Page 2 of The Contract

Tall. Broad-shouldered beneath the tailored cut of his black button-down. His sleeves are rolled up just enough to reveal strong, tanned forearms, veins pronounced along the back of his hands.

But it’s his face that really does it—strong jaw, dark hair tousled just enough to lookeffortlessly expensive, and piercing blue eyes.

Blue, like the sharp edge of a blade.

And right now, they’re looking directly at me.

I feel the weight of his gaze settle over me.

Assessing. Lingering.

Not in a way that feels intrusive.

But rather…intrigued.

I hold his stare, raising one sharp eyebrow in silent response.

“Would you like to pair that with the Siren’s Pour?”

I nearly forgot the waiter was still at my table.

“Yes, thank you.”

The 2015 vintage merlot. My favorite. Along with the slow-braised short rib I ordered, it’s my go-to.

“The Wolfe’s Reserve.”

The man gives his wine order just as bluntly as he ordered his meal.

The most expensive bottle in the collection.

Someone trying to prove something?

“And what are you celebrating tonight?”

It’s him.

I barely turn my head, only enough to know he’s talking to me.

“Who says I’m celebrating?”

These men of power expect everyone to dance at their feet.

Well.

I came here for myfavorite meal.

Not to be someone’smeal.

Two sommeliers descend the blackened steel-and-glass staircase to retrieve our wine.

It’s the showpiece of the restaurant—directly behind the main dining area—a stunning glass-enclosed wine tower.

You can see it from all three levels of the restaurant.

Tall shelves, backlit and surrounded by glass walls, house rare and expensive bottles of wine, reserved for the elite wealth of New York to enjoy.

“You smiled.”

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