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‘It is.’
‘But you don’t really date.’
It’s not a question; I know the answer.
‘I date,’ he corrects, pausing before leading us across the street.
‘Oh, yeah?’
‘Sure. I date like this—when I know it’s just for fun, with no chance of becoming more than what it is.’ His eyes meet mine for the briefest second. ‘But not a lot of women are interested in that.’
‘Really?’ I pull a face. ‘Because you’re such a catch they insist on a wedding ring on the first night?’
He laughs. ‘Something like that.’
‘I can actually kind of believe it.’
‘I wasn’t serious.’ He drops my hand so he can put his in the small of my back, guiding me further down the street. It’s a perfect, perfect New York winter’s night. Bundled up in my jacket, with Nicholas at my side, I feel warm, safe and as if I just don’t want the night to end. ‘It’s just hard to meet someone who understands that I really, truly don’t want to get involved.’
‘Beyond sex.’ I am definitely emboldened by champagne.
‘Yeah.’
I look up at him thoughtfully. ‘Is that what the tattoo means?’ I blink and see those words I am my own written over his heart.
He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand me. ‘The tattoo means a lot of things.’
‘Yeah?’ Curiosity barbs in my chest.
His smile is self-deprecating. ‘About a year after the wedding—the wedding that never happened—’ he laughs ‘—my dad came to New York and he was livid. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like that. We argued—which we don’t do. It’s very un-British.’ He grins, so sexy, so full of passion that I think Nicholas flies in the face of any stereotype regarding stiff, unfeeling upper lips.
‘What did you fight about?’
‘My lifestyle, which he hated. The nickname “Playboy of Manhattan”, which people delighted in calling me.’ He expels a sigh. ‘He did everything he could to get me to go home, but at the same time I think he knew the business here needed me. So in the end, he issued an ultimatum. Sow my wild oats, get the partying out of my system. Then, at thirty, get married and come home to settle down.’
‘And you’re nearly thirty?’
He nods. ‘It’s time to face the music.’
‘So, what, you go home and get married, sometime next year?’
For a second, something like fire flashes in his eyes, and then he shrugs. ‘That’s the deal we made.’
‘Wow. So, what, like a dynastic marriage?’ I’m kind of joking; the whole idea sounds so preposterous and so unlike Nicholas that it has to be a joke.
But his look sparks with something like muted anger. ‘Yes.’
I stop walking. ‘You can’t be serious.’
He lifts his shoulders, staring down at me with eyes that seem to hold an entire universe in their depths.
‘“You have been born to privilege, Nicholas. It is not for you to abandon this family’s legacy on a whim.”’
He is impersonating someone, putting on an even toffier accent.
‘But surely you can carry on a family legacy while marrying who you choose...?’
‘I would choose to stay single,’ he corrects, turning again so we’re shoulder to shoulder, taking a step forward. I move with him.
