The maître d' led him to a table near the back. Winn gave a curt nod of thanks, his mind already rehearsing how to frame his request.
He barely got the napkin onto his lap before someone—caught his attention.
Across the room, seated at a table by the window, was Ivy.
She looked… breathtaking.
And she wasn't alone.
Seated across from her was a man.
Some tall, clean-cut type.
He stared at her, taking in just how beautiful she was—right there in the same room, yet somehow beyond reach. Her formal wrap dress was a deep wine color, tracing the lines of her figure every time she shifted in her chair. It was elegant, professional.
She still did that thing. Biting her lower lip whenever she was nervous or holding back a scathing retort. Tonight, he couldn't tell which. Was she nervous? Or was she restraining herself from tearing into the man sitting across from her?
