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"I watched you handle it. Like a pro."

"You stepped in. Why?"

"Because I wanted to." His gaze holds mine. "Not because you needed me to."

The distinction should make me feel less affected.

It doesn't.

He's quiet for a moment. Then, evenly: "For the record, he was wrong. You don't owe anyone your body. Or an apology for it."

I should make a joke.

Instead, I let his certainty settle.

"Twice tonight," I say. "You've caught me twice."

"You didn't need catching the second time."

"No. But the dramatic exit was a nice bonus."

"Good," he says, turning his whiskey glass once between his fingers. "I'd hate to disappoint you."

I take a long sip of the new Manhattan.

It's perfect.

Above the back bar, a muted television cycles through business news. A red banner crawls across the bottom of the screen.

KING CORP. LOSES ANCHORSTONE BID TO CORINTH CAPITAL. SHARES SLIDE AFTER HOURS.

I read it twice out of professional habit.

"Somebody's crisis team is about to have a very long weekend," I murmur.

The stranger goes still.

Only for a second.

His fingers tighten around his glass. Then loosen.

"Bad night for a lot of people," he says.

"You in finance?"

"Something like that."

"That's what people say when they work in finance. Or when they're avoiding a follow-up question."

His eyes settle on mine. "And which answer do you want?"

There's the edge beneath the charm. He lets the question hang, confident I'll pick it up. Annoyingly, I am.

"Tell me about the dress," he says.

"The dress?"

"You keep touching the hem like you're apologizing for it."