes—genuine surprise, quickly shuttered behind his usual composure. But I'd seen it, that split-second vulnerability before his walls slammed back into place.
"As long as you're not propositioning me in a private room somewhere," he said coolly, reaching for his fork with deliberate nonchalance, "I don't see the problem with a public dinner between colleagues."
"God, now I'm kicking myself for not booking the private dining room." The words slipped out before I could stop them, riding the pleasant buzz that was making everything feel slightly unreal, slightly possible.
Lance said nothing, but the muscle ticking in his jaw spoke volumes. He attacked his entrée with a focus that suggested the Chilean sea bass had personally offended him, and watching him work so hard to maintain that iron control was perhaps the most entertaining thing I'd seen all week.
The wine was going down far too easily. I reached for the bottle to pour myself another glass.
His hand shot out, intercepting the bottle before I could touch it. "Stay sharp." The command was quiet but absolute. "I'm not making a habit of harboring drunk women in my apartment."
The memory of that morning crashed over me—waking up alone in his guest room, finding the perfectly plated breakfast he'd left with that ridiculous note claiming he'd "accidentally made too much." The careful avoidance wrapped in thoughtful gestures. I felt heat creep up my neck that had nothing to do with the wine.
"You're right." I held up my empty glass with a grin that felt slightly manic even to me. "I almost forgot why I asked you here in the first place. A toast—to my mentor, who's apparently decided I'm worth the investment."
He relented with visible reluctance, tipping the bottle to add exactly three drops to my glass—a miser's pour that somehow felt more intimate than generosity. When he raised his own glass in response, there was something almost gentle in the gesture, at odds with his usual severity.
"Don't toast me." His voice carried a quiet intensity that made me pause mid-sip. "Toast yourself. Every word I said in that boardroom this morning—I meant it."
The sincerity hit me harder than the wine ever could, cutting through the pleasant buzz and anchoring me in something real. I met his eyes, saw the conviction there, unguarded for once.
"I know you did," I said, my voice softer than I'd intended. "That's why it mattered."
"Good." He took a measured sip, then set down his glass with the air of someone transitioning to business. "Because I'm prepared to make it official. After this morning's performance, you've earned the board's approval. Several positions have opened up—Director of Cultural Partnerships, Head of Brand Strategy, VP of Artistic Development..." He was ticking them off like menu items, each one a significant step up from my current role.
"No."
The word came out sharper than I'd intended, cutting across his corporate recitation like a knife. His eyebrows rose in genuine surprise.
"No?" he repeated slowly, as if testing whether he'd misheard.