His little mouse from last night.
She’d filled her plate with quiet concentration. Crab cakes balanced next to prime rib. Three different salads because apparently choosing was impossible. Bread rolls that she buttered with the reverence of someone who understood that pleasure could be simple.
And dangerous.
Her table manners were exquisite. Back straight, napkin properly placed, using the correct fork. Someone had trained her well. Yet she ate with genuine enjoyment, eyes closing briefly when something tasted particularly good.
That little hum when she tasted the hollandaise.
The same sound she’d made when he’d pressed her against the wall.
Joyce hadn’t stopped talking since they’d sat down. Little barbs wrapped in concern.
“Andie, darling, you might want to pace yourself. There’s still dessert.”
The girl paused, fork halfway to her mouth. He watched her process the words, that little furrow appearing between her brows.
Then—there. That flicker of understanding.
“There’s dessert? What kind?” Her voice held genuine curiosity, but underneath it, something else. Like she was choosing to interpret the barb as kindness.
Interesting.
“That dress is quite...snug. Perhaps we should go shopping.”
“Would you?” The gratitude seemed real. “I only brought three dresses, and I don’t really know what’s appropriate here. You always look so perfect, Aunt Joyce.”
Joyce blinked, thrown by the response. And truth be told, if he were in her position, he would have likely felt the same. Surely someone could not be truly this...nice?
“Men prefer women who eat like birds, you know.”
This time Andie set down her fork. Looked at her aunt with those impossibly sincere eyes.
“That must be so hard for you. I tried a diet once in college. I lasted exactly four hours before I ate an entire pizza.” A small, rueful smile. “I don’t know how you have the willpower.”
There it was again. That fascinating ability to deflect cruelty with compassion. Was she truly this kind, or was this her own form of armor?
He wanted to find out.
Wanted to peel back every layer until he found what was real underneath.
Joyce’s phone rang. “Oh, I simply must take this.” She rose with practiced irritation. “Do excuse me.”
The moment she disappeared, Paul leaned back.
“What hold does she have on you?”
Her gaze darted to his, and for the first time, he saw the wariness in her eyes.
Good.
She seemed to think he was the bad guy now, and that was very, very good.
That would make the hunt so much sweeter.
“I don’t understand what—”
“Of course you do,” he cut her off lazily, but with a glint in his eyes to let her know that he didn’t appreciate time being wasted on foolish denials. “No one lets themselves be insulted without reason.”
