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That’s what Lukas said about my new friend Preston here. At the time, it was enough to make my skin crawl.
Now, though, I’m wondering if it wasn’t just more of Lukas’s bullshit.
After all, Lukas warned me about a lot of things, and then hedida lot of things that sounded an awful lot like the exact stuff he warned me about. So forgive me if I’m not exactly trusting his judgment right now.
“Rae,” I offer, extending my hand. “Though I suspect you already knew that, too.”
Preston’s handshake is warm and firm. “Hard to forget a woman who inspired a five-million-dollar bidding war.”
I blush. “‘Inspired’ is a generous word for it. I was more like merchandise than inspiration.”
He laughs. “Fair point. Though I’d argue you were significantly undervalued.”
It’s such a smooth line, delivered with such easy charm, that I almost roll my eyes. But there’s something disarming about the way he says it—like he’s fully aware of how ridiculous it sounds and is inviting me to laugh along with him.
“Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Howell.”
He makes a grossed-out face. “Oh, God—Preston, please.” He signals to the sommelier, who steps forward instantly with an extra wine glass and pours. “And it’s not flattery if it’s true. Here—you look like you could use this more than anyone else at this table.”
The wine is dark and velvety. I take a long sip and feel some of the tension in my shoulders unknot.
“So,” Preston continues, turning his body toward me in a way that creates a little bubble of privacy amid the chaos, “what does Lukas Lazarev’s assistant actually do? Besides suffering through interminable dinners with a bunch of old bores like myself, I mean.”
“Mostly? I suffer through interminable dinners with old bores like yourself.” I waggle my phone. “Also spreadsheets. Many, many spreadsheets.”
“Sounds thrilling.”
“You have no idea.”
He grins. “Well, if you ever want to discuss something other than synergistic value creation, I’m an excellent listener. And I promise my dinner parties involve far less jargon.”
Down the table, Lukas is deep in conversation with one of the Wall Street types, his attention fixed anywhere but on me.
Fine. If he wants to pretend I don’t exist, I can do the same.
I turn back to Preston with my warmest smile. “I might take you up on that.”
For a man with such a sinister reputation, Preston is easy to talk to. He asks about my background, my interests, whetherI’ve always lived in Manhattan. Normal questions delivered with genuine-seeming curiosity. When I make a joke about my college dropout status, he laughs and touches my knee—just a quick squeeze, nothing overtly inappropriate—and tells me formal education is overrated anyway.
“Half the guys at this table have MBAs,” he murmurs out of the side of his mouth, “and they’re still the most boring people I’ve ever met.”
As he talks, his arm finds its way to drape over the back of my chair. Not around my shoulders, exactly. Just hangingnearthere, close and easy, no big deal at all.
“I bet a stunning, successful woman like you must have guys lining up around the block,” he mentions. “Boyfriend? Boyfriends, plural?”
I take another sip of wine to buy myself a moment. “Nothing serious at the moment,” I say carefully.
“Hard to believe.” His smile is blindingly white, filled with the biggest, brightest veneers I’ve ever seen. “Their loss, I suppose.”
He’s charming, but he’s not my type. Not even close. My type, apparently, is much older, much bigger, and much, much ruder. Which says nothing good about my psychological health.
“You’re blushing,” Preston observes with a grin. “Penny for your thoughts?”
“Trust me, they’re not worth that much.”
“I doubt that.” He hesitates, like he’s struggling with an embarrassing secret, then says, “You know, I was disappointed when Lazarev outbid me at the auction. I had plans for our evening together.”
“Plans?” I ask in confusion.
