He looks at my half-eaten plate of food, and I can see that he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. He motions to the waiter and asks him to box up the items and bring the bill.
“Oh, the bill is managed, sir,” the waiter says, grabbing our plates. “Courtesy of the Campisi family.”
Liam’s mouth opens, then closes. He pushes his mouth into a line and nods. “Well, thank the Campisi family for a lovely meal, please.”
The waiter leaves and then returns with a bag containing to-go containers, along with a second paper bag holding our unopened second bottle of wine. “I also included a tiramisu to try later.”
I smile. “Thank you.”
Liam and I head out into the evening, and I call an Uber, trying to figure out how I feel.
I want him, but I’m afraid to say it.
I owe him answers, but I’m worried it will make him angry or scare him away.
I should walk away.
I should go home and close the box, as Talia said.
When the car comes, I decide to leave it up to him. I open the door and slide in without shutting it.
I just leave it open, and he can either get inside or shut the door on this thing forever.
I’ll have my answer either way.
I wait, and he seems to be weighing options, as well. But when he finally slides inside and shuts the door, he gives the Uber driver his address instead of the one I entered in the app.
He turns to me and says, “I’ve always kind of liked bad ideas. How about you?”
17
LIAM
The Uber glidesthrough the city.
Emma sits beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off her skin. Her curls catch the streetlight as it flickers past, each strand glowing like spun gold. Her breathing is shallow, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm that matches the tension crackling between us.
The air feels electric.
The driver’s oblivious, eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel.
But I’m not lost in thought—I’m consumed.
Every subtle movement she makes, every brush of her hair, every flicker of her lashes pulls me deeper into the quiet storm brewing between us.
I rest my hand on the seat. It’s innocent enough until she shifts closer. The fabric of her dress brushes my knuckles, a whisper of contact that feels like a live current running straight through me.
I don’t breathe.
Her gaze flicks to mine, lips parted like she wants to say something, but she doesn’t. Or maybe she knows that words aren’t necessary.
Not with the driver’s presence looming like a third wheel.
Slowly and carefully, I pull the side of her dress higher. Her thigh is smooth, warm, and soft beneath my palm, and I feel a surge of dominance as my hand slips beneath the fabric.
Her breath catches, sharper this time, and she bites her lip, a tiny movement that says everything.
She wants this.
