“What’s your excuse?”
It wasn’t just a question; it was a dare, cloaked in casual ease.
He stepped in, too close, not close enough. Lifted a hand, called the bartender like it cost him nothing, though his pulse thundered in his throat.
“Two Autumn Ales,” he said. The authority in it made her want to bite his lip.
She arched a brow. “Ordering for me now?”
“You looked undecided.”
“And you looked cocky.”
A smirk. Almost imperceptible. Almost.
The bartender slid the glasses forward. Gideon handed her one,fingers brushing hers—brief, blistering. A touch so subtle, so fleeting, it should’ve meant nothing.
It meant everything.
The brush of his fingers lit a fuse beneath her skin. Heat knotted low in her belly, rising with every shallow breath. She took a sip—anything to anchor herself, anything to stop from leaning in.
Crisp. Spiced. Easy to love.
Unlike him.
“Bold move,” she murmured.
His eyes caught hers over the rim of his glass, and she swore the air tilted.
“Says the woman questioning my taste.”
“Maybe I’m testing it.”
“Maybe I like that.”
They hovered in the narrow space betweenmaybeandmore, the distance fragile, fleeting.
“You’re awfully confident tonight,” she said, her voice quieter than before—like naming it too loudly might break the spell. No longer teasing.
“I just know what I want.”
There it was. The quiet truth, dropped like a match in a room full of gasoline.
The words settled low and hot.
He wasn’t bluffing. This wasn’t banter anymore. He meant it.
And God help her, she felt it too.
She tilted her head, just slightly, testing the air between them.
“Do you?”
He didn’t blink.
“You tell me.”
He moved closer, each step an unspoken confession. Still no contact, but his restraint was a thread pulled tight, one breath from snapping.
