Page 10 of Homewrecker

“Or…”

I waited.

“Or I could take you to dinner.”

I looked at him. “Caleb.”

“Blair.”

“You’re my client.”

“Technically, according to you, I’m almost not.”

“That’s not how ethics work,” I reminded him.

“You’re not my therapist.”

“Thank God. You couldn’t afford me.”

He laughed. “I’m serious.”

I’d spent six months telling myself whatever existed between us was harmless because neither one of us had stepped over the line and suddenly the line was standing directly between us.

“What kind of dinner?”

His brow lifted. “There’s different kinds?”

“Absolutely.”

“Explain.”

“There’s thank-you-for-making-my-business-beautiful dinner.”

“Okay.”

“There’s networking dinner.”

“Mhm.”

“And then there’s dinner dinner.”

His mouth twitched. “Which one would make you say yes?”

“That’s not how this works, Caleb.”

“Then dinner dinner.”

I hated the little butterflies that he gave me.

“At least you’re honest about your intentions.”

“I try to be.”

I didn’t know that eventually that sentence would haunt me later.

I smiled. “When?”

“Saturday.”