Page 65 of One Wrong Move

“Okay, you won’t look weird being in a tux here,” I tell Nate.

He puts his hand on the small of my back. It hovers there, barely touching. “We have an elevator ride left, and then there will be food.”

“What is this place?”

“Duck and Waffle. Open twenty-four seven,” he says. He nods at the bouncer, and then we’re through.

It’s on the top floor, an elegant blend of a restaurant and bar. All around us are glass windows with views of London. The first rays of light are kissing the horizon, ushering the break of dawn.

“Wow,” I breathe. “This is unreal.”

Nate’s voice is amused again. “Come on. Let’s grab a table with a view. The sun should rise… right over there. We’ll get a good view of Tower Bridge too.” He leads the way to a small table right against the glass. The waiter is at our side in minutes. She smiles, handing us the menus. “Finishing off a long night?”

“Something like that,” Nate says. “But mostly we’re beginning a new day in style.”

We end up ordering the drinks along with the food. This place is famous for its cocktails, and it takes me one glance at the list of signature beverages to realize getting anything else would be a waste. The drinks arrive quickly, and Nate leans back in the chair with his gin and tonic. With his bowtie undone, his thick hair, and that glint in his eyes, he looks almost dangerous.

It’s easy to forget just who Nate is when he’s helping me air the smoke out from his kitchen after a culinary mishap, or making coffee in the morning. But it’s just as easy for me to be struck by the realization again.

And right now, I’m struck.

On a regular day, Nate doesn’t seem that much older than me, but at the moment, those ten years are apparent; the faint lines across his forehead make him look distinguished.

The things Dean has told me wind through my mind. Now, though, they are enhanced, changed with the firsthand knowledge of Nate himself. Of his beautifully renovated Kensington townhouse. Of his attachment to cars. His job and family, and the way he carries himself.

I’ve met other men through Dean, but no one quite like Nate. No one else whom Dean admired so much, and no one else whom Dean envied more.

No one more richer and no one more powerful.

“You’re looking at me.” Nate’s voice holds no trace of amusement now, just a quiet observation. “Like you’re trying to solve a riddle.”

“Maybe I am. Maybe you are a very fascinating person.”

One of his eyebrows rises. “I think you’re vastly overestimating me.”

“No, I don’t think I am.” I shake my head slowly. “There are a ton of things I would ask you. If I could.”

Nate looks out of the window. I follow his gaze to where the golden sun is slowly rising. “Ask then,” he says. His voice is a bit gruff.

I take a sip of my drink. It tastes like passionfruit and vanilla, and if there’s alcohol in it, it’s cleverly disguised. “It might offend you.”

“Have I ever given you the impression that I’m easily offended?” He shakes his head, looking over at me, and puts a large hand directly over his heart. “That hurts more than any words you might say.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m going to hold you to that if you ever get upset.”

“Please do. I’m a man of my word.” He inclines his head in my direction, his eyes still gleaming. “Give it your best shot.”

Alcohol, adrenaline, and tiredness blend together in my system into a heady cocktail. Nothing about reality feels quite real. Not the bar, not the view of the city, not the sunrise. Not the early hour after a late night or the man sitting in front of me.

“You were… I… how did you turn out normal?”

Both his eyebrows rise. “What?”

“You were raised wealthy, right? You had these kinds of experiences all the time. Archery camp and, and… beautiful cars. International travel and amazing schools. How did you grow up and not become absolutely unbearable? You could be arrogant, belittling, entitled. I’ve met plenty of people who are.”

He runs a hand along his jaw. It takes me a second to realize it’s to hide his smile.

That makes me chuckle. “It’s not that weird of a question!”

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