Lured into Love (Blossom in Winter #2) - Melanie Martins Page 0,70

good,” I tell him, trying not to sit too close.

“Not even a glass of wine or champagne? A mojito perhaps?”

“I don’t drink alcohol.”

He chuckles, observing me attentively. “Of course you don’t.” He takes a sip of his drink, which seems to be whiskey. Reclining in his seat, he heaves a quick sigh, and starts considering me to the point that it’s uncomfortable. “So, Matthew Bradford, if you are not here for a job or an internship, then what are you here for?”

I’m here for way worse than that. And yet how am I supposed to tell him to leave Petra alone?

There is no other way around it. If I love her, I’ve got to do it.

Taking a long, deep breath into my lungs, I look him straight in the eye and say in my most confident tone, “I don’t think Petra should be with you.”

There! In your face, dude.

“Of course she shouldn’t,” he replies without any bother. As I sit there batting my eyes and digesting his words, he takes another inhale of smoke before puffing it out. “In fact, she should be with you. Or another pal her age. Don't you agree?”

I’m so astounded by his question that I don't even know what to say. “Um… yeah, I guess so.”

“Great,” he says, before glancing at his watch. “I’m gonna have to go.” Then he finishes his glass and stubs out the cigar in the ashtray.

“So…” My word trails off as I think of another way to approach this. “What do you intend to do about it?”

We get up from our seats at the same time, and he gestures for me to go first as he continues thinking something through.

“Matthew,” he says, putting a hand on my shoulder. And as he does so, we stop walking. “I need your help.” What? “Can you do me a favor?”

Another question I barely know how to answer. “Um, sure.”

“Can you convince her not to marry me?” My jaw nearly drops at his request. Is he joking? Is that some sort of Dutch sarcasm?

“Um, what do you mean?”

A side smile tugs at his lips, and he says, “What about putting a plan in place to get her to forget me?”

Squinting my eyes, I examine his face, fixedly trying to detect any traces of sarcasm, but his expression is dead serious. “A plan?”

“A plan,” he repeats. “What do you think?”

“A plan to convince Petra not to marry you?” I ask again, making sure I heard him properly.

“Exactly.” His hand goes down to his pocket, and he takes a business card from there. “Think about it. Here is my phone number. If you are interested, let me know, and we can discuss further tomorrow.”

Holy shit. He’s not joking!

“Well, that’s great. Um, thanks for your understanding.” I shake his hand wholeheartedly. “By the way, this talk stays between us, right?”

He pats me on the back. “Of course. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my driver is waiting outside.”

“Sure. Um, it was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Van Dieren,” I say again, floating on cloud nine.

My eyes look absently at the double doors he just crossed through, still digesting everything that just happened.

Well, one thing is for sure: that was the weirdest talk I’ve ever had with someone. An old dude asking me to convince his young fiancée, whom I love, to drop him… Who would believe it?

Manhattan, September 18, 2020

Of course, I called Petra’s fiancé straight after classes the next day. And while I was expecting to meet him at a similar place like we were at for lunch yesterday—you know, at a restaurant with a cigar lounge—I was positively surprised when he invited me to his condo. Maybe it’s a trap, I thought when he did so. But, after all, he seems to be civilized enough, and I assume he just doesn’t want anyone to see us together. Before leaving for his place, I decide to call Pops out of precaution and give him the address. I’ve also got an alert ready to send to the nearest police station if anything goes wrong. Plus, with the psycho boyfriends my female friends used to date, we can never be too prudent. I never understood the appeal of those assholes, but then again, what do I know?

“Here we are,” my Uber driver announces, dropping me off at Mr. Van Dieren’s address. As I exit the car and head into the building, I’m greeted by a doorman who holds the door for me, just like at Petra’s. And, damn, this