He grinned, leaning back in his chair. “Alright. When I was twelve, I had this massive crush on this girl whose dad ran the karting circuit. Emma. She was fourteen, completely out of my league, but I was convinced I could win her over.”
“Oh no. What did you do?”
“Wrote her poetry.” His cheeks actually reddened. “Terrible, rhyming poetry comparing her eyes to... well, various car parts.”
I nearly choked on my wine. “You didn’t.”
“‘Your eyes are like my favorite tire, they grip my heart and never tire.’” He delivered it with complete seriousness, which only made it worse.
“That’s the most horrific thing I’ve ever heard.” I was laughing so hard my sides hurt. “Please tell me there’s more.”
“Oh, there’s more. I snuck it into her bag at the track. She found it during lunch and read it aloud to everyone within earshot.” Griffin shook his head ruefully. “I hid in the toilet for two hours.”
“Poor little Griffin.” I wiped tears from my eyes. “Did you ever speak to her again?”
“She cornered me the next week and very kindly explained that while she was flattered, comparing someone to racing equipment probably wasn’t the most romantic approach.”
“Wise girl.”
“She suggested I try flowers next time. Or chocolate. Normal things that normal boys give to girls they fancy.”
“And did you? Try the normal approach?”
Griffin’s grin turned wicked. “Never had to. After that disaster, I developed much better chat-up lines.”
“Oh, I’m sure you did.” I rolled my eyes. “Let me guess, they all involved how fast your car was.”
“My car was pretty fast,” he said with mock offense.
“It was a go-kart, Griffin.”
“Still counts.”
I was still laughing when Griffin signaled for the bill. The evening had flown by without my noticing. The waiter appeared and disappeared with discreet efficiency.
“We should probably go,” he said reluctantly.
“Probably.”
Griffin smiled. “Cleo and Imani will wonder what happened to us, but don’t worry. I intend to surprise you like this often.”
“That sounds dangerously close to planning a future, Griffin.”
His grin turned wicked. “Maybe I am.”
Before I could respond to that heart-stopping statement, he was helping me with my coat, his hands lingering at my shoulders. I leaned back and enjoyed the solid press of his chest against my back.
For one breathless moment, we stayed like that. Then he pressed the lightest kiss to the top of my head, so gentle I might have imagined it.
“Ready?” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear.
No. I wanted to stay in this bubble forever, where the outside world couldn’t touch us. But I nodded, not trusting my voice. He guided me out of our private nook and back toward the kitchens, his hand at the small of my back.
We were halfway across the main dining room when I saw him.
Dorian Huxley.
My father’s right-hand man sat at a corner table, partially hidden behind a pillar, but his tall frame and sharp suit were unmistakable. He was speaking quietly into his phone, his back mostly to us, but I knew with sickening certainty it was him.
