Not possessive.
Not forced.
Just… there.
Steady.
Like he’s anchoring me without asking.
My stomach flips.
June watches it happen and looks like she might ascend to heaven.
Dinner is chaos in the best way.
I end up wedged between June and a sweet older woman named Linda who insists I try her casserole “because it’ll change your life.” Across from me sits Dillon—yes,thatDillon—who smirks every time Beau and I accidentally brush knees under the table.
Beau barely talks, but he watches me.
I feel it—his gaze on my face when I laugh, on my hands when I gesture, on my mouth when I take a bite of pot roast.
Like he’s collecting information.
Like he’s memorizing me.
At one point, June leans close and whispers, “He hasn’t looked at a woman like that since… well, ever.”
I nearly choke on a roll.
Beau’s gaze snaps to June. “Stop.”
June beams. “No.”
I try to focus on conversation, but Beau’s knee presses lightly against mine under the table, and it’s like my body becomes a live wire.
I shift, accidentally sliding my leg against his.
Beau goes still.
His fork pauses halfway to his mouth.
His eyes lock on mine.
The air tightens.
My breath catches and I swear I can feel the moment his restraint kicks in—like a door slamming shut to keep something wilder from getting out.
I swallow. “Sorry.”
Beau’s voice comes out low. “Don’t.”
My pulse leaps. “Don’t what?”
His gaze drops to my mouth again. “Don’t apologize.”
Heat floods my cheeks.
June claps her hands suddenly. “Dessert!”
