“Is that what you want?” he asks,
a challenge laced in heat.
From my left, Raymond’s gaze weighs on me. As if ordering anything else would be betrayal.
I clear my throat, straightening.
“Actually,” I say,
“make it an Amara Mezzanotte.
“And make it extra bitter.”
His mouth borders on a grin.
“Nice call.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Some of us don’t need ten days to figure out what we want.”
His smile strikes?—
then his teeth dig into his bottom lip to kill it fast.
A laugh slips out anyway,
curled into his breath,
and he hangs his head,
shakes it once,
pushes off the bar,
and goes for the bottle.
“Better make it two,” Raymond tosses in,
eyes stuck to the side of my face.
“Wouldn’t wanna leave her date hangin’.”
Andrew’s hand stalls midair, glass in hand?—
whole body locked up.
A second passes.
Then he moves again, like it didn’t happen.
His gaze drifts past me?—
scanning, hunting, casing the room for Ben.
Raymond turns to me,
his hand sliding down my arm.
I flinch, my skin trying to peel off the bone just to get away.
