“They’re looking at you,” I counter weakly.
“No,” he murmured, leaning in.“They’re looking at you.And I don’t fucking like it.”
My entire body went molten.
This wasn’t the teenage boy I loved.
This wasn’t sweet, shy Nathan with floppy hair and guitar calluses.
This was a man.
A confident, unfiltered,jealous, grown-ass man.
Were old feelings resurfacing?Maybe.Yes.
Shit.I don’t know.
Butthisisn’t the same.
We’renot the same.
These are sharper.
Hotter.
Heavier.
Adult.
Our knees brush under the table.
He doesn’t move his.
Neither do I.
Every time he reaches for his wine glass, his fingers graze mine like he’s testing the electricity between us.
And it’s there.
Oh God, it’s there.
The waiter sets down our plates.I barely see them.Nathan thanks him without taking his eyes off me.
“We’ll talk about it soon, Sparky.Now eat your dinner,” he says softly, reading my mind.
My chest tightens.“Yes.Okay.We should really talk though, Nate.”
“Agreed.But,” he adds with a slow, devastating smile, “let’s just enjoy tonight.Let’s just celebrate us.”
Us.
The word hits me like a chord he once played, the one that made my heart split open when I was seventeen.
I look at our plates, untouched.
At the glittering skyline.
At him.
