Page 74 of What Comes Around

My place card was next to his. His VP, Marcus, sat on his other side.

Knox pulled out my chair before taking his own seat.

Dinner began the way these events always did, with polite conversation and careful small talk as wine was poured into crystal glasses and the quiet murmur of voices settled around the table.

The first course arrived soon after: seared scallops with citrus beurre blanc.

Marcus launched into a story about a previous project, something about a nightmare client and a last-minute turnaround that had saved the deal. The investors listened with polite interest, nodding at the appropriate moments.

Knox didn’t.

His attention kept drifting toward me.

Or rather, he tried not to look at me.

Every time I shifted in my chair, the slit of my dress revealed a brief flash of leg. When I leaned forward to reach my glass, the silk across my back shifted, the open cut of the dress moving slightly against my skin.

His gaze flicked toward me, then away again.

A moment later, it returned.

As always, I pretended not to notice.

When the conversation shifted toward development projections, one of the investors turned to me. “Ms. Richards, your model assumes a thirty-two percent margin in Phase Two. What supports that?”

I answered without hesitation. “The shift in revenue mix. Private gaming accounts for a higher percentage in Phase Two, and the operational costs are lower. The margin reflects that.”

Another investor leaned forward slightly. “And the risk curve?”

“Flattened after year four,” I said. “Once the membership base stabilizes.”

The main course arrived then, filet mignon with truffle jus, and the tone of the table loosened as plates were set down and glasses refilled. The investors relaxed into their chairs, laughter surfacing more easily. Marcus launched into another story, something about a failed negotiation that had nearly cost them a major deal.

At one point, one of the investors looked toward me and said, “You’re quite impressive, Ms. Richards. Sinclair is lucky to have you.”

Beside me, Knox went very still.

I offered a polite smile. “Thank you.”

The investor continued, almost casually, “If you ever consider consulting independently…”

“She’s not available,” Knox said.

The words were calm, almost conversational, but the interruption landed with quiet finality.

Before anyone could respond, a waiter brushed too close behind my chair. My fork and knife slid from the edge of the table and clattered onto the floor.

“I am so sorry,” he said quickly.

“It’s fine,” I replied, already bending down.

Knox didn’t say anything. He simply placed a hand against the edge of the table, so I wouldn’t hit my head by accident when I stood back up.

When I straightened, he withdrew his hand.

I noticed.

Marcus cleared his throat and gently steered the conversation back to business.