Page 49 of Connor's Claim

He concealed it in his inside pocket and switched on the engine. Without turning to me, he said, “You’re on a date with me. You won’t be seen with your nose in your phone.”

An actual date? Father had implied it but I’d assumed…I didn’t know what. Not this. Surprise caught my tongue, and I stared at his profile, my resentment making him all the more loathsome. Then I faced forward with my hands in my lap. This man was important to my father, so he’d said. Surely the blow job reference couldn’t have been meant, but refusing to go out at all would deliver me into a world of trouble.

I’d get through the dinner like I did all unpleasant events, then plead a headache so we could come home as early as possible.

I’d lock my door tonight.

Even my low mood wouldn’t make me forget that.

The Mill was at the exclusive end of the city centre, in a row of grand buildings which included Deadwater’s university and museum, all built from the same stone and beautifully designed.

Luxury cars dropped off patrons whose eveningwear glittered in the evening lights.

With Piers, I entered the wide dining room, already busy with tables full of those smartly dressed diners. I smiled to the people I recognised through my father and thanked the waiter who took my wrap and showed us to our table. I settled onto the comfortable bench with my back to the wall, space for my clutch alongside.

“Move.” Piers pointed to the empty chair the other side of the table.

I squinted at it. “What?”

“If you didn’t hear, say ‘pardon’. If you didn’t understand, get up.”

My cheeks heated in my shame. I stood and took the opposite chair. He’d clearly never heard of the etiquette that dictated the woman be offered the seat facing the room, but I didn’t want to cause an argument.

With the quiet efficiency the restaurant was renowned for, our waiter reappeared with a carafe of water and the wine menu. Piers ordered without asking me. When the man left us, I waited for my so-called date to speak.

Instead, he glared out at the room, his fingers silently drumming on the white tablecloth. He’d removed the sports jacket, and his pale-blue shirt strained over gym-built biceps. Probably the result of steroids. He wore the impatient, barely constrained aggressive air of one of those types.

“Would you like me to tell you who I recognise here?” I asked.

He didn’t answer.

Right, then.

Instead, he opened his mouth, and with his focus still on the room, recited his career highlights. A pause came, and I found him staring at me.

“Who do I work for currently?”

“Webman-Foster,” I supplied. “I didn’t realise there would be a test.”

He didn’t smile. “Job title?”

God. He was serious. Lucky for me, fact retention was one of my superpowers, even if it had been read out like the world’s dullest weather report. “Investment Portfolio Manager.”

With the barest of acknowledgements, he watched the room once more.

“Would you like to know anything about me?” I asked.

“Your father told me all I need to know.”

If this had been a real date, I would have filled the silence myself with beige chat. But I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to be here, let alone play get-to-know-you with a man who had the worst manners of anyone I’d ever met.

The waiter returned with our bottle of wine and poured a taste for Piers to approve. At a nod, he filled our glasses.

“We’re ready to order,” Piers informed him.

Shit. I hadn’t even checked the menu.

“Tonight’s tasting menu begins with—” the waiter said.