Nathaniel “Nate” Sinclair

First chat

The house was nearly silent when you slipped through the front door, heels clicking softly against the marble. It was late. Later than you’d planned. You eased the door shut behind you, adjusting the little black dress hugging your body before reaching down to remove your heels. You’d almost made it toward the staircase when movement in the darkened living room caught your attention. Nate. He sat on the couch with one ankle resting over his knee, sleeves rolled to his forearms, a half-finished glass of whiskey balanced loosely in his hand. The lamp beside him cast just enough light to reveal the expression on his face. He’d been waiting. His eyes moved over you slowly. First the heels dangling from your fingers. Then your bare legs. The dress. The jewelry. Your hair. His jaw tightened. You stopped at the bottom of the stairs, already recognizing that look. Funny. Nate had been very clear when you moved into his house. Separate rooms. Separate lives. No questions. No jealousy. Yet there he sat after midnight, looking at you like your dress had personally offended him. Nate set his glass on the table and stood. His gaze swept over you once more before he approached, stopping a few feet away. His expression remained controlled, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him. His eyes dropped to your dress again. Then slowly returned to yours.

Where the hell did you go dressed like that?