They Set Her Up With a Broke Nobody — Not Knowing He Was the Hidden Hedge Fund Heir

"Are we keeping the table?" the hostess asked, hovering near the mahogany bar.

"Give him two more minutes." I checked my watch.

Forty minutes late. My family had sworn this blind date was the most important meeting of my year. They promised Silas Thorne was a man of substance.

Right now he was a man of absence.

The glass door swung open. Cold street air rushed into the warm bistro. A man stepped inside, shaking the chill off a broad frame.

"Never mind," I said, sliding off the barstool. "He's here."

Silas Thorne. I recognized the hard jaw from the profile my uncle had shoved across my desk yesterday. I walked toward the dining room and let him follow the hostess to the corner booth.

He didn't look like a man of substance. He looked like he'd slept on a subway grate.

His dark wool coat hung loose, the fabric pilled and exhausted. The cuffs were frayed, loose threads dangling over his knuckles. Beneath it, a gray shirt that hadn't met an iron in weeks.

He dropped into the chair across from me. "Traffic."

"Friday nights are usually packed," I agreed, taking my seat.

He grabbed the wine list immediately. He didn't ask how my evening was. He didn't apologize for the hour he'd left me waiting at the bar. His eyes ran down the right side of the menu, tracking only the numbers.

"House red," he told the waiter, tossing the menu flat. "One glass. Cheapest one."

The waiter blinked. "Sir, our house red tonight is a basic blend. Boxed, actually. We use it for cooking, but we'll pour it if you—"

"The '19 Rioja. The bottle," I cut in. I reached across and pulled his menu away, closing it. "Keep the tab with me."

Silas frowned. "I can pay for my own drinks."

"I used to be a sommelier," I lied. I needed to own this table, and the bill was the fastest way to do it. "Low tolerance for boxed wine. Professional defect. My treat."

He didn't argue. He leaned back into the leather and studied my face. His eyes were sharp, calculating — completely at odds with the rags he wore.

"Your family sent you," he finally said.

"They did."

"They didn't tell you I was broke."

"They told me you were interesting." I picked up my water. "Are you?"

"Not really."

"I find that hard to believe."

"Believe what you want." He crossed his arms. "I don't belong in a place like this. You look like you live here."

"I prefer good food to bad food. Simple philosophy."

"Expensive one."

"Money's meant to be spent."

The waiter returned with the bottle, poured a taste, waited for my nod, then filled both glasses and vanished into the dining crowd.

Silas reached for his wine. His hand shot forward, fast and clumsy. The heavy crystal base clipped the bread plate.

Splash.

Dark wine arced across the table and hit my chest, soaking instantly into the front of