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Chapter 404
Chapter 404:
Brogan’s expression went rigid for a fraction of a second. The rejection hit him like a cold splash of water.
But he recovered instantly. He gave a smooth, perfectly polite nod.
“Of course,” Brogan said, stepping back to give her space. “My apologies for the late notice. Have a good night, June p>
A brief flicker of disappointment crossed his eyes before he masked it flawlessly. The easy, comfortable intimacy between them shifted into a moment of gentle, unspoken awkwardness — but his respect for her boundaries remained absolute.
The discreet, unmarked entrance of Per Se was tucked away in the Time Warner Center.
June stepped out of her Uber. She wore a sleek, midnight-blue silk dress that draped perfectly over her frame, concealing the lingering stiffness in her injured shoulder. The dark fabric had been carefully tailored to accommodate the low-profile medical sling still holding her fractured collarbone in place.
She checked her phone. Sloane had texted her the address three hours ago, insisting on a “mandatory girls’ night to celebrate the lab victory p>
𝘑оі𝗇 𝘰𝗎𝘳 со𝘮𝗆𝘂n𝘪𝗍𝗒 𝘰𝗻
June walked through the heavy glass doors. The maître d’ greeted her with practiced, hushed reverence and guided her through the quiet, dimly lit dining room.
“Right this way, Dr. Erickson,” he murmured.
He led her toward a secluded corner booth overlooking the glittering lights of Central Park.
June stopped dead in her tracks.
Sitting at the table was not Sloane.
Easton Hahn sat comfortably against the plush leather, and he was not wearing his usual razor-sharp courtroom suit. Instead, he wore a dark charcoal cashmere sweater that stretched perfectly across his broad chest.
He looked up. When he saw her, a slow, devastatingly handsome smile spread across his face. He stood immediately and pulled the heavy chair out for her.
“Don’t look so panicked,” Easton said, his deep voice carrying quiet amusement. “Sloane asked me to step in. She had a sudden fashion emergency in Milan p>
June sat down slowly, her eyes narrowing.
“A fashion emergency,” she repeated, her tone thoroughly skeptical.
Easton did not flinch. He simply snapped his fingers.
A waiter materialized from the shadows at once, pushing a small, velvet-draped cart to the edge of their table. Easton reached out and pulled the cloth away.
June’s eyes went wide.
Sitting on the cart was a climate-controlled pet carrier. Inside, resting on a bed of premium hay, was a living cloud of pure white fur — a real, exquisitely rare, purebred Angora rabbit.
“Sloane mentioned that the stuffed rabbit I won for you at the carnival might be getting lonely,” Easton explained smoothly, his expression a mask of perfect innocence. “So she asked me to arrange a companion. I had this little guy flown in from a breeder in Lyon this afternoon p>
It was the most ridiculous, elaborate, and staggeringly expensive lie June had ever heard.
She looked at the tiny, twitching nose of the rabbit, then back up at the brilliant, ruthless lawyer sitting across from her. She couldn’t help it. A genuine, bright laugh burst from her chest.