Brett's POV

Riley sat across from me at the business dinner, looking like she'd rather be anywhere else.

The Riverside Club's private dining room reeked of old money and older prejudices. Crystal chandeliers cast shadows across mahogany walls lined with portraits of dead white men.

Riley's posture was perfect – spine straight, hands folded, that practiced smile she'd perfected over the past month. But I caught the way her fingers trembled slightly against her napkin. She was nervous. Good. ...