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“Do you have any idea how much you’re treated like a prince?”

His grin showed he did. “Is that a problem?”

“It’s not how most people live,” she said, one hand on hip.

“I’m not most people. Nor are you, come to think of it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Are we going to fight again?” he asked, eyes sparking with hers at the very idea.

“Later, for sure, and just for fun,” she quipped.

He made a growling sound of assent.

“So? Why am I not most people?”

“I presume your business is extremely profitable,” he said. “And it’s your business. I’m guessing that puts you in a pretty comfortable income bracket.”

She thought with amusement of her small apartment in Barnes. It was certainly nice, but hardly luxe, compared to his lifestyle. “I have expenses,” she said, lifting one shoulder. Surprised to realise she was reluctant to tell him about her foundation. It wasn’t as if it were a secret, though she also didn’t go screaming it from the rooftops. She didn’t want the publicity, nor the glory. It was something she did because it was the right thing to do.

His eyes probed hers, though, as if sensing she was holding something back. And she was pretty sure he was just going to outright ask her. Only a moment later, the waitress returned with a bottle of champagne on ice, and two menus.

“Compliments of the house,” she said, placing the bottle down, then the menus.

She reached for the bottle but Dimitrios forestalled her. “I’ll do it. Thanks, Winona.”

She smiled sweetly. “I’ll be back in a moment to take your orders.”

Chloe watched as Dimitrios lifted the bottle out, inspected the label, then began to unfurl the foil top.

“You must be a pretty good customer,” she said, finally sitting down on the plush, dark blue velvet sofa, one leg hooked beneath her, shoe-clad foot dangling off the edge.

He made a half-nod of agreement but didn’t say anything else. The bottle popped open and he poured two glasses. The sight of him with a slim champagne flute in his hand brought a smile to her face. It was somehow incongruous. She took the glass from him, relishing in the sensation of their fingers brushing and the responding spark in her belly. She took a sip to cover her body’s heated response.

“What are your expenses?” he asked, sitting beside her. The sofa wasn’t large—comfortable for two people. But even then, he was tall and big and his body instantly seemed to build its own gravitational pull, so even when an inch or so separated them, she wanted to lean forward and close the distance. To lean back and rest against him, to hell with the fact it would make it feel way more like a date than either of them wanted.

“That’s a little personal, isn’t it?”

“I’m curious.”

“Same response.”

“Is it a secret?”

“That’s generally what ‘personal’ means, right?”

“Illegal?” he asked, teasing.

“Totally.” She rolled her eyes, sipping her champagne again. His eyes held hers, his attention unrelenting. She took another sip, realized he wasn’t going to let it go, and surrendered to the inevitability of this.

“I actually only draw down a small salary for myself. Enough to live on comfortably, don’t get me wrong, but not in the executive range you might be imagining, given our turnover.”

He sat still, watching her silently. Letting her keep talking to fill the silence, she realized, and continued.

“So being treated like royalty when I eat out is not normal for me.”

“I see,” he said, thoughtfully. “What’s your reasoning?”