Page 4 of The Contract

Doesn’t know how long I’ve been saving for something that finally feels likemine.

But I don’t let any of that show.

Instead, I sip my water and glance toward the wine tower, where the sommelier is returning with our bottles.

“If that’s meant to be a compliment, you should work on your delivery.”

His lips press together, hiding another smirk.

“Noted.”

A beat of silence passes between us.

Not awkward. Not strained.

Just…something unspoken.

A shift in the air that makes my skin prickle with awareness.

Before I can decide whether to ignore it, the sommelier approaches, a bottle of deep merlot in his gloved hands.

“The Siren’s Pour for the lady,” he says smoothly, presenting the label. “A rich vintage, deep berry undertones with a warm oak finish. Shall I pour?”

“Please.”

I watch as the wine slips into the crystal glass like liquid velvet.

I pick it up, bringing it to my lips, and take a slow sip. The flavors bloom across my tongue—dark cherry, a hint of spice, and something deeper, something that lingers.

It tastes like indulgence.

Like something that belongs to me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him watching.

His own wine has been poured—Wolfe’s Reserve, of course—but he hasn’t taken a sip.

He’s too busy watchingme.

For a man with an air of effortless confidence, there’s a distinct sharpness in the way he observes, as if he’s used to gathering information.

Used to controlling the game before anyone else realizes they’re even playing.

I set my glass down, unfazed.

“Your turn,” I say, gesturing toward his untouched wine.

His fingers curl around the stem, lifting it with slow precision. He brings it to his lips, but he doesn’t drink right away.

Instead, he watches me over the rim, holding my gaze.

Dragging out the moment until the tension stretches thin between us.

And then—he drinks.

My breath hitches—not that I’d ever let him see.

His throat moves, the column of his neck tightening briefly as he swallows.

---