“—but only if you tell me about your deepest darkest secret as I do.”
Twenty-Eight
Jace
I nearly chokeon the bite of steak I just shoved in my mouth.
“What?” I rasp.
She looks so damned proud of herself as she daintily eats her risotto. “You heard me.”
“Why do you think I have secrets?”
“Men like you always do.”
I frown, take a glug of my wine—which is good enough that, for a moment, I don’t want to throttle Dean. Then I focus on the troublesome woman sitting across from me. “Men like me?”
“Rich. Powerful. Determined to get what they want.”
She’s not wrong on those fronts.
“Determined to get what I want doesn’t always mean that Idoget what I want,” I hedge.
“Does it?” she asks archly, scooping up some rice. “Does it really?”
I laugh softly. “Yes, cookie. It means that sometimes I don’t get what I want—especially when it’s waking up next to a certain gorgeous brunette.”
“Even when you could haveanygorgeous brunette you want?”
“Not true.” I nod at her fork when it continues to hover, and she’s not eating her food. “And there’s aparticularbrunette that I’m in to.”
“Because she’s a challenge?”
I nod again and this time it makes it into her mouth, and she chews and swallows as I say, “Because she’s smart and funny and a hard worker. Because she’s clearly been hurt before and that’s left her gushy, but she’s still out in the world, living her life?—”
Something crosses her face but she doesn’t speak, just takes another bite of food.
So, I go on, “Because she reads smutty books and watches trashy TV shows but is incredibly good at her job because Jean-Michel doesn’t work with people who aren’t,especiallyif they don’t like hockey.”
She grins. “It’s not that I don’t like hockey.”
“No?”
“It’s that there are so many better things to watch.” One slender, bared shoulder lifts and drops. “Unless there are really good snacks.”
I chuckle. “You get me those playoff tickets and I’ll definitely up my snack game.”
A giggle that makes me feel a hundred feet tall. “You’re on.”
“You know that means you just agreed to a second date.”
“Iknowyou didn’t answer my question.”
“About my deepest darkest secret?”
She taps her nose. “Got it in one.”
I cut off another piece of meat, but I don’t eat it, not yet, not when there’s part of me that wants to share. Because she’s asking. Because she wants to know the answer. Because it might mean that she’ll share some of the same with me. “I don’t know if I’d call it my deepest darkest secret—I’m pretty much an open book?—”
