Page 6 of Breaking the Rules
And maybe—I admitted to myself as I pulled out of the lot—I didn't really want to.
Chapter 4
Istared into my closetas if it had personally wronged me.
It wasn't that I didn't own decent clothes.I had a closet full of nice jeans, button-downs, and a couple of blazers for team events.The problem was, I had no frame of reference for what constituted "dinner with a billionaire" attire.A full suit felt like trying too hard.A T-shirt and jeans felt like I wasn't trying at all.My brain was a broken record alternating between don't overthink it and if you show up looking like you're headed to a brewery, you'll regret it for the rest of your life.
My phone buzzed on the dresser, breaking the stalemate.
Shay:So?Big date with Daddy billionaire?What does one even wear to that?A diamond jockstrap?
Felix:Careful, he might buy you a yacht.Bring me back the keys.
I snorted despite the nervous knot in my stomach and shot back a reply.
Me:Not a date.Just dinner.Stop being idiots.And no yachts.
Shay immediately replied with a string of winking emojis and a peach.
I groaned, grabbed a simple navy button-down from a hanger, and told myself to stop acting like a high-schooler before prom.It didn't work.My hands shook slightly as I fumbled with the buttons.
"Get it together, Holt," I muttered to my reflection in the mirror.The guy looking back seemed unconvinced."It's food.Conversation.Not a marriage proposal."
A sleek, black town car idled at the curb outside my apartment building, its windows tinted so dark they could hide a small crime ring.The driver, a man in a crisp uniform, stepped out and opened the back door with silent, professional efficiency.
"Mr.Holt?"
"Yeah, that's me."I slid inside, trying not to look overly impressed by the pristine, soft leather seats and the faint, clean scent of the interior.
The city rolled past the window, lights bleeding into the deep blue of early dusk.My pulse thudded in time with the tires over the pavement.I rehearsed a dozen casual opening lines in my head, scrapped them all for sounding stupid, and finally told myself to just shut up and breathe.
The restaurant was the kind of place that didn't need a sign.Warm, golden light spilled through its wide, frosty windows.Inside, the noise was a low, polite murmur of conversation and clinking glass.A hostess with a serene smile led me through the main dining room to a private alcove screened by panels of dark, polished wood.
Henry was already there.
He stood as I approached, looking infuriatingly composed in a crisp white shirt open at the collar and a tailored black jacket.No tie.His gaze swept over me—slow enough for me to feel it, quick enough not to be a blatant threat.
