He walked toward her with calm purpose, sliding his arms into his coat sleeves as a brisk wind swept across the parking lot. She turned, and their eyes locked. A flicker of longing flashed across her face, followed by a sharp stab of regret. She tried to hide it behind a teasing smile as she pulled the top of her hoodie over her head.
She didn’t want him to see it.
Too late.
She slid her hands into her hoodie and lifted her chin.
“Date’s over,” she said, her tone breezy.
“Not yet,” he replied. “I’m starving.”
Her brows lifted.
He stopped beside her, letting his shoulder dip subtly toward hers. “How about we grab a bite at Umberto’s?”
She groaned—loudly—before glaring at him.
“I’m going to superglue Harvey and Jim’s mouths shut. I swear to God.”
He laughed, low and satisfied. “You can blame Jose this time. You don’t want Italian?”
“I want my secrets back.”
“Not happening.”
Before she could protest, he raised a hand, and, like magic, a sleek black SUV glided to a stop. He stepped forward and opened the back passenger door.
Her eyes widened before they narrowed.
“Score one for you,” she muttered.
“Let’s hope it’s more than one.”
“No comment,” she murmured.
She stepped toward the car with a sigh.
He followed, smiling.
Dinner was dangerous. Not in the poisoned-wine-and-daggers way—that would’ve been easier to dodge.
It was the laughter that betrayed her. The stories. The damn smile on Nikos’s face when he leaned in to tell her how he and his twin brother used to switch places at boarding school: math tests swapped for science, alternating detentions, secret notes, and wrong twin kisses.
She could see why he had such an impressive list of notches on his bedpost. He was utterly charming. Throw in the twinkle in his eyes and that sly smile he gave, and it was impossible not to melt.
She laughed with him.
And now her cheeks were still warm, her ribs sore from the effort of pretending this was all just a casual, one-time thing.
The walk to her apartment felt like climbing a cliff with no gear. Every graze of his fingers against her back, every casual touch that somehow curled into the spaces she had sealed shut—it chipped away at her defenses.
She sped up, trying to put some distance between them.
Two locked doors. Five flights of stairs. One solid goodbye. I can do this. I can do this.
“Thanks again,” she muttered as they reached her floor, not looking at him. She fumbled with her keys, her pulse fluttering like a moth trapped under glass. “I need to feed Ms. Peabody.”
His voice was low, quiet. “Kiki.”
