He takes my hand and brings it to his lips, kissing the knuckles. “Speaking of gifts… I have something for you.”
I tilt my head, curious. “What?”
He crosses to the closet, reaches inside his coat pocket, and pulls out a small square box. He lifts the top, and I let out a quiet gasp. It’s the bracelet from the shop earlier. The one I thought was a little too pricey. The one I wanted but told myself I didn’t need.
“You doubled back?”
He shrugs. “You liked it. I wanted you to have it.”
The wide bangle is hammered gold, the tiny depressions catching the light.
“Thank you.” I swallow past the dryness in my throat. Dice hasgiven me birthday and Christmas gifts over the years. Never without occasion, though, or anything this personal.
He raises my wrist and glides it on, a shimmer of gold settling on me like something heavier than a piece of jewelry.
He lingers, his thumb tracing just below the metal. “I like the idea of you carrying a little piece of me around.”
If it were anybody else, I’d have no doubts he’s falling. That’s usually when I start to plot my exit. Feeling that claustrophobia in the shape of having to adjust my life—and myself—for someone else. I can’t envision having a relationship… unless I put Dice in that picture. For him I’d be willing to make some adjustments, or at least try to.
A moot point.
He cares for me. Shows it in every way. But it’s not the kind that’s built on long-term promises. Whatever Dice feels for me is more than friends. More than sex. I couldn’t explain it to a stranger earlier. I can’t explain it to myself now.
Dinner downstairs is romantic. A cozy dining room lit with vintage chandeliers and flickering votives in jam jars. Jazz hums softly through the speakers, sultry sax and mellow piano. We’re tucked into a curved booth near the window with a view of the water glinting against a dark sky. The dearth of patrons on a Sunday night makes it feel like we almost have the place to ourselves.
Dice scans the wine list. As a bartender, he knows what he’s doing so I defer to him. “We’ll have a bottle of your reserve Bourdeaux, thanks.”
“Great choice with the rib eye,” the server says, taking our menus.
I lift a brow when he’s gone. “Who suddenly likes wine now?”
“Gotta respect the grape,” he says with a grin. “This trip’s got me cultured.”
“Right. Because nothing says refined like a man who smacked my ass on the way here.”
He leans in, eyes dancing, his fingertips caressingmy thigh under the table. “That was appreciation, Web. Like a good wine, you got full-bodied notes.”
I roll my eyes, clocking his mood. He’s been like this all afternoon. Extra attentive. Still his usual jokes and teasing, but something else is stitched into them. Like he’s trying to be present and enjoy this time together. A last days’ kind of vibe that I’m not ready for.
The wine is smooth, pairing well with the peppercorn steak, creamy mashed potatoes, and roasted veggies.
After a few bites, he says, “I love watching you eat.”
“Why?”
“You’re not shy about it. When something’s good, you make these little moans of pleasure that get me hard.”
“You’re always hard.”
“Around you, I am.” His wicked grin has me grinning too.
“So, missing Queenie?” he asks a moment later.
“I think you’re the one missing her.”
“You dodging, Web?”
I cut another piece of steak. “Missing her, no. Thinking about her, yes. Wondering how she’s adjusting with Mom. That’s normal.”
