He didn’t answer right away. Just dragged his thumb along my jaw in a motion that felt like both a kiss and a confession.
“I would’ve thought I was hallucinating.”
I gave a half-laugh, half-sigh. “I was awful to you.”
“At the airport?” he asked. “Yeah. A little.”
I winced. “God, I was such a?—”
“Brat?” he offered.
I raised an eyebrow. “I was going to say ‘entitled nightmare,’ but sure. Brat works.”
His mouth quirked, but he didn’t let me off the hook.
“You looked at me like I was the lowest of the low,” he said, not unkindly. Just honest. “Like I wasn’t even worth a thank you.”
I closed my eyes, embarrassment prickling. “I was expecting a driver in a suit. Not a man who looked like he’d just rebuilt a motorcycle in a thunderstorm.”
“And yet,” he murmured, dragging a finger down my back, “that same man had you begging at a masquerade ball.”
I groaned and buried my face against his chest. “Please don’t ever say that sentence out loud again.”
“Why? It’s a good one.”
“Because it proves I’m an idiot with no instincts.”
He shifted so we were nose to nose, nothing but breath between us. “Or maybe,” he said slowly, “your instincts are just starting to work again.”
I swallowed.
Because it wasn’t just that he’d surprised me.
It was that he’d seen me.
Not the curated version—the glossy socialite, the brand-ambassador-on-demand, the polished heiress who knew how to hold court with a smile and a scandal-proof laugh.
He’d seen the cracks.
And he hadn’t looked away.
“You judged me, too,” I said, voice low. “At the airport.”
His eyes softened. “Yeah. I did.”
“What’d you think?”
He hesitated. Then: “I thought you were everything I didn’t want.”
That stung—but only for a second.
“And now?”
He brushed a strand of hair from my temple, his hand warm and certain. “Now I’m trying to figure out how the hell to want anything else.”
Silence fell. Not awkward. Just full.
My heart thudded against my ribs like it wanted to escape.
