Page 19 of The Final Contract
That’s the line. And I can’t afford to cross it.
She doesn’t look at me as she walks out, head high, chin tilted just so. No shy glances, no waiting for my approval.
She doesn’t need it. Seraphina knows exactly how beautiful she is—always has. She doesn’t need puppy eyes or compliments to remind her.
And it’s not my line to give her anyway.
That privilege belongs to her date.
The thought makes my jaw grind.
“What is the stalker protocol for a girl to get a repair done around here? My toilet is running.”
I darken my phone, force my eyes away from her curves, and keep my voice flat. “I can look at it for you. Probably an easy fix.”
She folds her arms over her chest and—fuck me sideways—I want my mouth on those tits so badly.
“I pay a fortune for building maintenance, you know. Do you need to perform a lie-detector test on the repairman, or can I just schedule it, big man?”
Big man.Something else I’d like from her in a different context—like hearing her breathy moan when I push my cock into her. Instead, I just clear my throat.
“The car is ready.”
Then I move for the door without waiting for her answer, because if I stand here another second, I might forget where the line in the sand is.
I might pretend it’s me taking her out. That I have the right to slide my arm around her narrow waist and pull her into me.
That she does look at me, ready to hear me say how she fucking ruins me with this dress. How we might not make it to the date because of my need to have her right this second—claim her so every cocksucker in New York knows she’s mine.
But she’s not. So when the elevator doors open and we step in, I leave those thoughts behind, letting the doors slide closed and lock them away for good.
Ididn’t sit in the back this time. Couldn’t. Something about seeing her walk out of her room dressed like that—ready for him—knotted my stomach tight. So I stayed up front, silent, staring straight ahead, pretending the passing buildings were more interesting than the woman who smelled like heaven in the back seat.
The car slows to a stop outside the restaurant. I’m out first, scanning, then opening her door. Eyes sweep the street, the valet, the windows above. Nothing unusual. Nothing I don’t already have covered.
She steps out without looking at me and adjusts her dress. My hand is usually there to help her, but I don’t extend it and she doesn’t reach for it.
Something about that burns in my chest. All I can do is check my holstered gun and the blade at my waist.
The maître d’ is waiting, smile polished and professional. “This way, Miss Wilde.”
We head upstairs, the faint hum of violin music floating down the hall. A private room—candlelit, table set for two.
And there he is.
Elijah I’m-a-dickface Carter.
The schmuck is sitting in his chair reading a newspaper, wearing jeans, a blazer, some blinding patterned shirt, and Converse sneakers. Christ. Here she is—looking like a fucking siren—and he couldn’t even bother with a tie.
What burns worse? He doesn’t even stand when she enters. Doesn’t greet her. Doesn’t pull her chair.
Patience frays fast. I take a few quick strides forward, grip the chair, and draw it out for her.
Her hair brushes against my arm as she turns, the clean, sweet scent of her shampoo assaulting me in the best way. She tilts her face up, a soft smile curving her lips. “Thank you,” she whispers.
The words cool the furnace inside me. For about half a second.
“Oh, yeah—I was going to get that,” Elijah says, a lazy grin plastered on his face as he nods at me like I’m the help.
