“Please.” I lick my dry lips. “M-my ex is right behind me.”
His gaze flicks over my shoulder just as Aryan’s voice interrupts us.
“Arya, wait!”
My shoulders slump as I try to gather my wits, the air in my lungs constricting. Out of options, I drop my hand from Nathan’s to turn around and face my ex.
Before I can move an inch, an arm circles my back, pulling me closer to the warm cocoon of a hard torso. I hear Nathan speak above me.
“You are?” His velvety voice is formal with a hint of arrogance.
“I’m her fiancé!” sputters Aryan. “Who are you?”
I tense in fury.
How dare he call himself my fiancé?
“I’m the man who’s going to make her forget your cowardly existence.”
My gasp is shadowed by my ex-fiancé’s outrage behind me.
Shivers break out on my spine as Nathan’s hand trails down to just above the curve of my ass and rests there possessively. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I’m going to feed my beautiful date.”
“Come on, Arya,” Aryan says. “Just hear me out once.”
Panic sets in as I dig my fingers into Nathan’s sides. With his free hand, he tilts my face with the tip of his index finger under my chin. My breath leaves in a rush as he pushes my hair away from my eyes with the back of his knuckle.
“Do you want to?” he asks.
I know he’s putting on a show, but my body’s reaction to his gentle touch is natural and of its own free will.
“No,” I rasp.
Shifting his hand to the back of my neck, he answers Aryan. “You heard her. She isn’t interested in your explanations.”
The hand on my hip lowers and laces our fingers together to guide me past a red-faced Aryan standing with his fists clenched.
We’re halfway down the row of tables when Nathan pauses to turn around once more. “Oh, one more thing.”
Aryan scowls up at him.
“Since you seem to be suffering from short-term memory loss, you’re herex-fiancé. May want to tattoo it down somewhere or practice in front of the mirror.”
I’m hyperaware of other patrons keenly listening in on us, eager for the drama to unfold.
Without sparing my mortified ex another glance, Nathan resumes walking. I’m confused, still speechless, when we stride past all the tables to a secluded hallway. I open my mouth to ask where we’re going when we stop in front of another host stand.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Singhania,” greets the uniformed man. “Your table is ready.”
The host opens the door next to him.
Nathan leads me inside, my hand still locked with his.
It’s another dining area that I didn’t know existed with a smaller number of tables. I gape at the interior with high, arched ceilings and abstract paintings decorating the beige walls. Unlike outside, there’s no acoustic music playing in here. Just a low hush of muted conversations.
As soon as the door closes behind us, Nathan drops my hand like a bucket of cold water. My fingers flex, missing the shape and warmth of his.
It’s disconcerting how effortlessly he switches from protective to cold.
