“What are you looking for?” I ask.

“Garbage bags.”

I blink. “Can’t take it anymore, huh? Going to off me and drag my body out of the building in a big black bag?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Georgiana.” There it is. “You’re small enough that I could just put your body down the trash chute. Far more practical.”

I laugh. “Did you just make a joke?”

He looks up. “Are there trash bags in here or no?”

“You don’t rent the community space often, huh?”

“Can’t say I’ve had much occasion to, no.”

I walk to my purse and pull out the roll of garbage bags I brought with me. “Well, spectacular as the room and view are, pretty much nothing else is included. Gotta bring your own cleanup supplies.”

Andrew reaches out to take the garbage bag roll, but I don’t release it. “You don’t have to help me clean, you know.”

“Yes, I’m aware.”

He pulls the roll from my grip and looks down at it for a second before tossing it on the counter.

“Change your mind about cleaning?” I watch him a little bit warily, because it feels like something’s shifting. I feel his focus a hundred percent on me. He’s considering something, and I’m torn between nervousness and anticipation.

“For the moment, yes.” He walks to the sideboard and fishes among the bottles of white wine in the ice bucket. “You were drinking the pinot grigio, yes?”

“Yeah.” I watch in puzzlement as he pours a glass, then a glass of red for himself.

“You hardly had one glass,” he murmurs, walking back to me and handing it over. “Too busy flitting around, playing hostess.”

“Because I was the hostess,” I say defensively.

He meets my eyes. “I wasn’t criticizing, Georgiana.”

“For once.”

“I didn’t mean to be critical. I meant only that you’ve earned the right to relax a bit. Enjoy a glass of wine.”

“So you can prove your hypothesis that I’m a drunken, hopeless party girl?”

“God damn, you’re difficult,” he says angrily, stepping near me. “Why can’t you just be—”

“What?” I ask when he doesn’t finish. I order myself to meet his gaze, but I can’t seem to stop looking at his mouth. It’s not smiling, and I’m used to that, but for some reason I can’t stop thinking about how firm it must be, what it would be like to kiss someone so rigidly in control.

Would he dominate?

Would I like it?

I feel the heat coming off him, and it answers my question.

Yes. Yes, I’d like it.

I’d like making him lose control even more.

Andrew swears again under his breath and takes a step back.

I expect him to say something insulting and disappear, but he surprises me by nodding toward the wide floor-to-ceiling windows in the corner of the room. “Would you mind if we sat?”

Yeah, um, not what I expected. And yet . . . intriguing.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to,” he says gruffly. “It’s just been a long day. Your friends are mostly pleasant, but I could use a breather.”

“And you want to do it here? With me?”

He lets out the smallest of almost-laughs. “Do you have any idea how exhausting it is trying to speak with you?”

“I’m just confused,” I say honestly.

“About?”

“Why, if you want a breather, you’re not trying to get away from me as quickly as possible.”

He blows out a breath, his head dipping a little, looking defeated and a little . . . sad.

When he looks back up, his eyes are guarded, all former traces of easiness vanished, and I feel a stab of regret, as though I’ve just stamped out the possibility of something special.

“I’ll take my leave, then,” he says quietly, setting his wineglass on the counter.

“No,” I say, taking a step forward, hand outstretched before quickly dropping it to my side. “You can stay.”

Andrew meets my eyes warily, and I shrug and grin. “I need time to figure out the best way to make fun of you for using the phrase take my leave.”

He nods, picking up his wineglass once more. “Shall we?”

There’s a love seat and two chairs, all situated in a semicircle to best take in the view of Manhattan at night.

He sits in one of the chairs, and I curl up in the love seat, pulling my bare legs beneath me and smoothing my skirt over my knees to keep things decent and non-crotch-shot.

Not that he’s looking.

Instead he surprises me by slouching just a little in the large leather chair, his head falling back on the chair. He looks exhausted, and I realize that he hadn’t been lying about it being a long day. The poor guy really does look like he needs a minute.

My mouth goes dry as he reaches up a hand, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt, hooking a finger into his tie and loosening it.

He’s obviously preoccupied, not paying attention to me at all, so I take advantage and pay attention to him.

I’ve only ever seen him looking down at me, but seeing him like this, relaxed and a little informal, is entirely different. I can see just how trim his torso is, how long and well shaped his fingers are.

The hollows of his cheeks are delicious, as is the tiny cleft in his chin.

“If you had a beard, it’d be ginger,” I blurt out.

He looks over. “What?”

I gesture over my lower face. “Your bristles. They’re sort of orange-ish in this light.”

He runs a hand over his cheek, and I swallow. “Five o’clock shadow,” he mutters. “Or ten o’clock shadow, depending what time it is.” He lifts his wrist to check his watch.

I don’t ask for the time. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to do anything that will remind him that he’s being ridiculous spending time with me.

“So why the long day?” I ask.

He heaves out a sigh and sits up, leaning forward and clasping his wineglass between his hands, watching as he gently rocks the red liquid from side to side. “Just a particularly acrimonious divorce.”

“Are there any non-bitter divorces?” I ask.

“Not many,” he admits. “At least not ones that come across my desk. All of the mutually-irreconcilable-differences ones don’t need to bring in the big guns.”