Page 36 of One Wrong Move

I roll my eyes. “Really?”

“Yes. Live adventurously, right?”

“You’re right.” I look down at our empty plates and then out the window. Beyond, London and the thing I’d promised Nate beckon. The thing we’d gone out for. I look back up at Nate and give him my widest smile. “And speaking of adventures… Ready to have the best wingwoman in all of London at your side?”

His voice turns dry, and his eyes stay on mine. “Can’t wait.”

Harper

He paid for dinner while I used the restroom.

“No, Nate,” I say when I return and find the check handled. “This was supposed to be my treat. As a thank you for letting me stay with you.”

“I thought being my wingwoman was supposed to be my treat,” he says.

“Well, that too. You can have two treats.”

He shakes his head. “No, I can’t. Besides… if you’re that set on taking me out for dinner, Harp, I’ll let you in the future.”

We leave the restaurant and cross a busy street. It’s a Friday in Chelsea, and the energy is high. So is mine. I feel buzzed on life, and on a glass of wine, and the abundance of opportunities.

The people-watching here is something else.

The bar is an upscale sort of place, with hedges trimming the terrace and the bouncer keeping a tight control over who’s let in. We find a spot in the corner, looking out onto the busy locale. Music plays softly from speakers hidden around us.

Nate orders a gin and tonic, and I ask for a glass of white wine. This time, he lets me put down my card. But he’s grumbling when the waiter walks away.

I nudge his leg under the table. “Come on, surely your ego isn’t that fragile.”

“Fragile?” His eyebrows rise, and that faint smile curves his lips again. The one that feels the most genuine. “Didn’t know you saw me that way, Harp.”

“I didn’t, at least not before I learned that letting a woman pay for dinner and drinks makes you uncomfortable.” I’m smiling over the rim of my wine glass. “I already know you’re rich. I’ve seen it. You got nothing to prove to me.”

“Maybe,” he says, leaning forward on the table, “that’s not why I’m unhappy about this little idea of yours.”

“Oh? Then what is it?”

He runs a finger along the thick edge of his tumbler. “Maybe I’m uncomfortable with you spending money on me when it’s worth more being spent on yourself.”

I narrow my eyes at him, and a flush creeps up my cheeks. It feels like an insult. Compared to him, I’m poverty itself. And he’d seen where I stayed before he swooped in and offered me a non-bug-infested room and a shower with excellent water pressure.

My conversation with Dean weighs heavily on me. It always takes me a while to shake off his comments.

“Harper,” he says with a sigh. “I’m always uncomfortable when a friend spends money on me.”

The admission makes me nod and lessens the pang of embarrassment. “Is that a part of having so much?”

“I don’t want people to spend their hard-earned cash on things I could take care of myself.”

“Maybe you just don’t like people taking care of you.”

His brows draw together, and there’s no hint of a smile on his face. Only intense focus. I thought he’d smile at my remark. Return to the playfulness we’d had all evening.

“Maybe,” he finally says. And then he smiles, a broad, charming smile, and leans back in his seat. “But you’ve finally done it. I’ll suffer through this drink to make you happy.”

“You’re very generous.”

He inclines his head and raises his glass. “I know, I know.”

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