Page 74 of Damaged

I go to change, making my butt sway extra as I walk.

“And Sophia…”

I turn towards him.

“No underwear.”

My heart pounds. I can’t get enough of his commands. I’m not sure he entirely understands what he’s asking. All my lady bits will be out when I sit. But I can wear a coat most of the time. “Okay.” I nod eagerly. “No underwear.”

James waits for me out in the hall while I finish getting ready.

I put on my warmest navy wool coat and step out of the apartment. James smiles at me again. His expression says it all—he didn’t think I could look any better than I did in the living room.

He brushes my coat out of the way and then lifts my skirt up to see that I’m following the rules. No underwear.

“So,” I say, swallowing. Trying to keep my cool and not become a little blubbering puddle. “Where’s dinner?”

“That’s a surprise, too.”

“You have a messed-up hobby of keeping girls in suspense.”

“No. Just you,” he says, and I smile.

We take his car south towards the Financial District, and the next thing I know, we’re in another elevator.

“I don’t know of any restaurant here,” I say.

“It’s like a speakeasy, but instead of martinis, they serve the best pasta in the city.”

The doors to the elevator open, and there’s an older hostess with her hair in a ponytail and her hands clasped behind her back, smiling at us.

“Good evening, Mr. Callaway,” she says in a heavy Italian accent. “Right this way to your table.”

She bows a little, and we follow into a dimly lit restaurant seventy floors above New York City. It borders on too dark. At least for walking. The tables are well lit by candlelight, but I have to navigate the floor by looking at my feet. They have little lights they’ve placed, making a path like those on the stairs in movie theaters.

We stop at a small booth made for two. It makes the atmosphere a little more private. It’s a little more intimate not being able to see the diners in front of us. We’re against a window, and below, the city glistens in the winter dark. From up here, New York is something it rarely is—quiet.

“So, how’d you swing this reservation so late?”

James shrugs. “I’m a good tipper.”

I look left and right. “Aren’t you a little afraid of being seen out with me?”

“You’re not something I’m ashamed of.” He reaches his hand across the table and holds mine. “Why don’t you think I’d want to be seen with a woman as beautiful as you?”

“Because I work for one of your investments.”

“Everyone works for one of my investments. If you worked for Apple, is it a conflict of interest because I own twenty million dollars of their stock?”

“James… You know it’s a little different. We email each other.”

He takes his hand away. Maybe I should’ve just shut up. Why am I talking like this? Why am I trying to figure out what we are or what we’re doing? I should just shut up and enjoy the evening.

“I’m sorry,” I say, almost at a whisper.

“It’s fine. I guess I haven’t really been thinking. I did fire you. Let the record show.” James smiles, and I do, too. “So, if anybody asks, this is just me trying to make it up to you.”

“Is that so? Dress and all?”

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