Page 8 of The Contract

“No,” he admits, his voice a lazy drawl, rich and smooth. “But you didn’t stop me either.”

He’s right.

I didn’t.

And I don’t want to think about why.

Because the truth is, I don’t want this night to end.

I don’t want to admit how intoxicating he is.

The way his presence seems to fill the space.

How his cologne lingers in the air—deep, woody, with the faintest trace of spice.

The wayheatrolls off of him, a quiet, steady thing that makes my own body respond in ways I don’t care to acknowledge.

The way his strength isn’t loud, isn’t forced—it justis.

I realize the restaurant is closed, the staff is cleaning, and it’s just the two of us now.

I start a new contract tomorrow.

A temporary life for the next two weeks.

I can’t afford distractions—not even the kind that smell like cedar and power and trouble.

I set my glass down, ignoring the way my fingers feel slightly unsteady against the stem.

“Well, Mr. E… I should go,” I say, my voice steady, controlled.

His gaze flickers over me, slow and deliberate. “Mr. E?”

“Mystery.”

My small grin betrays my cleverness, but he smiles too.

“My mystery man.”

There’s a shift in his posture, the slight tension in his jaw—the way his hand tightens around his own glass, like he’s weighing something, like he’s deciding whether to say the thing that’s lingering between us.

Instead, he lifts his wine to his lips, taking a slow sip before setting it down with the same unbothered ease he’s carried all night.

He stands and helps me from the booth.

A perfect gentleman.

Instantly, a host appears with his suit jacket.

He gives a curt nod, taking it from him.

“Send the bill to my room.”

His voice is quiet, smooth. He slides one arm into his jacket, then the other.

Buttons it.

And of course—he looksamazing.

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