He laughs. “Fair point. Though I’d argue you were significantly undervalued.”
It’s such a smooth line, delivered with such easy charm, that I almost roll my eyes. But there’s something disarming about the way he says it—like he’s fully aware of how ridiculous it sounds and is inviting me to laugh along with him.
“Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Howell.”
He makes a grossed-out face. “Oh, God—Preston, please.” He signals to the sommelier, who steps forward instantly with an extra wine glass and pours. “And it’s not flattery if it’s true. Here—you look like you could use this more than anyone else at this table.”
The wine is dark and velvety. I take a long sip and feel some of the tension in my shoulders unknot.
“So,” Preston continues, turning his body toward me in a way that crea
