“You came,” he says. His voice is lower than I remembered. It does things to my heart rate that should be medically impossible.
“I was hungry,” I say, my voice sounding a bit too high. I pull out a chair as far away from him as possible. “And I figured I should at least let you apologize properly for yesterday.”
He sets the paper down, his eyes tracking my every movement. “Is that what we’re doing? I’m apologizing?”
“Well, you were a jerk on the cliff,” I remind him, reaching for a piece of toast I have no intention of eating. “You didn't say thank you. You didn't ask if I was okay. You just looked at me like I was a smudge on your windshield.”
“I was… preoccupied,” he says, leaning back. “My daughter was nearly a ‘body,’ as you so eloquently put it.”
I hum. “Exactly. Which was your fault.”
“I’m aware.” He doesn't look angry. He looks… amused. It’s infuriating. “Which is why I invited you to breakfast. Eat, Atara. You look like you haven’t slept.”
I freeze, my hand halfway to the butter. “I slept fine. Why would you think I didn’t sleep?”
“The shadows under your eyes,” he says, his gaze lingering on my face. “And you’re nervous. You’ve ripped that piece of toast into six pieces, and you haven't taken a bite.”
I look down. He’s right. I’m a mess.
“I’m not nervous,” I snap, finally taking a bite of the toast. It tastes like cardboard. “I’m just… adjusting to the climate. It’s very… grey here.”
“It is,” he agrees. He sips his coffee, eyes never leaving mine. “So, tell me, Atara Ross. What does a Magna Cum Laude graduate with a degree in Finance do when her carefully planned life is interrupted by a breakup?”
What the heck? How does he know that? Wait, he has been calling me by my name since I got here?
What in the hell is going on?
I choke slightly on my toast. “You had me investigated or what?!”
He just tilts his head as if to study me better. “I like to know who I’m having breakfast with.”
Shit, did I mention how hot he is?
“That is so creepy,” I say, leaning forward. “Do you do that to everyone? Or just the girls who save your kid?”
“Just the ones who have the balls to poke me in the chest and tell me I’m a failure.” He sets his cup down with a softclack. “You’re an anomaly, Atara. You’re smart enough to run a hedge fund, but you’re impulsive enough to jump over a stone wall in heels to save a stranger. That’s a dangerous combination.”
“I’m not dangerous,” I say, trying to regain my sass. “I’m just a girl who doesn't like seeing kids fall off cliffs.”
“And a girl who just got dumped.”
“W-what??” I narrow my eyes at him. Who the hell is this man?
“Mark,” Lorcan takes a sip of his tea, and I struggle hard not to hit him over the head.
“How do you know his name?” I snap.
“Like I said. I read the file. He sounds like a bore.”
I can’t help it. A small, surprised laugh escapes me. “He is a bore. A spreadsheet-obsessed bore. But he was my bore for five years.”
“Waste of time,” Lorcan mutters. He stands up then, walking slowly around the table.
My breath hitches. He stops a few feet away, leaning against the edge of the mahogany. He’s so close now I can smell him—sandalwood, rain, and something metallic.
“You’re still looking at me like you want to hit me,” he says, his voice dropping an octave.
“Maybe I do,” I whisper. The tension in the room is so thick I could stir it with a spoon. “You’re arrogant, you know too much, and you’re probably not a good person at all, I can tell.”
