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And again.

The irritating part is that eventually I’m going to say yes. Not because he wore me down. Because somewhere beneath the anger, the caution and everything I have spent years building around myself, I want to hear what he has to say. That’s the part I do not know what to do with.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Blaire

Five days after Ross first asks me to dinner, I finally stop saying no. Technically, I never say yes either. I tell him I'm free Thursday evening after six, and Ross treats that as sufficient confirmation. By seven-thirty, I'm sitting across from him in a private corner of a Mayfair restaurant with a glass of Burgundy in front of me and the uncomfortable realization that I've voluntarily placed myself exactly where I've spent the last week trying not to be: Alone with him.

The restaurant is elegant without being ostentatious, with low lighting, linen-covered tables and enough space between diners that nobody has to lower their voice to protect a conversation. Ross has chosen a table tucked into a quiet alcove near the rear of the dining room, private enough that we can talk without being overheard but not so private that the evening feels deliberately intimate. I'm not sure whether that was strategic. With Ross, it usually is.

The waiter has already taken our order and disappeared with the menus when Ross lifts his wineglass.

"Thank you for coming," he says.

"You asked enough times."

"I said I would."

"Yes, you did."

Ross studies me over the rim of his glass.

"You could've kept saying no."

"I considered it."

"What changed your mind?"

I take a sip of wine before answering.

"I decided one dinner might finally satisfy your curiosity."

His mouth shifts slightly.

"I wouldn't count on that."

"That's exactly the answer I was afraid of."

The waiter arrives with the first course before Ross can respond, setting down small plates of scallops with a light citrus sauce. I'm grateful for the interruption because sitting across from Ross like this feels more familiar than I want it to.

That's been the problem all week. The more time we spend in the same rooms, the less strange his presence becomes. I don't like that. I especially don't like how easily my body remembers the space he occupies, the cadence of his voice, the way he listens without looking distracted, the slight tilt of his head when he thinks I'm avoiding a question.

Wells does that.

The realization hits so abruptly that I look down at my plate. Ross notices.

"Something wrong?" he asks.

"No," I reply too quickly.

His eyes stay on me.

"You sure?"

"I'm fine."

He lets it go. That might be worse. I pick up my fork and concentrate on the food.