One of the maids greets me as I pass through the foyer. I nod politely and head upstairs to the third floor where our bedroom is.
I push open the door and find Simone unwinding for bed. She’s sitting by the window in a plush armchair, wearing a bathrobe and a minty green face mask that’s almost alien-like. Her bare feet are propped up on an ottoman as she carefully paints her toenails with shimmery pink polish.
She’s already resigned herself to yet another early night in. I can tell by the way she’s settled into her routine, unbothered, expecting nothing.
Certain she’ll be alone for yet another night.
I stop in front of her, hands in my pants pockets, my head tilted to the side.
“What’re you doing?”
Her gaze stays focused on her baby toe as she coats it with polish. “What does it look like? Just some self-care.”
“There’s no need for self-care tonight.”
She glances up briefly, then back to her toes. “Why’s that?”
“’CuzI’mgoing to take care of you,” I say. “By taking you out on the town.”
She looks up again, this time with widened, curious eyes. She’s thrown enough that she almost drops the nail polish brush she’s holding.
“What?”
“Get dressed. We’re going out.”
The shock on her face fades into suspicion. Her brows furrow. “Where?”
“Stop asking questions. Just get dressed.”
“Ronan—”
“It’ll be just me and you tonight,” I interrupt. “So we’re officially on a truce. Let’s actuallytryto get along, alright? How’s that sound?”
She stares at me for a long moment, like she’s trying to figure out if I’m serious or if this is some kind of trick.
Then the corner of her mouth quirks up slightly, like she’s tempted to smile.
“Okay.”
Forty-five minutes later, we’re in Manhattan.
Simone got ready surprisingly fast for someone who was in a bathrobe and a face mask that made her look like a Martian.
But now she looks as gorgeous as ever in a mid-length black dress that’s backless, the fabric accentuating her ass so well that makes it hard for me to think straight.
She’s pinned her hair up to further show off her neck and shoulders—smooth brown skin I want to put my mouth on—and kept her makeup simple: mascara that emphasizes her alluring hazel eyes and wine-stained lips that are plump and full.
It takes all the effort I’ve got to behave myself as we walk up to the Chophouse, a steakhouse I managed to get us into on short notice. Normally you have to book reservations weeks, if not months, in advance.
But I phoned in a couple of favors and got us a good table the same night.
The restaurant’s fancy and upscale, the interior made up of dark wood paneling and leather seating, combining traditional fine dining with a gritty western ranch vibe. Vintage cowboy art and old photographs of cattle drives plaster the walls, and the lighting’s naturally warm and golden toned.
The young hostess shows us to our table near the back, away from the main crowd. It’s intimate and private like I hoped.
I hold out Simone’s chair for her, and she pauses, a flicker of surprise crossing her face.
“Thank you,” she says softly as she sits.