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“He waswrong, Hannah.”
She nods, dropping eye contact.
Our drinks appear a second later, the waiter setting them down quickly and rushing off with a promise to be back shortly to take our dinner orders.
I grab the tumbler of whiskey, raise it, and tilt it toward her. “To getting into architecture school.”
Hannah bites her bottom lip before lifting her own glass. The blood orange garnish wobbles before settling back on the rim. “To Thompson & Thompson.” She pauses. “Or did you already close another deal I missed?”
“That was the latest one. Do you have stock or something?”
She shakes her head. Swallows. Shrugs. “I looked you up, after.” Her glass tilts closer. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
Our glasses tap.
Hannah sips her drink, then smiles. “Wow. This is really good.” She holds it toward me. “Try it.”
I can’t recall the last time I had a mixed drink. But I take it, mostly because I don’t want her animated expression to disappear. Sip it, making a face at the sweetness. “Delicious.”
Her laugh warms my chest more than the alcohol. “You’re not going to offer me some of yours?”
“I thought you knew what whiskey tastes like.”
But I hand it over anyway, realizing I’m handing her a lot more than this glass.
And recognizing I’m screwed.
Holding a losing hand in a game I desperately want to win.
Married to a woman I’m falling for when I’m supposed to be dating someone else. A woman who is about to embark on a new chapter of her life on the opposite side of the country from where I live and work.
Asher calling the situation a clusterfuck suddenly seems tame. And he didn’t even know the half of it.
CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE
HANNAH
Kensington Consolidated’s offices are just as massive and imposing as I expected. The path up to the entrance of the building is immaculately landscaped, a fountain located just outside doors that require a keycard to enter.
Oliver’s hand falls to my lower back, guiding me through the door in front of him.
A middle-aged man is seated at the desk that sits in the center of the massive glass lobby, decorated by couches and plants.
“Evening, Mr. Kensington.”
Oliver nods at the man, who eyes me curiously. He has to swipe a keycard to get to the elevators, and again when we’re inside.
I lean against the wall, watching the digital numbers above the buttons tick higher and higher as we ascend.
Oliver is typing on his phone, a furrow formed between his eyes.
Coming here was probably a bad call. When Oliver said he had to come back to the office after dinner, I should have asked him to drop me off at my hotel. Instead, I said I didn’t mind stopping.
I’m curious about this central component of his life. This building that he spends so much time at, and this piece of his identity that’s tied up with his family’s company.
And I also don’t want tonight to end. Not yet.
