“I’m suggesting you fit seamlessly into my world,” he replies, his voice dropping to a timbre that vibrates along my skin. “Most people I meet are either trying to impress me or intimidated by me. You’re... different.”
He leans forward, close enough that I catch the faint scent of his cologne. “Maybe the most fascinating person I’ve met in years.”
Heat creeps up my neck like fingers of flame, and I trace the condensation on my glass, watching my fingertip leave a glistening trail across the cool surface. “Now you’re just flattering me.” My voice comes out huskier than I intended.
“I don’t waste time with empty flattery, Betsy.” The intensity in his blue eyes—deep as twilight oceans—makes my breath catch in my throat. When he looks at me like that, I can almost believe I’m the only woman in the room. “I say what I mean.”
“Well, then I should say I’ve enjoyed getting to know you, too.” I take another sip of my drink, letting the sweet burn of bourbon slide down my throat, warming me from within as his presence seems to warm me from without. His cologne teases my senses each time he leans closer.
“Which brings me to what I’ve been wondering,” Conor leans forward, elbows on the table, close enough that I can see the faint stubble along his jaw that I suddenly want to feel against my palm. “Why aren’t you attached? There must be a crowd of men following you around, demanding dates.”
I laugh, though the sound feels hollow even to my ears, a poor mask for the yearning that’s been building inside me all evening. “Hardly. I’ve been focused on school, thenwork. Architecture doesn’t leave much room for romance.” Or for admitting how much I want his hands on me.
“And?” His eyebrow quirks upward, the gesture somehow both playful and penetrating. "There’s something else. Someone else?"
Devon’s face flashes unbidden in my mind—his half-smile that always promised more than it delivered, the way his fingers used to trace lazy circles on my bare shoulder in the afterglow. I swallow hard. “That obvious?”
I sigh, swirling the amber liquid in my glass. “We dated in college. Since then, it’s been... complicated.” The ice cubes clink against the crystal as I take another sip. “On again, off again. Unresolved issues that keep getting in the way."
“Then resolve them,” Conor says simply, his voice a smooth baritone that makes the suggestion sound both reasonable and inevitable. He leans back, one arm draped casually over the booth’s velvet edge, his signet ring catching the amber light. As if untangling years of emotional knots could be accomplished with a single decision, a clean cut through the Gordian tangle of my past. "That’s the plan,” I smile, grateful when he lifts two elegant fingers to signal for the check. The waiter materializes instantly—something about Conor commands that kind of attention. “Hungry?” he asks, his twilight eyes holding mine with an intensity that suggests he’s asking about more than just food. “Starving, actually,” I reply, surprised by the honesty in my voice.
The restaurant Conor chooses is tucked away on a cobblestone side street, its windows glowing like amber jewels. Inside, white tablecloths drape like satin beneathcrystal chandeliers that catch the flickering candlelight. The flame dances across his cheekbones, casting shadows that accentuate the curve of his lips when he smiles. Over plates of handmade pasta, our conversation flows like the wine. His fingers occasionally brush mine as he reaches for the bread, each touch sending electricity skittering across my skin.
“I’ve designed twenty buildings,” I tell him, watching his throat move as he swallows, “but I’ve never been as nervous presenting a concept as I was showing you those preliminary sketches yesterday.”
"Because you’re attracted to me?” His directness catches me off guard, his voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate through the table between us.
I meet his gaze steadily, feeling heat bloom across my chest. “Yes. And because I respect your vision.”
"The attraction is mutual,” he says, his voice like velvet against bare skin. “In case that wasn’t clear.”
The ride back to my apartment is a symphony of almost-touches—his thigh pressing against mine when the car turns, his fingertips trailing along my wrist, leaving goosebumps in their wake. When we reach my door, the metal key feels cold against my suddenly feverish skin as I fumble with the lock.
“I had a wonderful time,” I say, turning to face him, aware of how the hallway light catches in my hair, how my pulse throbs visibly at my throat.
“It doesn’t have to end,” he replies, stepping close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
His kiss tastes of wine and possibility. His hand cups my face, thumb stroking my cheekbone with a tenderness that contrasts with the firm press of his hips against mine.I melt into him, parting my lips as his tongue slides against mine, breathing in cedar and bergamot and male skin. My back arches instinctively, pressing my breasts against the solid wall of his chest. When we finally break apart, I’m dizzy with want, my lips swollen, my breath coming in short gasps that match his own.
“I want to see you again,” he murmurs against my ear, his breath warm and intoxicating on my skin. “Tomorrow night?"
“Yes,” I breathe, barely trusting my voice, my body already aching at the thought of waiting even those few hours.
After one more lingering kiss that leaves me trembling, he reluctantly steps back, his fingers trailing down my arm like he can’t bear to break contact. “Tomorrow, then. Seven o’clock.”
I watch him walk away, memorizing the broad slope of his shoulders, then close the door behind me, leaning against it as I kick off my heels. My lips still tingle and swell from his kiss, the ghost of his touch imprinted everywhere. I change into silk pajamas that slide against my heated skin and pour myself a glass of water, ice cubes clinking against crystal. Curled on my sofa, I trace my lower lip with my fingertip, chasing the memory of his mouth on mine, already counting the hours until I can feel that delicious weight of his body pressing against me again.
The sharp ring of the doorbell jolts me from my reverie. Checking the time—nearly midnight—I frown, heart leaping. Conor must have forgotten something. Or perhaps he couldn’t wait until tomorrow either.
I pad to the door and look through the peephole, mystomach plummeting, desire curdling into dread at the sight of familiar sandy blonde hair and those blue eyes that have held me captive for years.
Devon.
CHAPTER 10
BETSY
Itake a deep breath, bracing myself as I open the door.
