Page 94 of One Wrong Move

“Nowhere. I’m just trying to figure you out,” I say. “Maybe you like cars because it’s something you do only for yourself. Something only you like?”

“Maybe,” he says easily, “or maybe it’s because they go really, really fast.”

I laugh. It cuts through some of the tension that’s keeping my body taut, lying here so close to him. If I move just a foot or two, I could touch him.

“Yeah, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says. “I like it when you try to understand me.”

The words are quiet in the near-darkness. They fill my chest with warmth, and that feeling once again settles deep inside. That bone-deep knowledge—he hasn’t had much of that in his life.

“Perhaps there’s a small part of what you said that’s also true,” he says. “Dad likes cars well enough, but never fully. Not wholeheartedly. I like to actually drive them. My father, my brother, and now my sister, too… They all use car services. That makes sense in New York, to a certain degree, of course. But I don’t think I could give up my independence.”

“Oh,” I breathe. That makes so much sense. What he’s told me, what I’ve heard of his family. He wants as much control as he can get.

Nate’s smile slants. “Yeah, I just realized how out of touch that sounded.”

“That’s not what… oh, about your family using personal drivers?”

“Yes.”

“I already know you’re rich, Connovan,” I say teasingly. “The cat is out of the bag.”

He chuckles softly. “Damn. Here I thought I’ve been good at pretending.”

“I think you gave it away within the first… two minutes.”

“Of meeting me?”

“Mm-hmm.”

He’s silent, and turns over to lie on his back. I look at the strong profile and the unblinking eyes looking at the ceiling. “You mean the very first time, in that college bar? Four years ago?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“What do you remember about that night?” he asks.

I swallow. We’re getting close to that box, the one locked and stashed on a shelf somewhere. But here, in the darkness, with him, it feels easier to talk. “I remember you joining us… Dean and I… after a few minutes. You were much more reserved than Dean.”

He gives a dry laugh. “Yes. He was in a mood that night.”

“You were more polite, too. But the rich thing… Your suits that gave it away,” I say.

“Plenty of guys wear suits to New York bars.”

“Not like yours and Dean’s.”

He turns his head to look at me. “You were captivating that night.”

“I was?” My eyebrows rise. I’d been twenty-four, feeling alone in the big city, unsure about my next career move, and trying to enjoy a fun night out. Dean made certain it became one. He’d been a whirlwind, a hurricane, arriving into my life and sweeping me away with him.

“Yes,” he says. “You were wearing a red sweater, and a black headband. You commented on the music. Said it didn’t have the right beat for a bar environment. It was a curious thing to say.”

“I can’t believe you remember that.”

“You know me,” he says quietly. “I have a very good memory.”

My mind flashes to the morning he’d seen me topless. To me urging him to forget about what he saw, while in the back of my mind, knowing that he has a photographic memory. Heat spreads from my chest and singes my cheeks.

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