Page 65 of Thor

Conversation flowed as easily as the wine. Thor told me about places he'd ridden to—the Grand Canyon at sunrise, the Pacific Coast Highway with fog rolling in from the ocean, a tiny town in New Mexico where he'd waited out a thunderstorm in a bar owned by a former rodeo clown.

"I've never left Colorado," I admitted, feeling suddenly small. My life had been so focused on career advancement, on financial security. "Pathetic, right?"

"Not pathetic," Thor corrected gently. "Just a different path. But now you've got someone to show you those places, if you want."

The casual promise of a future together made something warm unfurl in my chest. We ordered entrées—pasta for me, a steak for Thor—and continued trading pieces of ourselves between bites.

I learned that Thor had broken his arm at twelve trying to jump his bicycle over a homemade ramp. He learned that I'd been on the math team in high school, my copper hair pulled back in a tight ponytail as I competed in speed calculation events.

"That explains a lot," he said with a laugh. "No wonder you’ve added so much value to the club."

"Just applying principles," I shrugged, secretly pleased by the compliment.

"Principles and talent," Thor insisted, reaching across to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.

I was about to respond when my phone buzzed in my purse. I'd silenced it earlier but left the vibration on—force of habit as someone who was always on call for three different employers. Normally I would have ignored it during dinner, but the buzzing continued, indicating a call rather than a text.

Thor noticed my attention shift. "Problem?"

"No, just my phone," I said, trying to refocus on our conversation. But the buzzing continued, stopped, then immediately started again. Someone was trying hard to reach me.

I pulled my purse onto my lap, intending just to check who was calling. Martin's name and the Prestige Partners logo flashed on the screen. Martin rarely called after hours unless something was urgent with a high-value client.

"I should just check what he wants," I murmured, forgetting Thor's first rule for our date day as anxiety flared. The Peterson account had been in a delicate state when I'd left yesterday, tax implications hanging in the balance of decisions that needed to be made soon.

I answered before fully thinking it through. "Martin, what's up?"

"Mandy, sorry to bother you after hours," Martin's voice came through clearly. "I can't find the Peterson tax shelter documentation. Is it in your files or the shared drive?"

Such a simple question. Nothing urgent at all. "It's in my desk drawer, left side, blue folder. I hadn't digitized it yet because we were waiting on the final signoffs."

"Perfect, that's all I needed. Enjoy your evening."

The call lasted less than thirty seconds. When I hung up and looked across the table, Thor's expression had changed. The warmth remained, but something else lurked beneath—the Dom asserting himself through his steady gaze.

"That was work," he stated quietly, no question in his tone.

My stomach dropped as I suddenly remembered the first rule he'd laid out this morning. No work calls or emails. Not one.

"I'm sorry, I forgot—" I began, feeling a flush of embarrassment heat my cheeks.

Thor shook his head once, cutting me off. Not harshly, but with unmistakable authority. "We'll discuss consequences later," he said, his tone gentle but firm. "For now, let's enjoy the rest of our meal."

That single statement sent an unexpected thrill through me—not fear of punishment, but anticipation of his care expressed through discipline. Our contract had outlined this aspect of our relationship clearly: rules were meant to protect and nurture, consequences were meant to reinforce boundaries that helped me thrive.

I swallowed hard, nodding my acceptance. "Yes, Thor."

His expression softened slightly at my submission. "Turn off your phone, princess. Not just silent—off."

I complied immediately, powering down the device and returning it to my purse. The simple act felt strangely liberating, like cutting a tether that had kept me constantly available to others' needs.

Thor must have sensed my internal shift because his next words were gentler. "The Peterson account will survive one evening without Amanda Wright's brilliant mind."

There was no mockery in his compliment, only sincere appreciation of my professional capabilities.

Dessert arrived—a rich chocolate torte with two forks that we shared between us. Thor insisted I take the last bite, watching with undisguised pleasure as I savored the dark chocolate.

"Good?" he asked, voice deeper than usual.

---