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Poor Debra.

She looks like she’d rather be anywhere else on earth right now.

Still, I don’t give a fuck.

Carter lifts his wine glass.

“Well now, Mandy⁠—”

“Actually—”

“It’s Amanda, please,” the woman herself says calmly, cutting him off before I can.

Her voice is polite.

But firm.

And under the table her small hand reaches over and squeezes my knee.

My body reacts instantly.

Predictably.

Every nerve lights up like a damn Christmas tree.

I clamp my mouth shut before anything stupid comes out.

Because sitting here with a semi-hard on under the table is already awkward enough.

Jesus Christ.

Carter clears his throat and forces a smile.

“Of course. Amanda.”

Dinner begins.

For the next forty minutes, I sit there and watch this guy try every move in the book.

Compliments.

Flattery.

Stories about the exclusive guests he invites to these events.

Amanda handles it like a pro.

Every single time he leans in, she gently redirects the conversation somewhere else.

Every time he tries to get too personal, she steers things back toward music or theatre.

Graceful.

Polite.

Untouchable.

At one point he even tries sliding his plate toward her.