LITMIR.BIZ

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Champagne has taken away any of my usual tendencies to hesitate. ‘And you told me fucking is different from dating.’

      His laugh is like a caress. I close my eyes and let it wash over me.

      ‘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.

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Because I like being single. I like working hard. Playing harder. I don’t want to get married. I don’t want to have children. These are things my parents expect of me, but they don’t reflect my wishes.’

      My heart shifts a little inside my chest. ‘Have you explained that to them?’

      ‘My parents?’

      ‘No, your secretary.’

      He laughs. ‘Has anyone ever told you that you have a smart mouth?’

      I gape, because I don’t. I really, actually don’t. I’m very careful with what I say, moderating my language, aware that I am the representative of Chance and The Billionaires’ Club everywhere I go. But there’s something about Nicholas that makes me feel completely at ease, as if I can relax completely.

      ‘Did I offend you?’

      His laugh is uproarious. ‘Do I look like I’m made of glass?’

      I smile, relieved. ‘I don’t know why, but I feel like I can say anything to you,’ I explain, simply.

      His gaze hooks to mine again, probing. ‘It’s because of the stop point. We both know this is an aberration. Not real. Out of step with the lives we’re both going to lead. So we can let go and have fun without worrying about any kind of consequences or future.’

      That makes sense.

      ‘I have told my parents, on several occasions, what I think of their expectations and their title, and even their fortunes.’

      ‘Really?’

      He’s quiet, deep in thought. ‘Except I do care,’ he says, after a moment. To our right, a ferry boat passes under the bridge, bleating its low, thundering horn as it goes. The snow falls a little thicker now, landing on the bridge of my nose. I dash it away. ‘Not about the money—I have made more than enough on my own. But the title is something that matters.’

      We’ve slowed right down without meaning to. We put one foot in front of the other, but slowly. ‘I was raised to care about it, and I do. There’s so much history wrapped up in it, so much of my family’s past. And there’s a responsibility there to shepherd the title, the estate, the fortune on to a new recipient.’

      It rankles my American sensibilities. I can’t understand any of that old British aristocracy stuff. ‘That’s the way these things work, I guess.’

      ‘Yes. I didn’t much care for it when I was younger but now, at nearly thirty, I feel the weight of it in a new way. I don’t want to be where my family’s claim on the title ends.’

      ‘Naturally.’

      ‘You really think so? Sometimes I can’t believe I actually give a shit.’

      I laugh. ‘I can. I can see that. Legacies are important. They should be protected.’

      ‘And you? Is there some family tradition your parents are desperate for you to carry on?’

      I bite down on my lip, thinking about that for a second before shaking my head. ‘Not really.’

      ‘They must be proud of you?’

      ‘You think?’

      ‘Sure. Why not?’

      I wrinkle my nose. ‘They’re not easy to please.’ I don’t feel like talking about them. As much as I’ve come to a place in my life where I accept the limitations of my relationship with Mom and Dad, it still hurts. It hurts in a way I’ll probably never get over.

      After Abbey died, I needed them in a different way. I needed them to be there for me, to make things better, and they weren’t. They just couldn’t.

      They’ve never really been there for me since—they just don’t get me.

      ‘Even

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