Page 22 of No Lies No Promises

As we discuss possibilities, I pull in front of the restaurant. Careful not to bang the stitches, I ease out of the Subaru. When my gorgeous fiancée takes my arm, my fucking heart swells. Tonight, she’s dressed to kill—not literally. I have no idea how she does it. Some kind of magic. Smoky eyes. Red lips. Matching nails. Blonde hair twisted into a fancy do. Curls brushing her sexy neck. Sparkling necklace. Diamond earrings. And it’s not just the outfit. It’s her attitude. Everything screams money, privilege, confidence.

“Not a scratch.” Using a tone borrowed from my old man, I hand my keys to the attendant.

For my ears only, Lil mutters, “And don’t blow it up.”

Smirking, she glances up at me. “Too soon?”

We’re still chuckling as the sidewalk noise fades behind us. Inside, the restaurant swallows us whole. The city disappears. No selfies. No loud tables with tourists trying to be seen. Just low light, hushed voices, and the kind of expensive restraint that doesn’t announce itself.

Dark wood. Soft brass. Heavy pressed linen napkins. Glassware that catches the light. A mood designed for people who expect perfection.

Everything here costs. Time. Privacy. Silence.

Our impeccably dressed, twenty-something hostess doesn’t over-smile. She sizes us up, decides we belong, and takes the Benjamin I hold out as if it’s expected.

“Reservation’s under Clark,” I announce, somewhat bored. “We’re a few minutes late. I’m sure it won’t be a problem. Chef’s pleasure. Ask the sommelier to pair our wine.”

“Of course, Mr. Clark. Follow me, please.” She selects two menus before sauntering toward the kitchen.

At the table I requested, I slide Lillian in, then sit with my back to the wall, searching for threats.

Finding none, I smile at my date. “You look… stunning.”

“Thanks. I love this dress. Do you think Dante will let me keep it?”

I grin. “Perks of the job.”

“Sweet.” She reaches down to adjust the strap on her ankle, using the excuse to steal a glance over her shoulder. “I recognize a lot of Wall Street types.”

I kiss her hand. “Perfect. Everyone should know the prodigal son has returned.”

“And did you order the fatted calf?” Her giggle goes straight to my cock.

God, I love her sense of humor.

No stranger to expensive restaurants, she breaks off a small piece of bread, butters it without leaving a crumb, then brings it to her red lips.

I lean back, admiring her every move. “Do you ever miss your father’s money?”

“Only as I balance our checkbook.” She grins, cupping my cheek when I scowl. “Oh, you were being serious?”

She flicks her long nails toward the room. “We have plenty. This… This is so superfluous. What we do is so much more important.”

She lifts her crystal stemware to her lips, takes a sip, then meets my eyes over the rim. “Can I ask you a question about Roger?”

“You can ask.” Not sure I’ll answer.

Her red lips purse. “I know he ignored you growing up, but why the Marines? Surely, after paying for all your prep schools, he would’ve sent you to an Ivy League school.”

Sighing, I lean back in my chair. “My decision. Rebellion, I suppose. I wanted to show him I didn’t need him or his money. I stole a car. Got caught. Refused to let him bail me out. The judge gave me a choice: service or jail time. Grams sent a Marine friend to talk to me. What he said made a lot of sense.”

“And when you got out? Why forensic accounting?”

“Honestly? At the time, it seemed like a safe bet. There’ll always be a job for those who follow the money.”

We halt our conversation when the gloved sommelier approaches. He holds the label toward me, waiting for my nod. Once he uncorks the bottle and pours, I swirl the wine beneath my nose. Not done playing the snob, I take a sip, swirling the liquid around in my mouth before swallowing.

“It’ll do.” My tone says the opposite.