“You didn’t ‘possibly’ mention my parents enabling me, you stated it, like it was a fact. And I don’t care what people say about me. At all.”

“Then why did you get upset?”

“I don’t know, exactly. You weren’t completely off base, I grew up with more than most. But Richard and Mildred Fox are good people. Excellent people, actually.

“They didn’t just hand me everything I’ve ever wanted, then walk away. They taught me how to earn it, appreciate it, and see value in it. I understand my privilege. And there are moments when I don’t feel I even deserve it.”

I take a breath, surprised by my candor. But I recognize that I don’t often feel comfortable enough to talk about myself and my family. So I continue.

“That said, I worked hard to get to where I am professionally. I was gifted an excellent education when many more deserving than me didn’t have the luxury. So I worked hard to be deserving of it. I’m good at my job because I love my job. I’ll be awarded the kingdom as President of Fox & Latham before the age of thirty-three because I earned the spot, and know I could have achieved it without my name.”

Taking a sip of my whiskey, my eyes stay on Winter. I marvel that someone like her is so interested in my life. As much as I want to take the spotlight off of me, and turn the tables on this little chat, I’m becoming addicted to the way she’s looking at me.

“And contrary to what you may think, life hasn’t always been a cakewalk. Having money doesn’t take away the ability to feel, Grimm, it only allows you the luxury of being able to afford distractions.”

“Is that what your little orgy was about? Distractions?” She takes a slow sip of her whiskey, leaving a light print of her lipstick on the glass. I grow hard under the table imagining her leaving a ring of red lip prints around my cock after she sucks it.

“As I said, orgies constitute four, or more. You chickened out, so I was left with a threesome.”

“Chickened out?” Her eyebrows hit the ceiling. “I did not ‘chicken out.’ You disgusted me. I would never have slept with you then.”

A broad smile lifts my lips while hers fall flat. She knows what she’s said the second that statement left her beautiful, pouty lips.

“Are you saying I don’t disgust you now? More importantly, did you just Freudian slip on your own lies?”

“No,” she says defensively. Her cheeks blooming from pink to beetroot-red and not because of the whiskey.

“Hm-hmm. Don’t backpedal, Grimm. You said, and I quote, ‘I would never have slept with you then.’ Are you saying you want to sleep with me now?” My gaze becomes a loaded gun.

She swallows hard. “N-no. That’s not what I said—”

I hold my hand up, stopping her embarrassing charade. “You get a pass, but maybe no more Macallan for you—your subconscious is showing.”