Thankfully, her drink arrived then. She took a large swallow. Oh, Jesus! She coughed and spluttered, the whiskey burning her esophagus.

Gabe slid a glass of water toward her. “You okay?” His voice was concerned, but she could see the amusement dancing in his blue eyes.

“Fine,” she croaked, guzzling the water.

“I thought you could handle your liquor,” he teased.

“I can.” Her voice was hoarse. “I just need to get warmed up.”

He smiled at her. “You’re cute.”

She looked up and met his gaze. It was intense, searing . . . and not as creepy as she had anticipated. Something stirred in her . . . not quite attraction, but, perhaps, a slight infatuation. This powerful man, in his expensive suit, with his fancy watch, was looking at her with such interest, almost fascination. Nat forgot about that woman’s disgusted stare and allowed herself to feel flattered. Her cheeks were pink again, but not from shame: from the Scotch and the attention.

“Where did you grow up?” she asked, taking another sip of her drink.

“I’m from a small town, too,” Gabe said, surprising her. As he told her about his humble beginnings in Michigan, she felt an affinity for him. They were not so different after all, both small-town people with big dreams. Except Gabe was rich and old; Nat was poor and young.

As Gabe talked about the lacrosse career that got him to Princeton, she heard the muted ring of a cell phone. Of course, this man was a big deal. He was busy and important and would get phone calls at all hours. But Gabe wasn’t moving to answer it; he was too polite, too charming. He halted his story.

“Do you want to get that?”

It was her phone ringing, deep in the belly of her oversize pleather purse.

“I’m so sorry,” she muttered, grabbing her bag and rummaging through it. “No one ever phones me.” She extracted the device and looked at the call display: Mom.

“Just my mom,” she said, powering off the appliance. “I’ll call her later.”

“Are you sure? It could be important.”

“It won’t be.” She sipped her strong drink. “My little brother probably got offered an internship at NASA. Or my sister made the Olympic swim team . . . even though they’re only five and seven.”

He chuckled. “I take it your siblings are overachievers.”

“Half siblings,” she corrected him. “My mom remarried. Oliver and Astrid are the perfect, smart, blond kids she always wanted.”

“You’re not close to your family?”

“I don’t really fit with them.” She drank some more. “My mom and her new family look like one of those TV commercials where everyone is gorgeous and happy and playing Frisbee at a picnic. And then you find out it’s an ad for herpes medication or something.”

His chuckle egged her on.

“So obviously they’re relieved I live on the other side of the country,” she quipped. “You know, because I’m not a savant, or an elite athlete. And I have brown hair.”