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It turns out Grayson’s tavern is basically a high-end pub. English Tudor aesthetic meets minimalist menus and $30 cocktails. It’s busy enough to feel comfortable, but quiet enough you can actually hear the people next to you. I glance around the room, assuming Luke isn’t here yet. He probably got sucked into something at work.
But then I spot him. He’s sitting by the front window. The city lights flicker across the sharp angles of his face, and his restless fingers tapping the table.
He looks like something out of a movie.
In five months, people are going to buy a book telling the story of this man’s life. And I’m the one who’s supposed to write. To show the world the real Luke Dewinter.
Do I even know the real Luke Dewinter?
I’ve gotten so used to thinking of Luke as a rich, cynical asshole. But I noticed a thread running through every story he told today. They were all about sticking up for someone more vulnerable than him.
Not that he noticed that. No, to Luke those stories were all about him playing pranks and goofing off and getting into trouble.
I’m beginning to wonder if maybe there’s more to Luke than I thought.
Why does that thought make me feel strangely breathless?
I head to the window table and slide into the seat across from Luke. “Hey.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Such an articulate greeting. I can tell you’re a writer.”
“Shut up,” I say.
A waiter sets a glass of dark beer down in front of him, and a glass of red wine in front of me. I’m about to give Luke crap for ordering for me, but when I sip it, it’s delicious.
Damn him for remembering what kind of wine I like.
“Are you ready to order?” the waiter asks.
“No,” I say, at the same time Luke says, “Yes.”
Luke hands me the menu. There are four pricey entrees on the simple menu, three of which have onions.
Luke smirks. “She’ll have the schnitzel. I’ll have the bratwurst and potatoes.”
“Very good.” The waiter takes our menus and disappears.
“It must be hard,” Luke says, “having such a sensitive palette. Maybe you’d have more options if you ordered off the children’s menu.”
I flip him off.
He grins, wolfish, and my stomach flips.
A stray comment I read on social media today when I was researching Luke floats through my mind.He obviously likes his women feisty.
Someone had left the comment under two grainy photos of Luke with some soap opera actress I vaguely recognize. In the first, they’re arguing. In the second, he’s kissing her passionately, and she’s melting into him.
The photos are at least five years old, and as far as I know Luke hasn’t seen that actress since.
But I still feel a wash of heat thinking about those images of Luke. The way he just...controlled her. Took what they both wanted.
Normally men who boss me around arenotmy type. But there’s something about Luke that keeps throwing me off my game.
I clear my throat and fumble in my purse for my audio recorder and notebook. I set them both on the table and hit record. “Ok. Tell me about your earliest memory of Helius.”
Luke sips his beer, thinking. “My grandpa's office. I think I was four or five. My mom was talking to my dad about something, I think. I escaped and found my grandpa’s office. He had model planes in his office, with the Helius Airlines logo on them.”
He smiles now, remembering. “He stopped his meeting to pull me onto his lap and show me the airplanes.”
