I swallow hard, and once again, I see his eyes flick down my throat. “Yes,” I say softly. “That’s what everyone in this world is trying to do.”
The waiter chooses that moment to return with our food, breaking the tension of the moment. I can see the relief in Elio’s face as he shifts away from me slightly, and there’s a pang in my chest at the increased space between us.Maybe this was a bad idea, I can’t help but think as I spear a delicate sea scallop with my fork.This hasn’t helped anything. I think it might have made it worse.
But when we finish our food and Elio suggests we skip dessert, I can’t stop the next thing that comes out of my mouth.
“What about a drink?” I look at him, suddenly feeling desperate for this night to not end. I know it’s not going to happen again. After tonight, neither of us is going to make the mistake of being alone—me, because I know how it’s making me feel, and Elio, likely because he doesn’t want the complication of the tension I know he senses. If anything, he’s likely to draw further away after this. And I want a little longer with him, just the two of us.
It hurts, being so close to him. But it’s the kind of pain that almost feels good, in a way.
Elio hesitates. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
Why?I want to demand.Because you don’t want to be so close to me, or because you can’t help wanting it?I want to dig every bit of feeling out of him, to know what the last eleven years felt like to him, to know what he felt that morning in Ronan’s office when he walked in and saw me there. I want to know what he’s thinking, feeling, suffering, longing—or if there’s none of that at all, and I was right to tell myself to forget all about him when he left.
“You can tell me your plans for dealing with the issues at the docks,” I suggest. “Over a good cocktail. They have excellent whiskey, too, if that’s your thing.”
“I’m more of a gin guy,” Elio says wryly, and I try to stop the leap in my chest.
“So am I,” I say with a small laugh. “Partial to gin, that is.”
“What’re the odds of that?” Elio’s smile looks tight at the corners, but he reaches for his wallet, pushing my hand away as I try to stop him. “I’ve got this.”
“I invited you out,” I protest. “I should pay. I can write it off as an expense, anyway.”
Elio shrugs. “So can I, now.”
“Elio—”
Something crosses his face, a flicker of frustration that I don’t quite understand. “Just let me pay for dinner, Annie,” he says, his voice suddenly sharpening, and I sit back, startled.
“I—okay.” I hold my hands up in a placating gesture. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He runs a hand through his hair as he tosses his black credit card down. “I—I’m sorry. I just wanted to… fuck, I don’t know. Sorry.”
He doesn’t move to take his card back, though, and I bite my lip as understanding dawns… or what I think is understanding, anyway. Elio is a different kind of man now, a man who can pay for a dinner like this rather than just taking us to his grandmother’s restaurant, where we’ll eat for free.
There’s more to it, too, if I had to guess. For years, when Elio lived with us, everything he had was by the grace of the O’Malley family. Even now, his wealth is because of what my brother’s done. I can understand why it must make him feel good to be able to toss down his card and pay for a meal like this.
Elio looks at me, pausing. "One drink," he says finally.
“One drink,” I agree, managing a smile. And then we’re both getting up, heading out into the cold to drive separately to the bar I give him the address to.
It’s the speakeasy that Desmond showed me last weekend. A part of me wonders if this is a bad thing to do—to take Elio to a bar that a guy I’m sort-of-dating told me about. But I also think Elio would like it, and I want to show him what I thought was a really cool spot.
Elio does seem impressed when I give the password and we walk in. “This place is incredible,” he says, looking around as we walk to a small, velvet-backed booth at one side of the bustling speakeasy. “It really has that vintage feel to it. How’d you find this place?”
“A friend of the family,” I say automatically, which isn’t entirely untrue. Desmond has been more than that, really, over the years.
We settle into our booth, and I take a deep breath, trying to relax. This place is made for it, with the dimly lit atmosphere, the soft sounds of a jazz band playing from the stage, and the hum of the customers scattered throughout. A waitress in the same 20s garb from the first night I was here appears, and I order the Bees Knees again. Elio glances at me.
“What’s in that?” he asks curiously, and the waitress rattles off the ingredients before I can answer, looking at Elio with an expression on her face that’s almost primal. She’s clearly not immune in the slightest to how devastatingly handsome he is, and I feel a curl of jealousy writhe through my stomach.
I want to tell her to fuck off. To stop looking at him. But I have no right to. I never have—even years ago, when we pretended to belong to each other even though we never could.
“I’ll have the same,” Elio says, flashing me a smile, his eyes entirely on me and not on the waitress at all. That jealousy melts,turning into a warm, buttery feeling that slides through my veins and makes me feel briefly dizzy.
That, I know, is even more dangerous.
The waitress brings our drinks, and we fall into easy conversation that has nothing to do with the issues with the docks that I suggested we discuss. Elio tells me about his efforts to house-hunt in Boston, pulling out his phone to show me pictures of the penthouse he ended up settling on.
