DAMON

The elevator doors open at exactly 7 p.m. I struggle to keep my jaw hinged. Emery waltzes toward me, her hips swaying, those curves that I've gotten accustomed to wrapped in the finest black fabric. I instantly regret my purchase. The tight, tempting dress hugs her body, every dip, every mound, every inch of her femininity painted with velvet coal. My lascivious gaze travels up to her face, her rosy cheeks, her golden eyes, and her deep scarlet lips.

She smirks, tilting her head. "I've never seen you so quiet, Mr. Cavanaugh," she purrs. "You usually have so much to say."

My grip tightens around the bouquet in my hand as I mutter out, still reveling in her beauty, "I cannot seem to find my tongue."

She perks up a brow. "Search harder, Mr. Cavanaugh. A dinner without conversation is like sex without an orgasm."

My eyes darken. "I wouldn't mention sex right now, Miss Jones, otherwise we might not even make it to dinner."

"I'd heed your warning if I knew that wasn't a complete lie." She bats her taunting lashes at me. "With the lack of contract and all." She takes a purposeful step forward and drags her sharp nail down the length of my silk tie, her balmy, sweet breath dizzying my senses as she whispers, "You look quite handsome this evening, Damon. Did you dress up just for me?"

My jaw clenches, and I push back the urge to bend her over right here and now. "We should get going, Miss Jones. Wouldn't want to miss our reservation." Inwardly grumbling, I hold out the bouquet. "These are for you."

She frowns slightly at the persevered arraignment, six of the roses encased in 24-carat gold. "You got me flowers?" She traces the hard edges of the golden roses. "Is this a business dinner, Mr. Cavanaugh?" Her inquisitive gaze flicks upward. "Or a date?"

"Both." I cast her a smug look, snaking my hand around her waist, and pulling her flush against me. She gasps before sinking into my touch. "First—" I dip my head, feathering soft kisses down the slope of her neck, "we will review the contract..." She tilts her head, silently beckoning me to keep going, "and then..." My hand slithers down her spine, palming her ass, as I rasp into her ear, "Then the date can start."

"Business first," she breathes, flushed and eager.

"And pleasure second," I add, pulling away and offering her my hand. "Shall we, Miss Jones?"

"Lead the way," she whispers, tentatively allowing our fingers to interlock as if sealing her fate.

***

The scent of French cuisine permeates the air as we enter Chez Gustave. In the past, I was always a creature of habit. There were only a handful of restaurants that I'd frequent. But that was in the past. A past tainted by memories I'd rather not revisit. Or relive.

"Cavanaugh for two," I state to the maître d', slightly offended he did not recognize me as soon as he saw my face. He searches the system for my reservation, and I sigh loudly, making sure he picks up on my displeasure. "Well?"

"One moment, sir," he says, continuing to frown at the screen. "My apologies. Our system is glitching."

"This is ridiculous," I grumble. Emery giggles softly beside me. I snap my head at her. "What?"

"You're not used to waiting often, are you?" she asks, the bells on the front door chiming as another party enters the foyer.

"I've never had to wait," I grunt, glaring at the useless host. "Perhaps I should take my business elsewhere."

Emery rolls her eyes. "Oh, relax, Damon. We've been in here for one minute."

"One minute too long—"

"Harold!" A deep voice chirps from behind us, and my gut twists. Are you fucking kidding me? I tighten my hold on Emery's hand as she twists her neck, conflicted shock capturing her features. "Oh... what a pleasant surprise. Good evening, little Emery. You look simply ravishing tonight. I almost didn't recognize you." Swallowing the bubbling anger in the back of my throat, I turn toward Quinton. He grins at me, arm slung over the shoulder of a dolled-up brunette. "What a coincidence, Cavanaugh. Two encounters in two nights." He chuckles. "It's like the universe can't keep us apart."

"Quinton." I nod at him, keeping my expression neutral. Coincidence? Hardly. Nothing is ever a coincidence.

He sighs, dramatically rolling his eyes. "Always so formal, this one." He glances at Emery, feigning a pout. "I'm starting to think he doesn't like me." Another sigh. "And we were once such good friends."

A frown mars Emery's brows. Friends? We were never friends. Sure, we belonged to the same social circles, both personal and professional, but we were never anything other than acquaintances. Nothing more.

"Your table is ready, Dr. Marquis," the maître d' says, glancing over my shoulder as if I were invisible. He picks up two menus. "If you'd follow me."

"And our table?" I ask through gritted teeth. "Also ready?"

The maître d' offers me an apologetic look. "It appears our system overbooked this evening. We'll have to ask you two to wait. I'm sure it won't be long."

My ego shrinks to the size of an atom. Overbooked? And yet Quinton Marquis can waltz right in? Javier's warning of my waning significance wanders into my thoughts. I brought this on myself. Instead of rebuilding my brand, my name, my image, I hid. It's my fault. It's my fault that I'm standing here, waiting, like a damn fool. I will never wait again.

"Hmm..." Quinton taps a finger against his lips, pompous in his theatrics. "I have a splendid idea. Why don't you and little Emery join us for dinner?" He glances over at the host. "Could you arrange that, Harold?"

"Of course, sir," Harold says, and my fingers tingle. Over my dead body. "A table for four then?"

"That's a kind offer, Quinton," I state, contempt dripping from my tone. "But we wouldn't want to ruin your evening."

"Ruin? What ruin?" He flashes a sleazy smile at Emery. "Dining with two beautiful women instead of one hardly ruins anything." He glances at his date who remains distant and disinterested. "You wouldn't mind company would you—" He pauses, mildly wincing. She mutters out her name. "Darla, of course."

"Nope," Darla says with a nonchalant shrug. "Fine by me. More the merrier, right?"

Quinton beams. "Precisely! More the merrier." He looks at Emery who's been awfully quiet, like a silent observer of a territorial dance. "What do you say, Emery darling? I think it would be fun, wouldn't you?"

Bile creeps up my throat at his nickname for her. He shouldn't be saying her name at all. And especially with such familiarity as if he knows her. He doesn't. And he will never.

"We appreciate the offer but—"

"We'd love to," Emery says, flashing me a combative side-eye. My muscles clam up at the blatant disrespect.

"Lovely!" Quinton exclaims, meddling excitement oozing from his villainous pores. He nods at Harold. "After you."

I grab Emery's elbow as she lets Quinton and his date lead the way to the table. "What are you doing?" I seethe. "Don't you remember what I told you in the car?!"

She glances down at my stern hold, narrowing her eyes. "If you don't let go of me in one second, you'll be dining alone."

"I'm sorry," I breathe out, disgusted at my reaction. "I didn't mean to—" Closing my eyes, I swallow, feeling small and weak. "Why did you agree? We could've—"

"You said business comes first, didn't you?" she asks, finding me weary gaze. I frown. "Well, Quin seems to know you in a way that I don't... I don't know about you, Mr. Cavanaugh, but I like to do my due diligence before I go into business with someone." She nods into the restaurant. "Think of this as a character testimony."

"A character testimony? Am I on trial, Miss Jones?" My lip twitches. "Quinton Marquis is not my friend. If you think he'll adorn me with raving reviews, you are sorely mistaken."

Emery casts me a sly smile. "I'm aware, Mr. Cavanaugh, which is why this dinner might be more fruitful than if it were with a friend." She tilts her head. "Friends tend to sugarcoat, they're not very objective."

"If you're looking for an objective account of my intentions, Miss Jones," I hiss. "Quinton is the last person you'd want to talk to."

"Be that as it may," she sighs, quickening her pace as we weave through the restaurant, "I'd like to cover my bases before I agree to something that I may regret."

"You don't trust me?" I whisper as we stop a couple of feet away from the table.

She blinks at me, stifling a laugh. "Please. Why should I?"

"I—" Defeat washes over me. I thought we were past that. I thought I crashed through her reserve. I thought she was finally starting to see what I see, what I feel.

"Are you going to stand there and quarrel all evening?" Quinton asks, drawing our attention. Amusement brims from his overzealous eyes. "Let's save the fighting for dessert, shall we? Please, sit down." He smirks at me. "Both of you."

Begrudgingly, I settle into my seat next to Emery and open the menu. A waiter comes around with a bottle of red wine. I place a hand over my glass, shaking my head.

"Still?" Quinton asks as Emery also politely declines a glass and orders sparkling water. Quinton narrows his speculative eyes at her. "I know why Cavanaugh doesn't drink. Why don't you?"

"I never understood why people think it's so scandalous when you don't drink alcohol," Emery says lightly, unfolding a napkin on her lap. "I doubt someone who refuses mayonnaise would get the same inquisition."

Quin chuckles. "Perhaps because those who avoid condiments are simply picky eaters. If you don't drink alcohol, then there's probably a story behind it." His gaze darts to me, and I clam up. "Isn't that right, Cavanaugh?"

I clench my jaw.

Emery tilts her head, her auburn curls spilling over her shoulder. "What is it with you people and stories? Is your own life so dull that you need to pry into other people's lives for entertainment?"

"You people?" Quin perks up a brow. "And what sort of people are you referring to?"

Emery blinks, scoffing as she nods down at the menu. "The sort of people who'd pay $500 for a bottle of wine."

Quin snorts. "Yes, but it is good wine."

"It's grapes, Quin," she says deadpan. "Fruit."

"Then I probably shouldn't tell you about the time I bought a Yubari King Melon for twenty thousand dollars," he says, grinning at Emery. My blood boils. Where the fuck is the waiter?

"You spend twenty thousand dollars on—"

"We're ready to order," I state, flagging down our server, thankful his presence has put a pause on Emery and Quinton's thrilling discussion. Fruit. They're talking about fucking fruit?! Once the table orders, I straighten my posture, taking command of the conversation. "How's business, Quinton? Is your father enjoying retirement?"

He waves me off, sighing. "Please, the last thing I want to do right now is talk about work." He takes a small sip of wine, his riling gaze darting between me and Emery. "I'd been meaning to ask... how did you two meet?"

I place a reassuring hand on Emery's crossed leg. "At an interview." Quinton lifts a questioning brow. "Emery is our new CFO." I catch a glimpse of a grateful smile. "She starts on Monday."

"Smart girl..." Quin muses, licking his lips. "And so young too." He leans forward. "Tell me, darling, how does one secure an executive position at the mere age of—" He purses his lips in thought. "Twenty-eight? Twenty-nine?"

"Easy," she says, casting him a sultry smile as she side-eyes me. "You fuck the boss."

Quinton perks up a brow. "Is that so?"

"Mhmm," Emery hums, licking her lips. My eyes widen slightly as her hand travels up my leg, and she subtly scoots her chair closer to mine. "Tell me Quin—" I stiffen, controlling my breathing as she draws controlled circles around the outline of my dick. "How does one become the CEO of a multinational pharmaceutical conglomerate at age..." Her wily fingers find the zipper to my dress pants, and pull it down. What the fuck is she doing?! "Thirty-five? Four?" She bites her lip, maintaining her focus on Quin as she reaches inside my pants and dips under my boxer briefs, the cool sensation of her hand around my cock sending a shocking bolt down my spine. "Is it nepotism? Or did you just work really really hard?"

Quin narrows his eyes at the minx sitting beside me, and my hips buck under her sensual hold. Keeping her eyes on Quinton, Emery strokes my growing cock, blood rushing to the tip as I fist a fork on the table, refusing to look at her as I rein in a growling moan. Holy fuck. And she says I'm crazy?!

"Our world runs on nepotism, Emery darling," Quin notes, leaning back into his seat. "It's the oil that keeps the engine running." He glances at me. "Ask Cavanaugh. He could tell you all about it, can't you?"

"What happened to not discussing work?" I grunt as Emery's yanks get more aggressive, more rhythmic, more torturous. I glance at Quinton's date. "How about you, sweetheart? What do you do for work?" Anything to take the attention away from me. And her.

She blinks at me, unashamed as she says, "I'm a hooker. I fuck for work."

Quinton grins. "She does such a good job, too." He turns to Darla. "And love you it, don't you baby?" He squeezes her chin. "You love fucking me for money, don't you?"

"Yes, Daddy," she breathes, squirming in her seat, and I feel Emery uncross her legs beside me.

Darla wraps her arm around Quinton's neck and tugs him toward her, whispering something in his ear. I take the opportunity to look at Emery. Fuck. Her eyes are coated with dirty lust, her lips somehow redder than they were before, and I know, I just fucking know, she's soaked between those thick little thighs of her.

Her heady gaze meets mine, chest rising and falling as she scoots to the edge of her seat, the stretchy velvet dress bouncing up to her thighs as she spreads her legs, daring me to touch her, to break my own rule, to say fuck it to the contract, any contract.

"Business or pleasure?" she whispers, and I no longer have any control.

My fingers plunge into her pussy, and like a good girl, she swallows her screams.