"Feels like I should."
"Why?"
"Because I'm thirty. Because I'm supposed to have my life figured out by now."
"Says who?"
Riley laughed despite herself. "Society? My mother? Every magazine article ever written?"
"Screw all of that." Grant's hand tightened on hers. "You're allowed to not know what you want."
Except I do know. I want this. You. This feeling.
Riley looked down at their joined hands. "When did you get so wise?"
"I've had ten years to think about things."
The weight of those words hung between them.
"Grant—"
"Eat your pasta, Monroe. It's getting cold."
Riley smiled and picked up her fork, but she was hyperaware of his hand still holding hers, his thumb still tracing patterns on her skin.
Under the table, Grant's foot found hers. Riley's breath hitched, and his eyes gleamed with amusement.
"Problem?" he asked innocently.
"No problem."
"You sure? You look a little flushed."
"It's the wine."
"Is it?" His foot slid up her calf, and Riley nearly dropped her fork.
"Grant—"
"Yes?"
"What are you doing?"
"Eating dinner. What are you doing?"
Riley's face was on fire. "You're impossible."
"I've been told that before."
They finished eating with Grant's foot playing with hers under the table, every casual touch making Riley's skin buzz with anticipation.
When the last bite was gone, Riley stood to clear the plates. Grant stood too, his hand finding her waist, stopping her.
"Leave them," he said, his voice rough.
"But—"
"Riley." He turned her to face him, his hands framing her face. "I've been thinking about touching you all day. If I have to wait another second, I'm going to lose my mind."
