A deep V appears between his brows. Dammit, I’ve gone into bitch mode again.
“Sorry.” I take his hand, just to reassure him. But I can’t help myself. I raise it to my mouth, brushing my lips over the tattoo on the inside of his wrist.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’m in trouble.
“You want to go?” His voice is a rough scrape up his throat, and he squeezes my hand, attempting to pull me closer.
But I’m panicking. I can’t leave with him—not now. Because I know exactly what I’ll do—what we’ll do—and I can’t do that again. I’ve kissed him now and it will be different. I don’t think I’ll be able to handle it.
“Lobster,” I blurt.
Amusement skims across his features. “Lobster?”
“Yes. We can’t leave yet. Don’t you want some lobster?”
He scrubs a hand over his face with a chuckle. “Okay, let’s eat some lobster. But that’s not going to make me forget what just happened.”
“I know.” I give him a wry smile. “You never let anything go.”
“No, I mean—”
“I know what you mean, Myles. We can analyze it later.”
He sighs, relenting. “Fine. Let’s eat lobster.”
24
We manage to make it through dinner in one piece. And by one piece, I mean that we don’t fall into another life-altering kiss or accidentally have sex on the table.
So that’s something.
But the whole time, Myles is making eyes at me over his lobster. I know what he’s thinking, what he wants. And I want it too—he has no idea how much. I’m doing a pretty good job of acting aloof, but underneath I’m just a horndog like him. I want it. I wanthim.
Still, we’re in polite company right now—well, company, at least—so we need to keep it together. And I’m relieved, because I’m not sure about sleeping with Myles again. I’m really not.
After dinner we retire to a different room, with a bar cart and an upright piano against the far wall. The first thing Myles does is wander over to the piano with a smile.
“This is nice. I’ve always wanted a Steinway.”
I look at him oddly. What the fuck is he talking about now?
“You play?” Andy asks, handing him a whiskey.
Myles runs a finger along the lid. “Yeah.”
I snort a laugh as I take my vodka from Andy, and Myles glances at me.
“What? I do.”
Ah, this must be part of his experimental jazz bit. Though it’s a bit risky to pretend to play the piano—what if they actuallyaskhim to play?
“No you don’t,” I say with a light laugh, attempting to breeze past this.
He lifts an eyebrow. “Want me to prove it?”
Oh, a challenge. “Go on, then.”
“Alright.” He sets his whiskey down, one side of his mouth kicking up into a confident grin, then he links his fingers together and stretches his arms out, clicking his knuckles. He sits on the stool, raising the lid of the piano, letting out a low whistle. “Beautiful,” he says, and I resist the urge to snicker.
