Page 45 of Masks and Mishaps

Her exhalation is slow and relieved. “Are you seducing me? Because if you’re looking to get your dick wet tonight, I’ll fuck you,” she replies before gasping. “Oh, I made it weird. Forget I said that. Just—” She makes a circular motion with her finger like she’s stirring in midair. “Something about…talking? Jesus, is that seriously as far as you’ve gotten?”

“Baby, please don’t spiral. As cute as it is, I just want to offer some mentorly advice.”

“That’s it?” Her brow tightens. “You have to know how dramatic you are. You put your hands on my shoulders like you were telling me my husband wouldn’t be returning from the western front.”

I bend, putting my face level with hers. “Essie,” I murmur, “don’t ever say the words ‘my husband’ in front of me unless you’re talking about me.”

“Yes, Dalton,” she replies, and her voice is wispy. She’s smirking though—and what a little liar. My abs clearlyaremiracle workers because I just defused an Essie moment by being a possessive dick.

I nudge her chin with a tap of my finger. “You know I respect the fuck out of you. In a perfect world, I would respect the fuck out of you every night until death do us part, but Mom and Dad beat us to the punch.”

“This is quite the prologue. Should I prepare for a lecture?”

“Banking is a culture,” I continue, not humoring her for once. “It’s not like other careers. It demands more than the hours you put in at your desk.”

“Overtime,” she responds without missing a beat.

“Relationships,” I clarify. “This is not a meritocracy.”

Essie’s lips pull into the most gorgeous mauve O. She’s quiet.

“You’ll get a full-time offer, and the salary is going to blow your mind. The bonuses are going to be big enough to make you come in your minuscule panties when you see one for the first time—and if we’re being honest, I’d love to watch.”

“Pervert,” she mutters.

“Glass houses,” I respond. “But if you want a senior VP desk before you turn thirty, you have to build relationships. Luckily, this should come easy. You’re a fantastic camgirl precisely because you’re a chameleon. Tell them what they want to hear and get ahead, Ess.”

Essie’s eyes travel over me, and I brace for the indignation—and she would be justified. Finance is a bullshit industry made by guys like me specificallyforguys like me. I get a nod instead. “You make a good point.”

“Actually, I’ve made a repugnant point. I’m tempted to lick your pussy to get the taste out of my mouth.”

She sighs. “Do you ever stop thinking about eating my cunt?”

Cunt. The word sounds so much prettier when she says it.

“No. I quite literallyneverstop thinking about your cunt. I haven’t stopped for two years straight.”

“Well, to be clear: What you said was indeed repugnant, but I’m a woman of facts. Like you mentioned, I’ve spent the last four years pretending to be a drunk party girl to make money. Obviously, my integrity is for sale.” She claps her hands together. “Where do we start?”

“Easy. If you get invited to drinks or dinner, go. Order a club soda with lime so it looks like a cocktail, and meet the energy of whoever you’re with. That’s all it takes.”

“No, I want you to teach me.” She dips her chin. “Teach me to drink, Dalton.”

It takes me a beat to find words while I absorb the ungodly beauty of her focused expression. Nothing she said is hollow. If Essie found out she would have to bathe in the blood of her enemies in order to get ahead, she would pay Next-Day Shipping for a tarp and a claw foot tub before the end of the conversation. Still, I shake my head. “I’m not going to do that.”

Now it’s her turn to be quiet, and she carries out a slow cant of her head.

I Immediately tug up the hem of my shirt.

“Stop that,” she orders—but she doesn’t look away.

“You look homicidal,” I reply before drumming my fingertips on my exposed abs. I wink. “Nice, right?”

“Dalton, many men have ignored me when I’ve spoken to them, and if you want to be one, get ready for a week in Rhinebeck where I edge you to the brink and leave your balls the most gorgeous shade of blue.”

I genuinely believe she’d follow through too. I drop my shirt. “You don’t drink, and I respect that. It’s a slippery slope. One day you’re trying your first bourbon, and the next, you’re dropping out of Harvard Law and going on a coke bender that ends with Lander and Everett retrieving you at the Salem Witch Museum, which is, like, twenty-five miles from Harvard. Plus, I like how you’re not—”

“Sloppy but cute?” She steps closer. “Let’s not throw stones in glass penthouses.”

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