Page 1 of Playing the Field

Prologue

Graham

Iswirl the bourbon in my glass, watching the amber liquid catch the flicker of candlelight. The restaurant buzzes with conversation, laughter, and the clink of silverware, but none of it touches me. My mother’s voice lingers in my head, her final words pressing against my chest like a weight I can’t shift: "Go, Graham. Live your life."

It should have been simple. But living feels like an insult to her memory right now. Aside from my father, she was my biggest champion and my biggest supporter, and she loved me through everything. She encouraged me to dream bigger, and I’m a better man simply because she was always, always, there. Now she’s gone, and I feel unmoored.

The scrape of a chair across from me cuts through my thoughts. I glance up, half-expecting a waiter or some overeager business associate. Instead, it’s a woman. She’s stunning—long brown hair, green eyes sparkling with curiosity—and she’s sitting at my table uninvited.

“You looked lonely,” she says, her tone somewhere between teasing and matter-of-fact.

I raise an eyebrow, my grip tightening on the glass. “I’m not.”

“You’re drinking bourbon alone in the corner of a swanky restaurant,” she replies, undeterred. “You’re either lonely or trying to win a staring contest with your drink.”

A flicker of amusement tugs at the corner of my mouth, but I push it down. “I’m not in the mood for company.”

“And yet, here I am.” She leans back in her chair, the picture of unbothered confidence. “I’m Anastasia, by the way. But Ana works, too.”

I study her, noting the way her dress hugs her figure, the glint of mischief in her eyes.

“For the sake of speeding this encounter along, care to tell me what you do, Ana? That feels like the next step in this bizarre conversation.”

I don’t really care what she does, but her presence is oddly comforting. Even if I'm being a bit of a dick.

She smirks, and leans forward, resting her arms on the table between us. “I’m a doctor.”

My eyes trace her features. She looks a little young to be a doctor. And certainly a little young to be sitting down at a stranger’s table in a foreign country.

“Doctor, huh? Fresh out of med school?” I guess. My dad would have my balls on a platter if I ever outright asked any woman her age. It’s bad manners.

“Hardly,” Ana laughs. “Is that your way of asking me my age?”

“A gentleman would never do such a thing.”

“And a lady would never tell,” she retorts. I like her wit. It’s refreshing.

“Care to diagnose me, then, Doctor? Being in my mid-40s does come with some issues.”

She grins, humored by my self-deprecating joke. “I could. But my guess is you’d rather I didn’t.”

“Depends. Are you any good?”

“I’m excellent. But you’re clearly not here for medical advice. So what are you here for?”

“Business,” I say shortly, taking a sip of bourbon. I hope that’s the end of it, but Ana tilts her head, her smile sharpening.

“Not much of a talker, are you?”

“Not much of a listener either, apparently.”

She laughs, a soft, melodic sound that warms the space between us. “Touché. So, what are you in the mood for…?”

“Graham. And I'm obviously not a doctor.” I set the glass down, leaning forward slightly. “And I’m not in the mood for food if that’s what you’re asking.”

I let the implication of what I’m saying hang in the air between us, sure she’ll get what I’m trying to say without me having to spell it out.

Her eyes narrow, her smile turning sly. “Subtle.”