“Thank you,” I said quietly, and I meant it.
He inclined his head once, accepting the gratitude without a word, although I was unsure what he would have said. As itwas clear he wasn’t just trying to stroke my ego or hiding some ulterior motive. At least, it didn’t come across that way.
The cinnamon roll sat between us, thick icing gleaming beneath the café lights. I tore into it with less grace than I had intended and took a bite that immediately dissolved into sugary, buttery perfection.
“Oh my God,” I breathed, unable to help the soft sound that followed. He watched me with open curiosity, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
“It’s that good?”
I nodded, swallowing quickly before holding it out toward him.
“Here. Have a bite.”
For a moment, he looked genuinely caught off guard, and heat rose to my cheeks as it dawned on me that I had just offered food to a man who had casually threatened murder only moments before. But what was it they said? It was too late now, so in for a penny, in for a pound.
“You would share?” he asked, as though the concept itself intrigued him.
“Delicious things should be shared,” I replied, the words tumbling out before I considered how they sounded. Damn it, why did everything I say now sound so sexual or suggestive? And of course, he didn’t miss it, as something dark and electric flickered in his eyes. A sight that sent another shiver rippling straight down my spine. I began to withdraw my hand, suddenly aware of how intimate the offer felt. But he stopped me as his fingers closed gently around my wrist.
He then held my gaze as he slowly leaned forward before taking a generous bite, far larger than I had intended to offer. The movement was unhurried, intentional, and I found myself absurdly aware of the way his mouth closed around the pastry. Aware of the faint flex of his jaw as he chewed.
It was ridiculous.
Completely ridiculous.
And yet I couldn’t look away.
He released my wrist only after he had swallowed, and I hadn’t known until that second that the simple sight of a man eating could affect me like this, could turn me on so completely. I blinked down at what remained of the cinnamon roll and then back up at him.
“Hey,” I protested, trying to gather some semblance of indignation.
“I offered you a bite, not half of it,” I grumbled, the complaint entirely half-hearted. Yet he just licked a trace of icing from his lower lip with slow, measured movements.
“You were unclear on the parameters,” he replied smoothly, and I scoffed a laugh as I pulled my hand back, attempting to reclaim my composure. Although the knowing look in his eyes told me he was fully aware of the effect he had on me. And, if the faint curve of his mouth was anything to go by, he wasn’t exactly displeased by it either.
“Oh, was I now?” I said, leaning back in my chair and brushing icing from my fingertips onto a napkin.
“Well, perhaps next time I’ll have to establish firmer boundaries. Clear terms. Bullet points. Maybe even acontract.”The word lingered between us, one I had deliberately placed. His eyes sharpened just slightly, though the corner of his mouth curved in faint amusement.
“A contract?” he echoed.
“Yes,” I continued lightly, folding my hands together as though drafting one in the air.
“I’ll have something drawn up. Clause one, bite-size limitations. Clause two, no surprise killing sprees before ten a.m.”
A quiet chuckle escaped him at that.
“You would draft terms against me?” he asked in feign shock.
“I’d have to, apparently, you exploit ambiguity,” I said, feeling cocky now. Even as his gaze held mine, and this time the humor thinned into something more thoughtful.
“I find clarity preferable, ambiguity invites negotiation.”
I rolled my eyes at that, as something about the way he said it cooled the air between us.
“Speaking of contracts,” I said, my tone shifting without meaning to.
“Why did you have one prepared before you even saw my campaign?” The question landed heavier than the teasing before it, which was, no doubt, why he didn’t answer immediately.
