Uncovering You: The Contract

Chapter Twenty-Two

(Three weeks ago)

I rush after the hostess as she leads me through a maze of tables. I’d only decided to come at the last minute—and only after I saw the black limousine waiting for me outside.

In fact, all day I was certain I’d blow Stonehart off.

It was not curiosity that changed my mind, but desperation. Tonight is the last night I am allowed to stay at the apartment. Tomorrow I get evicted, with only a half-baked plan for what I will do next.

Maybe Stonehart has something to offer other than stark arrogance.

I see him alone in a secluded corner. His eyes are dark and his jaw is set. He does not dignify me with a greeting as I sit down.

“Can I offer you…” the hostess starts.

“No,” Stonehart barks. His tone makes the hostess swallow and turn away.

“You’re late,” he growls at me.

“Your driver—”

“Was at your door at precisely 6:40.” Stonehart’s entire body is like a coiled spring. It makes me fidget uncomfortably. “You came to the car at 6:58. Eighteen minutes, Lilly. That’s how long I’ve been waiting here for you.”

I glance at my watch. It shows six minutes after eight. “Reservations were for eight…” I begin.

“Which still makes you late,” Stonehart snaps. “Precision is important to me. Do you know how many people I have waited for as long as I’ve waited for you in the last ten years?” He looks up, then, and his dark eyes burn with a rage unlike any I’ve seen contained in another human. It shocks me how little of it seeps into his voice.

The contrast of it to his manner, cold as ice, frightens me.

“I—”

“Two,” he answers. “Two people. Less than the fingers I have on one hand.” He holds his left hand in front of his face and rotates it back and forth.

Without warning he slams it down on the table. I jump, and he surges up.

“It seems I was mistaken about you,” he says, and starts to walk away.

Desperate, I reach out and grab his sleeve. “Wait,” I say. “Please.”

Stonehart looks down at me. He sneers. Then, he rips his arm back and walks away.

I slump down in my seat. That was such bullshit! He didn’t even give me a chance to explain! What type of psychotic man waits twenty—no, “eighteen”—minutes only to leave the second his guest arrives?

“Miss?” A waiter interrupts my thoughts. “The gentleman ordered wine?”

I am poured two glasses before I can say a word. One is set on Stonehart’s side of the table, the other, in front of me.

I sigh and pick up my glass. The aroma of the wine is soothing. I sip at the rim.

I guess I am not cut out for this world, after all.