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Chapter 9

"You have a daughter... really?" Harry's voice wavers, and I can't help the satisfaction bubbling up at having taken him by surprise.

"Yeah, I do. She's back home, studying." I smirk, watching his expression shift—clearly trying to find the right response. I haven't been on a date since Jason, but I've had conversations with men who've shown interest—colleagues, project partners. The moment I mention my daughter, the reaction is always the same: shaky voice, flickering panic, and an invisible retreat.

So I've learned to get it over with early. It usually clears the room.

But this time... it just slipped out. And now I'm curious to see how this boy—man, as Liz would insist—handles it.

Harry straightens in his seat, laying his palms on his thighs like he's bracing for impact. "Oh. Really? How old is she?"

And there it is.

I take a sip of wine, fighting the grin tugging at my lips. "Oh, about your age?"

His eyes widen. The silence stretches for a beat longer than comfortable. Then:

"Do you think she'd mind if I asked her mom out again?" he leans in, eyes locked on mine. "Would I need her permission?"

I can feel heat rising up my legs, coiling through my chest like a current. Oh, you want to play, do you?

"She'd probably love to meet you," I shoot back coolly. "You could bond over video games and playlist preferences."

The initial shock on his face is gone now. He's grinning, cocky and calm, like he's winning a game I didn't know we were playing. He leans closer, as if to share a secret.

"I don't give a damn if you have a daughter my age—which, for the record, I know is a lie. I can read you like a book, Ash." His voice drops, soft and low. "And even if you had a dozen? I'd still..."

He doesn't finish. My breath catches.

"You'd still what?" I ask, trying to keep my voice even. It doesn't work.

His fingers brush my cheek—light, tentative—and for the first time in what feels like forever, something stirs low in my belly. Not grief. Not guilt. Just... feeling.

"Guess you'll find out," he says, pulling back like he didn't just knock the air out of me.

I've lost this round. No doubt. But not the match.

"Her name's Anzette. She's thirteen. Middle school." I clear my throat and sit up straighter, trying to reset the mood. But he's still watching me with that grin, like he's proud of how flustered I've become. Damn him. And his dimples. And that scent. And his mouth. No. No, no, no.

I need to pull it together. Just a little longer. Then I'll never go out with him again.

"Thirteen, huh?" he says, drumming his fingers lightly on the table. "My age, huh? You like to play, Ashley... but guess what? I'll win."

Infuriating. And goddamn sexy.

I wave for the waiter. "Yeah, well—I was just joking. And it's getting late. Big day tomorrow."

But Harry's already looking at his phone, then back at me.

"Niall and Elizabeth just texted. They're waiting at The Nice Guy. Come on, just one drink. I promise I'll behave." He gives me his best pout, and I feel the last threads of resistance snap.

"Fine. One drink. But I'm buying."

"If you even try, I'm quitting the project," he says, completely serious. "Don't you dare insult me like that."