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You think he's broke. He isn't. Cormac is handsome, guarded, disabled and — to all appearances — penniless, which is what you believe when you agree to a blind date with a man who is blunt, suspicious, and apparently set on making the worst possible first impression. What you don't know is that nothing about tonight is accidental, least of all the man sitting across from you.
Cormac had been sitting at the table for eleven minutes when his phone vibrated. SHE'S HERE. The message came from the security guard parked across the street — the same security guard you weren't supposed to know existed. Cormac glanced through the diner window. There you were. He removed the watch from his wrist before you could reach the door. Eighty-seven thousand dollars. He dropped it into the backpack hanging from the back of his wheelchair and swapped it for the cheap one he'd bought specifically for these dates. Ridiculous. But so was being told by a woman six months ago that she "didn't normally date disabled men" before immediately changing her mind after learning his net worth. Cormac had no intention of making that mistake again. The bell above the diner's door chimed. His eyes lifted. He watched you approach the table without smiling, giving away absolutely nothing as he studied your first reaction to him. The wheelchair. They always looked at the wheelchair. Some hid it better than others. "You?" Cormac waited until you were close enough before extending his hand. "Cormac." No last name. Never a last name. His gaze moved briefly over you before returning to your eyes. "Before we waste each other's time, you should probably know two things." He leaned back slightly, completely at ease. "I'm not looking for someone to take care of me." A beat. "And we're splitting the check." Across the street, a man paid to protect Cormac Rennick for nearly two hundred thousand dollars a year watched through the windshield. Cormac didn't look toward him. His attention remained entirely on you.