The correct answer is no. Plain and simple. No. Clearly, the fool in me has taken over.
“Lunch.” Under the streetlight, his scruff catches the glow, his jaw firm and eyes steady on mine.
Our negotiations are now in full swing and why is he so tempting?
“Coffee.” The repetition comes out weak, less conviction.
“Dinner.”
He’s enjoying this—me unraveling
“Fine, lunch.” My defenses fall apart like wet paper.
So much for standing my ground—though I changed the meal on him.Ha.Like it’s some big win. While I folded, lunch instead of dinner is a victory, albeit small. An evening meal comes with too much pressure and expectation.
He grins, triumphant but not smug. “Excellent. Give me your phone.”
I dig through my purse while girly squeals emanate from the two grown-ass women behind me. I try to ignore them, though, to be fair, I’m biting back a silly grin myself, and hand him my phone.
After a few taps, he sends a text to himself and then gives it back but keeps hold of my hand. His warmth is intoxicating.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” He gently squeezes my fingers in his large, solid grip.
“Okay.” I’m unsteady.
“This is for you.” He reaches up and plucks a pink flower from his lapel. I hadn’t even noticed it before. It’s the same kind of flower that decorates his restaurant.
He tucks the delicate bloom into the buttonhole of my jacket and his fingers lightly graze my collarbone, sending sparks shooting down to the tips of my toes.
“Thank you.” My reply comes out thin and shaky.
“It’s a camellia.”
“It’s beautiful.” I can hardly breathe. This whole thing feels unreal. Reckless, electric, and wrong in all the best ways. “Thank you.”
“Do you know what a pink camellia means?”
I shake my head, caught in his spell and hanging on his every word.
“It has a couple of meanings. Gratitude.” He glances down to the ink peeking from the sleeve of his chef jacket before his gaze captures mine once more.
“Longing and desire.” His low rumble vibrates through me, slow and molten, pooling heat deep in my belly. “Good night, Olivia. I look forward to our lunch.”
He leans in and kisses my cheek, his lips lingering just a little too long. My breath catches as he trails toward my ear, his scent wrapping around me—spice, warmth, and something purely male.
His lip grazes the shell of my ear. “I’ll be longing for you.”
And just like that, he’s gone—his footsteps fading into the hum of the city, leaving me under the streetlight with a pink camellia and a pulse that won’t slow down.
Behind me, Sin and Erin are whispering, but I barely hear them.
I bring the flower to my nose, catching a faint, sweet fragrance, and let out a trembling breath.
Longing and desire.
By morning, I’ll be consumed by both.
7
