Page 50 of Dial F for Finance

The restaurant doesn’t have a sign. It’s just that green door, a man named Maurice, and a staircase down into gold light and cigarette-era glamor: candlelit booths ringing a small stage, a band in shirtsleeves tuning up, a singer adjusting a microphone like she’s fixing her lipstick.

The place is packed with people—half of them angled to the small, low stage, the other half angled for privacy in a booth. The host ushers us to a table, right in front of the stage.

We sit. Dominic thanks the host, orders us drinks before the man is out of earshot, and then turns his attention to me, and the full wattage of a Dominic Cruz gaze is a lot to ignore at this range.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” I say, straightening my utensils on the tablecloth.

Before he can respond, a server appears with a whiskey for him and a negroni for me, which is not at all what I would have ordered, but the moment I take a sip, I realize it’s exactly what I want.

How the hell does he do this?

He watches me over the rim of his glass. “Tell me what I’m trying to do.”

“Win.” I drain half my glass, then set it back down. “You’re trying to win.”

He smiles, slow and wicked. “Wasn’t aware it was a game, Pemberton.”

“Everything’s a game with you. That’s why you’re good at it.” I cut my gaze to the band, who are deep in a muted riff, the pianist’s head bobbing to his own beat. “Don’t mistake me for a rookie.”

“I never would.” He leans forward, elbows on the table, and the flickering candlelight picks up something golden in his skin. “But I think you’re missing the part where we’re on the same team.”

I stare at him, feeling the slosh of negroni warmth in my gut. If we were on the same team, he would’ve signed the paperwork I gave him today instead of saying no. If we were on the same team, he would be sitting across from me as a holiday fling, not as the man orchestrating an after-hours spectacle. “I know what happens when you win,” I say. “You spike the ball and walk off the field. Men like you are all the same—team players until you can grandstand at the end.”

Dominic’s eyes sharpen, but the smile never leaves. “You think I’m in it for the victory lap?”

“Maybe not consciously.” I watch the way he turns his glass, the way his thumb traces the bevel. “But if you made a list of the things you need, ‘winning’ would be in the first five.”

His tongue runs over his teeth in a way that I’m sure is supposed to annoy me. Unfortunately, it’s also irritatingly hot.

“You done psychoanalyzing me?” he asks. I take another sip for courage.

“Not even slightly.”

He laughs—just a small exhale, like he’s genuinely amused instead of deflecting. “If you’re right, and I’m in it to win—what do you think I’m trying to win?”

“Depends,” I say, matching his gaze over the waxy candle. “You could be trying to win the deal. Or the applause. Or—” I hesitate, because the negroni is hitting code red in my veins. “Or you want me to lose something. Control, maybe. Dignity.”

He studies my face for a beat. I can’t tell if he’s proud or wounded. He nods, once. “Smart.” He lifts his glass and tilts it toward mine—a silent dare, which I ignore. “Jenna,” he says, and the sound of my name is weaponized, as always. “What if I told you there is no universe where I spike the ball and walk away? That I’ve spent every day of the last three years wanting no one but you, and the only objective is convincing you I’m not your worst pattern playing out?”

I hate that my hand tightens around the glass.

“Interesting thesis,” I say. “Unfortunately, we had an agreement.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes goes still.

“Ten days,” I remind him, each word crisp enough to cut through the candle smoke. “Tokyo only. Nobody knows. When we landed in Chicago, it ended.”

“It didn’t.”

“It did.”

“It changed.”

My laugh is small and cold. “Contracts don’t change because one party develops selective amnesia and a flair for flowers.”

His mouth curves, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes now. “You can’t revert to the original terms just because the amended version scares you.”

“There is no amended version.”