Shit.
I grip my glass a little tighter. “That’s cocky,” I murmur, hoping my voice doesn’t betray me.
“It’s confidence.” His gaze drops to neckline of my shirt. “Which, for the record, is not compensation.”
“Is this your idea of foreplay?” I ask.
“No. That would involve a lot more touching.”
My pulse stumbles. My knees go warm.
We fall quiet. Not awkward. Not forced. Just still.
The warmth of our booth wraps around us like a bubble—one I’m not ready to pop. The candle has burned down low, the dregs of our wine gone warm, and the air between us shifts again. Less barbed, more magnetic.
Tracing the rim of my glass with a finger, I glance out the window, where the street flows with the pulse of a city winding down.
“I should probably head home,” I say finally, though my voice is soft, reluctant.
Nolan doesn’t move. He watches me.
“But…” I glance back at him, mouth quirking, “I don’t really want to walk alone.”
That earns me a spark in his eyes. His spine straightens slightly. “I’ll walk you home, Adams.”
I nod, wondering about what might happen when we reach my stoop again. Will he try to kiss me? Do I want him to?
Neither of us says anything as he leaves a few bills on the table. I don’t miss how his palm brushes the small of my back as we weave through the tables and out into the night.
Outside is quiet, the city mellowing into that late-evening lull where even the taxis seem to glide softer. Summer heat curls between us. The sidewalk glows under the low buzz of amber street lamps, long shadows falling into step beside us.
We don’t rush.
We’re not in a hurry.
We pause at the crosswalk at the end of the block, where the breeze lifts my hair and the sounds of laughter drift from the patio behind us. For a moment, it’s just us.
Nolan glances down at me, one hand slides into the pocket of those sinfully loose shorts. Boxers? Briefs? Or nothing? Like me.
His eyes drop to my mouth, and I swear he’s about to say something I might not be ready for when a voice slices through the quiet.
“Rorie?”
I freeze at the sound of my name, turning slowly, already regretting it.
My ex, Quinn, walks toward us, hand intertwined with a woman who looks like she was styled straight off a Pinterest wedding board—beachy waves cascading over her shoulders, glowy skin, and teeth so white they practically have their own sponsorship deal.
And glinting under the streetlamp, bold and bright, a diamond so big it has its own gravitational pull.
The breath leaves my lungs in a stupid little gasp I don’t manage to catch in time.
Three months.
That’s how long it’s been since Quinn walked out of my life. Sincehe told me he couldn’t be what I needed anymore. That my grief was too heavy. That loving me felt more likedrowning.
And now he’s here.
Grinning. Glowing. Hand-in-hand with his upgraded life. That’s a punch right to the center of my chest.
