I can see the details I couldn't see from across the room when I went to spy on her in Boston. She has a small scar on her jawline. Her eyelashes are darker at the tips. The tension in her shoulders suggests she's ready to bolt at any second.
I've waited years for this moment.
And now that she's here, sitting across from me in my house, I realize something that makes my pulse quicken with a hunger I've never felt before.
I'm not letting her go.
The thought of her leaving, of her walking back through that door and disappearing into her small life back East, makes something dark and possessive coil in my chest.
One week. That's what I promised her. Seven days to show her everything I can be, everything I can give her, every reason why she should stay.
Seven days to make her mine in every way that matters.
And if seven days isn't enough, I'll find a way to make her stay anyway.
Everything starts now.
9
JADE
Phoenix gestures to the table, and I sink into the chair he's pulled out for me. The leather cushion is soft beneath me, and I try not to think about how much a single dining chair costs in a place like this.
"Wine?" he asks, already reaching for the bottle on the table.
"Sure. Thank you."
He pours with the kind of ease that comes from doing something a thousand times, the dark red liquid flowing into crystal glasses that catch the light. When he hands me mine, our fingers brush for half a second, and I feel it all the way up my arm.
"I hope you like fish," he says, settling into the chair across from me. “I should have asked what you prefer, but I realized I don't actually know."
"Fish is fine." I take a sip of wine to have something to do with my hands. It's good, probably expensive, though I wouldn't know the difference. "I'm not picky."
He's watching me with an intensity that makes me want to look away, but I force myself to hold his gaze. He's devastatingly handsome up close. Well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders that fill out the white linen shirt in a way that shouldn't bedistracting but absolutely is. His dark hair is slightly messy, like he ran his hands through it recently. His eyes are the kind of dark brown that looks almost black in certain light, and they haven't left my face since I sat down.
"How was the flight?" he asks.
"Long. But comfortable. Thank you for the first-class ticket."
"You're welcome." He takes a sip of his wine. "First time in California?"
"Yes. First time anywhere west of the Mississippi, actually."
"What do you think so far?"
I glance toward the windows, where the ocean churns gray and restless under the cloudy sky. "It's beautiful. Different from Boston. Warmer, even with the clouds."
"Wait until you see it on a clear day. The sunsets here are worth the price of admission."
A woman in chef's whites appears with two plates, setting them down in front of us with practiced efficiency. The fish is perfectly grilled, surrounded by roasted vegetables that look like they belong in a magazine. Everything is artfully arranged, beautiful in a way that makes me almost afraid to eat it.
"Thank you, Maria," Phoenix says.
Maria nods and disappears back through a door I assume leads to the kitchen.
We eat in silence for a few minutes. The food is incredible, delicate and flavorful in a way that makes my usual meals of pasta and canned sauce seem like a different species of food entirely. I'm hyperaware of Phoenix across from me, the way he handles his fork and knife, the way he keeps glancing up to watch me when he thinks I'm not looking.
"Tell me about yourself," he says finally.
