“Because of the auction?”
“Yeah, because of the auction.” He licks his lips. His hand is still resting behind my ear, and I realize I haven’t pulled away. I haven’t even tried. Not like I did last night. I’m still angry with him for humiliating me in front of hundreds of New York socialites. I’m angry with him for using me as a distraction from his own bad publicity.
But the vulnerability in his expression has me softening. My heart is betraying me, telling me to run from this feeling as fast as possible.
I don’t, though.
I close my eyes and blow out a heavy sigh. “Fine, I’ll go on a date with you.”
His fingers drop from behind my ear, and I pop my eyes open.
His expression is blank, and suddenly, I’m aching with need. Need for what, exactly, I’m unsure. All I know is that if I roll onto my toes and lean just a fraction forward, we’ll be kissing again. Would it feel like it did last night?
What the hell am I agreeing to?
I force my feet to remain where they are. “But only for the auction. You paid for it, after all. For me.”
His eyebrows pinch and his chin rears back.
Shit.
I blink, waving my hand in the air. “I didn’t mean youpaidfor me, but you know…”
He takes a step back as if he’s realized he’s stuck his hand into a raging fire. He can’t pull away from me fast enough.
“Holt.” I sigh, lifting my hand to the back of my neck where Holt’s was just seconds ago. “I want to go on this date with you. As friends.”
“I thought we weren’t friends, remember?”
“We aren’t.”
Wait, what did I just say?
He gives me a long pause before he clears his throat and runs his hand down the side of his face. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow night at seven.”
I raise my brows. “At my place?”
“Yeah.” He nods once. “Where else would I pick you up?”
“You’ve never been to my apartment.” Suddenly, I’m panicking.
“So.” He shrugs.
“I won’t be there. I’ll be working,” I blurt out, coming up with a lie on the spot. I don’t know why, but the thought of Holt showing up to my place sounds like the one thing I don’t want. I’d rather spend the rest of my life organizing orchid arrangements than see him standing in my apartment.
“Charleigh has you working at the shop that late?”
“Inventory,” I clip out, hoping he doesn’t catch onto my lie.
“I’m sure Charleigh would understand. She’s never been a difficult boss.”
I laugh. “How would you know?”
“Seriously?” He pops a brow. “Charleigh’s one of thosepeople that would rehabilitate a dying rat if she found one barely clinging to life in the middle of some back alley. I doubt she’s some domineering, tyrannical boss.”
I smile, knowing he’s right. Charleigh would do something like that. “She isn’t. But, yes, I guess you can pick me up from the shop. I’ll be ready at seven.”
“Perfect.” His too-wide grin returns. He’s back to being his usual smug, confident self. The type all the women in the comments of his social media posts pine after.
