Page 12 of Enticing My Off Limits Billionaire

I blow out a breath and try desperately to collect myself as I walk toward him. He looks over and sees me, then raises his hand in a wave.

"Sorry, I'm late," I apologize as I slide onto the barstool beside him. "Got a little held up with some work."

"You're not late," he says. "I'm early."

"Fair enough," I grin. "You didn't want to get a table?"

"No, we can," he says. "I was just waiting for you to get a drink first. Place is empty enough that we should have plenty of room."

"What can I get you?" the bartender asks.

"Vodka martini," I tell him. "Make it extra dirty."

Quinn cocks an eyebrow. "Extra dirty, huh?"

"That's how I like it."

Why can't I chill with the innuendos?

Quinn huffs out a laugh. "I didn't take you for a vodka girl."

"Well...don't tell my dad," I say, "but I actually hate whiskey."

"Seriously?"

I shrug. "Bad connotations...and I always seem to make bad choices when I drink it."

"You drank an awful lot of it at the wedding."

"And I spent the entire next day puking my guts out," I laugh.

Quinn shakes his head with a chuckle. "Understood."

The bartender brings me my drink, and together, Quinn and I make our way over to a table in the corner. The room is lit in sultry amber light, twinkle lights overhead, and books lining the walls. The rest of the café is populated by people working alone on laptops, just one or two couples clearly out on dates. I pull out my own laptop, a notebook, and a pen; Quinn simply places a plain black moleskin and pen on the table in front of him.

"So, tell me about this theatre," I say. "You said they want the theatre custom-built?"

"Yeah," he nods. "I have an old college friend who does immersive theatre up in Salem, and she's got some people on the hook for funding if she puts something on here in the city."

"Forgive me for the confusion, but what exactly does 'immersive theatre' mean...?"

Quinn's lips curve upwards in a crooked smile, his eyes glazing over slightly like he's thinking about something he really cares about. I find my gaze drawn to his lips, to the way he reaches up to stroke his beard. His jawline could cut glass. I wonder what it would feel like to touch it.

Jesus, Madison. Calm down.

"Delia does five senses theatre," he says. "The show will be an experience you walk into and participate in. She started out in black boxes, but she's since started experimenting with architecture in her theatre up in Mass."

"Oh, cool," I tell him—and I mean what I say. This sounds like precisely the kind of project I've been wanting to sink my teeth into. "So we're thinking...maybe a skylight? There will be plenty of space to build and adjust...maybe modular elements that we can move in and out? A space that's constantly moving and shifting."

"Exactly," he says, nodding along. I feel like we're meeting mind to mind right now like we have a connection.

"Would it be possible to visit her theatre in Massachusetts?" I ask. "It would be nice to talk to her and figure some things out...take a look and see what they did up there."

"I can organize something, for sure," he says. "If I remember correctly, they're putting on a series of Ibsen's classics right now. We could go up for that."

"That would be amazing."

Plus, it would be nice to get away—a weekend drive out of the city with a good friend might be just what I need.

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