Page 119 of Manhattan State of Mind

Silence hangs between us for a beat too long because my flirt game stinks.

I let out a snort that was supposed to be a sexy sound.

“I want to see you,” he says, having the good manners to ignore my snort. “I’d like to take you out tonight. Or rather, I want to bring you in.”

I stop pacing to lean against the wall. Holy shit, he’s asking me on a date.

“I don’t understand.”

“Allow me the pleasure of cooking for you.”

“You cook?”

“You sound shocked. I assure you; I have a few tricks up my culinary sleeve.”

A flicker of caution flutters in my stomach.Don’t get excited, it whispers.Anemotional attachment could be a slippery slope.

“Lucy,” he draws out my name like a dirty sexy promise. “Did I lose you?”

“N-no,” I stutter, suddenly breathless.

“And?”

“And…”And you’re all I thought about last night, but I don’t know what this is or where I stand and I’m too chicken-shit to ask, and I’m absolutely terrified of getting hurt.“I don’t know.”

“What don’t you know?”

“You must have more enticing options for a Saturday night than playing chef for me?”

“What kind of question is that? No, Lucy. Absolutely not.”

“Okay,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart. What the hell am I doing? But how does any sane woman refuse an invitation like that?

“Okay, I can expect you tonight?”

“Suppose I can pencil you in,” I quip, finally finding my voice.

He lets out a low laugh again. “Good girl,” he purrs, a single phrase that has me sliding slowly down the wall. “I’ll send a car for you at seven. I’m looking forward to it.”

The line goes dead, the arrogant bastard disconnecting before I can utter another word. Just as well. My tongue has apparently swallowed itself.

I slide the rest of the way down the wall, landing in a heap on my ass.

THIRTY-TWO

Lucy

How do you dress for a night in with a billionaire?

No clue.As it’s apparently a home-cooked meal, I suspect he’d prefer something moreGirl next doorthanDominatrix mistress. So I spend the next few hours crafting an outfit that says “I’m chill but also up for anything, maybe even anal.”

Right on cue, a car sent by JP arrives to whisk me away.

Nerves humming like a live wire, I tap lightly on his apartment door.

The door swings open, and I’m suddenly grappling with the urge to either dissolve into a puddle at his feet or race back to the elevator.

Tonight, he’s dressed down in black sweatpants and a simple gray T-shirt, his feet tantalizingly bare.