Page 50 of The Perfect Mistake

“You’re not going to ask me to invest in your start-up, either, are you?”

I cross my heart. “Promise.”

“Good.” He drapes his arm along the back of the couch, too, and it comes to rest next to mine. Our forearms brush. His eyes, usually hazel, look dark in the dim lighting. “I’m sorry about those women. The assumptions they were making were clear on their faces.”

I shrug. “It’s okay.”

“No,” he says, and his voice is unexpectedly hard. “It really isn’t.”

“I don’t run in those circles,” I say. “It doesn’t matter what they might think of me.”

“It matters to me,” he mutters.

I dig my teeth into my lower lip. “Are you concerned they’ll think less of you because of it? I don’t know, I would think the relationships between… that… well, that it’s not that uncommon. In your world. In the St. Regis world, I mean.”

My cheeks blaze at my stumbling words. I’d just implied that it was common for men in his social circle to sleep with nannies who work for them. That it would be common if he did it.

“That’s not it. It’s just…” Alec trails off, his voice turning hoarse. “I don’t want anyone to think that I’m using you. That I’m taking advantage of you.”

“They won’t,” I say. “I bet, next week, they won’t even remember meeting me.”

His eyebrow rises. “Not so sure about that.”

Silence falls between us, and he glances back toward the screen.

I’ve never seen him watch TV in here, not unless he was with kids or joined me. I make my voice light. “How do you relax?”

“I’m relaxing right now,” he says.

“I mean, you asked me about my hobbies the other night. So far, the only things I’ve seen you do is work and parenting, and neither of those qualify.”

“I use the gym.”

“In the mornings?” I ask.

He dips his chin in a nod. Somehow, we are closer to one another than when he first sat down, and my bent knee brushes against his leg.

“Doesn’t count, either,” I say. “That’s… no. Doesn’t qualify.”

“Didn’t know I’d be interrogated when I got home.”

“Wishing you stayed at the sake bar?”

“No,” he says. “Not even a little bit.”

My breath hitches. “I get that. There’s only so much sake a man can have.”

“And I’ve already had too much,” he says darkly.

“Maybe you can sleep in tomorrow.”

A spark lights up his eyes. “Isabel,” he says. “You know as well as I do that’s never going to happen. Did you ever sleep in when you danced ballet?”

“No,” I whisper. We’re similar that way, despite all the ways that we’re different. The dedication to the dream comes above everything else.

“Life of a perfectionist,” he says. His fingers brush against my shoulder, a barely-there touch. “Always striving for something just out of reach.”

“Never quite satisfied with what you have.”

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