I softened my tone. "My childhood wasn't the best. My parents are both gone now. But it's okay. I'm good."
She studied me, her gaze steady and far too perceptive. "Are you sure?"
For a second, I wondered if she could see straight into my soul. If she knew about St. Paul's, about the nine of us, about the things I'd done to survive.
I almost told her.
Almost.
Then I saw the corner of her mouth twitch, like she was trying not to laugh.
She pointed at her own mouth, then at me.
I frowned, confused.
She gestured again, more insistent.
I grabbed my napkin and wiped the corner of my mouth.
It came away with a massive streak of chocolate.
"You know," I said, staring at the napkin, "if we're gonna keep bumping into each other, you can tell me when I look ridiculous with chocolate on my face."
She laughed—really laughed—and then blurted out, "You could never look ridiculous."
The words hit me low. Down there.
My pulse kicked.
We both went silent.
The space between us thickened again, but this time it wasn't awkward. It was something else. Something charged.
I leaned forward slightly, my voice dropping. "I very much want to take you to dinner."
She smiled, soft and uncertain and hopeful all at once. "I would very much like that."
Then she glanced at her phone and nearly jumped out of her seat.
"Shit," she muttered. "I'm late. There's a photo shoot in ten minutes, and it'll take fifteen to get there."
She fumbled for her wallet, pulling out bills.
I reached out and caught her hand.
The contact jolted through both of us like an electric current.
Her eyes snapped to mine, wide and startled.
I held her gaze. "I'll pay. For coffee. And dinner."
She just nodded, like the words wouldn't come.
Then she stood, grabbed her bag, and left.
I watched her go, her figure disappearing into the crowd, and every instinct I had screamed at me to follow.
But I didn't.
