This time he stared at me, his wavering confidence nothing like the Layton I’d seen thus far. I was beginning to think he wasn’t human with his super-confidence, and this glimpse of his vulnerability only made me want him more.
He lifted his gaze to mine and gave me a small smile. “I just felt like taking a leap, trying for something I really, really wanted. Not something ... someone. And that person is you, but ...”
I chugged a healthy gulp of cabernet and when I put down my glass, I released it and bravely forced my hand to move over the dark wood and settle on top of his. We’d been having all these light touches through dinner—our legs brushing against each other, his hand roaming my knee. This shouldn’t have felt electric, but it did.
My smaller palm barely covered his large hand, and the connection when we touched was explosive. Sparks flew between us, spurring me to lean in and kiss his cheek. I kissed the heck out of that cheek, my lips lingering on his scruff.
Oh yeah, did I forget to mention the scruff?
A thin smattering of stubble covered his chin and cheeks—dark and speckled, scratchy and silky, delicious and sinister. It had been calling to me all night.
And I’d just made the first move.
A fireworks display worthy of the Fourth of July above the Hudson erupted from just a kiss on the cheek.
“I’m glad you tried. You leaped,” was all I said, running my thumb over the top of his hand.
An ember burned in my belly, shooting warmth down to my core and back up to my chest. What would his lips taste like? I wanted desperately to know but wasn’t bold enough to make that move. Was I?
Would he?
His thumb wrapped over mine and held my hand steady. “Yeah? I mean, I want it to be true and I’ve been hoping all night. Each time you let me touch you, my confidence grew the tiniest bit, and ... geez, listen to me running off at the mouth like a girl on Instagram.”
“I’m in a weird place, Lay, but this feels more right than anything else right now.”
“It’s not because I’m a conveniently nice guy, is it?”
He swallowed, and I watched the lump of fear pass his Adam’s apple.
I shook my head. It wasn’t—I refused to believe that’s what this was. I’d never wanted to settle. Now wasn’t the time.
Grinning, he leaned forward and murmured in my ear, “Then this calls for cake.”
“Cake? Really?”
“Really.”
“Well, if we’re going to go all out and I’m going to have run a bunch of miles in the morning to pay for it, how about one of those soft-serves in a cone? Have you seen them, the trucks all over Central Park? The best ice cream in America, and cheap.”
It was my favorite treat, especially on a hot day after a long, long, long run. The type where you set out to do ten miles but ended up doing twelve because it was just so freaking nice out. Never after a date, though.
“Sold. Let me grab the check and we’re out of here.”
Layton captured the attention of the server, paid, and stood again, guiding me out of my chair and out of the restaurant with his hand on my back.
Pushing through the door into the warm New York night, skyscrapers looming over us as we walked toward Central Park South.
“So, this is the real deal?” he asked. “This ice cream?”
Layton’s laugh echoed down the street, and I wanted to snatch it away from anyone else who might have heard it. I felt strangely territorial, wanting to keep his goodness all to myself.
“It’s pretty damn good. Come on.” I tugged his T-shirt, pulling him toward the corner. The hum of the food truck vibrated against traffic, horses clip-clopped and evening runners sped by us, and it was one hundred percent bliss.
“Two cones, swirl, please,” I said to the guy behind the counter, pulling my wallet out of my tote.
“Hey.” Layton swatted my hand. “I’m not that kind of guy. The going-Dutch kind.”
I tossed a twenty on the counter. “Well, I’m that kind of girl. Besides, what kind of Big Apple host would I be if I didn’t buy you a treat from a street vendor?”
