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go.”
    I fist my hands on my hips, refusing to move until he turns to look at me. “If this is about you gauging my rich-bitch whore status by the stamps in my passport, then you have just confirmed my earlier assessment—you are an asshole.”
    Trick turns, eyes giving away nothing as they stare intently at me like I’m a code to be deciphered. Then his hardened features soften a fraction. “I’m paying.”
    “Damn right you are,” I reply as he brushes past me. I’m not certain, but I think the corners of his lips curl up a millimeter or two.
    He looks at me with his million-thoughts-zero-words, completely unreadable expression. “Table for two, something more private please,” he says to the maître d’.
    Trick pulls out my chair for me, maybe as a peace offering.
    “Trying to be a gentleman?”
    A smirk. “I can assure you, I’m no gentleman.”
    I knew this, but his confirmation has a biting chill to it.
    “Welcome. Can I take your drink order?” our waiter asks.
    Trick looks at me.
    “I’ll have a glass of Riesling, please.”
    “And for you, sir?”
    “Water’s fine.”
    The waiter nods then moves to the next table.
    “I was an addict.”
    This feels like a test, so I choose subtlety. With a minute raise of my shoulders, my eyes shift from my menu to him. “I didn’t ask.”
    “You wanted to.” He taps the rim of his water glass.
    I glance back at my menu. “Alcohol?”
    “Everything.”
    I meet his gaze again, and he dares me to flinch with his unyielding look.
    “How long have you been clean and sober?”
    “Nine years.”
    The waiter sets down my glass and pours the Riesling. “Shall I give you a few more minutes?”
    We both nod.
    I take a sip of my wine. “I used to chew my fingernails. My nana tried everything to make me quit—gloves, nasty tasting polish. I think she even considered shock therapy.”
    Trick’s whole body visibly relaxes. I grin, relishing in his reaction to my unexpected confession. I’d hate to be predictable.
    “How long’s it been since your last chewing?”
    I laugh. “I’m not sure. I probably still take a little nibble when I’m watching a scary movie or something like that.”
    He reaches across the table and takes my hand, rubbing his thumb over my short, neatly-trimmed nails. I hold my breath that’s so easily lost to his touch, then slip my hand from his when I need to breathe again.
    “So how’d you become the ‘it’ man in the world of makeup artistry?”
    “My partner dragged me into the business.”
    I clear my throat. “Is he a makeup artist too?”
    “No, he owns several salons, but when he met me he saw ‘untapped’ talent and decided to open Rogue Seduction.”
    “You must be quite the couple. Your business looks like a hole-in-the-wall from the outside, but Gemmie said you cater to the rich and famous.”
    He nods. “It’s not supposed to attract anyone, hence the ‘hole-in-the-wall’ appearance. We don’t exactly take walk-ins. The business is all Grady Cross, my partner. He knew everyone who’s anyone before I was old enough to vote. I can’t explain the decor. It’s just … Grady.”
    I inwardly smile, thinking of Etta James and my Grandma Carmichael. “An older man, huh?”
    Trick raises a single brow and smirks. “Yes, he’s older than I am. Forty-five to be exact.”
    “Are you ready to order?” the waiter interrupts.
    I order a salmon dish; Trick orders lamb.
    I can’t believe Trick’s boyfriend, partner … whatever, is seventeen years older than him. Taking another sip of wine I try to mask my shock.
    “So you know I was a junkie and that I live with an older man … and that I’m not an asshole, so what’s your story?”
    Pursing my lips, I squint one eye. “The asshole part is still up for debate.”
    “It’s not—”
    “It is.” I insist. “So you and Grady live together?”
    “Yes.”
    “Where was he last night?”
    “LA”
    “Oh?”
    “He only lives in Chicago a few months out of