Page 51 of Dial F for Finance

“Sweetheart.”

“Don’t sweetheart me.” I lean forward too, because apparently the negroni has decided my survival instinct is decorative. “You agreed. I gave you paperwork today that gives both of us a clean exit. Sign it, and we can both pretend to have learned a valuable lesson.”

At least that’s what I try to say.

What actually happens is the drummer cracks his sticks together, the upright bass comes in with a low, rolling pulse, and the horn section detonates three feet from my left shoulder with enough brass to rearrange my organs.

I flinch.

Dominic doesn’t.

Of course he doesn’t. He just sits there, eyes on me, while the singer steps to the microphone and pours a smoky note into the room that swallows the end of my sentence whole.

Perfect.

Absolutely perfect.

I lean forward and try again. “Sign the papers.”

The trumpet answers for him.

Dominic tilts his head, cups a hand behind his ear, and gives me an exaggerated look of tragic confusion.

I narrow my eyes.

He smiles.

I am going to kill him.

Slowly.

Over many years if I have to.

The food arrives and it’s obscene—seared scallops in brown butter, little curls of citrus, bread so warm it steams when Dominic tears it open with his hands. There’s a salad with shaved fennel and pear, a dish of olives, something with burrata that looks like it was assembled by a person with both knife skills and unresolved sensual aggression.

I almost moan around a mouthful and catch Dominic watching me.

“Don’t,” I say, even though I know he can’t hear me.

He shrugs and mouths something like, “I didn’t say anything.”

We eat. And I try not to visibly enjoy the food. But it’s impossible. The music is good, the food is fantastic, and the company—and I’ll never admit this out loud to anyone—is decent. Just because I don’t trust his intentions doesn’t mean I’m immune to his charm.

The man is a master at working a room, and over the years he’s developed the skill of being able to disarm me. Every time the set breaks and I gather my case, he asks me something specific—what my first Chicago apartment looked like, whether I miss real bagels, what the first thing I ever bought with a bonus was, whether my sister looks like me, whether I ever wanted to be anything other than devastatingly competent.

He doesn’t ask all of this in one barrage. He’s too clever for that. He does it between courses and trumpet solos, in the small pauses where a person might otherwise remember why she’s angry.

Normally it would infuriate me. But somehow he makes it feel like an invitation to exist as something other than the professional version of myself. Which is more dangerous, honestly, since I can see how a person could get used to being seen like this.

In the space between dinner and dessert, the band slides into something slow, and Dominic stands, holds out his hand, and says, “Come on. One song, and I promise to let you glare at me through all of it.”

My body reacts before my brain can protest. I take his hand. His palm is warm and his grip is the kind that doesn’t force, just waits for you to notice you want to say yes. I stand, resentment blurring with adrenaline, and allow him to lead me onto the small wooden patch at the front of the room that passes for a dance floor.

Dominic pulls me in, one hand at my waist, the other still holding mine. He doesn’t do the cliché dip or suggest a spin. He just settles us into a slow sway, bodies so close I can count the eyelashes that fall across his cheek every time he blinks.

I try to keep my distance. But he’s big and everywhere and my God, every time I let this man touch me I melt in a matter of seconds. All the old rules—no dancing at work parties, don’t let anyone see you at less than full aperture—crumble in the light of Dominic’s focus.

He puts his mouth near my ear and says, quietly, “You’re allowed to have fun, you know.”