Grant leans back, one brow lifting in that slow, assessing way that makes my pulse skip. “One drink,” he says, the corner of his mouth curving. “What could it hurt?”
I flash a sweet, innocent smile. “Of course. Just one.”
While I’m in the kitchen mixing drinks, Grant disappears down the hall to change. I line up three glasses, adding a splash of whiskey here, a drizzle of honey there—just enough to make them look innocent.
Grant’s drink gets a littleextraattention. A generous pour of magnesium powder, stirred until it vanishes without a trace. One of my foster mothers used to keep some with her at all times and I never understood why. Now, I send up a silent thank you to the heavens for her wisdom because I keep magnesium capsules on me everywhere I go.
By the time I return to the living room with the tray of drinks balanced on my hands, he’s back.
And damn.
Black slacks. Black turtleneck. The kind of outfit that makes him look like every woman’s ideal book boyfriend and every man’s benchmark. He’s clean-shaven, hair perfectly in place, smelling faintly of cedar and something darker. He looks dreamy. Dangerous. And like someone who has no business taking Malina Matthews anywhere.
I set the drinks down on the coffee table, sliding his glass toward him with a smile so warm it could be framed as hospitality. “Here you go.”
He takes it without question, fingers brushing mine. I keep my expression pleasant, sipping my own drink to disguise the flicker of satisfaction curling my lips.
Because tonight, no matter how flawless Malina Matthews looks in whatever couture cocktail dress she’s probably poured herself into, she won’t be getting much of Grant Mills’ company.
Not when I’ve made sure he won’t survive the first drink without an urgent, very inconvenient trip to the bathroom.
Chapter thirty-eight
Date Nights & Detours
Grant
Malina Matthews is even more polished in person than she was in my memory, which is saying something. Perfect posture, perfect manicure, and a smile that could probably sell bottled water to a drowning man.
For most men in my world, looking for arm candy that will never disappoint, she’sperfect.We’ve crossed paths more than a few times over the years through industry fundraisers, charity galas, events where everyone knows everyone’s business before the dessert course. And this woman always had an audience surrounding her.
Malina runs a sprawling media empire, a portfolio of specialty magazines that somehow manages to cater towildly different audiences—cooking, solo travel, tech. She’s built a reputation for spotting market gaps before anyone else even realizes they exist.
Once, years back, she’d asked for my advice on a company she was looking to acquire. I spent a late afternoon combing through their financial data with her, pointing out what wasn’t on the surface—where they were bleeding money, why their numbers didn’t match their story, and how she could leverage that weakness in a sale. She took my suggestions, closed the deal, and sent me a thank-you bottle of twenty-year-old Scotch.
Outside of that, I’ve never really thought of her as anything more than a polished, strategic acquaintance. One I happened to respect for her brains as much as her beauty.
Which is why, when Marlow mentioned her as a potential date, I was intrigued. Not sold. Just curious. I couldn’t help but wonder what exactly my daughter was playing at. Sure, on paper Malina and I looked compatible. Both successful, connected, seasoned enough to know what we want. But the truth is, we couldn’t be more different.
Malina is all sleek lines and calculated charm. A woman who thrives in boardrooms, on red carpets, and in glossy magazine spreads. Me? These days I’m more drawn to wild, fun, carefree energy that makes you forget the time and your better judgment. Even if that side of them only comes out when no one’s looking.
I take another look at Malina. Really look. I can admire her. Respect her. Even enjoy her company. But no matter how much I like theideaof her, she could never be the reason I haven’t dated anyone else in months.
She could never be Eslin.
We’re barely into our first drink when it happens.
A low, traitorous rumble in my stomach.
Malina reaches across the table, her manicured hand resting lightly on mine while I pretend to study the menu. “I’m really glad you agreed to come out tonight. Our secretaries were getting sick of trying to coordinate our schedules.”
I grin, though sweat is beading at my hairline. “Ha! Yeah. Sorry it’s taken so long. Just busy,” I manage. Because at this moment, I’m actually too busy focusing on the small war breaking out in my gut to come up with anything clever.
I shift in my seat, praying she didn’t hear that ominous gurgle over the low hum of the restaurant.
The waitress appears just as Malina changes the subject to the one topic she’s clearly most passionate about—herself.
“Can I get you two started with some appetizers?”