He nods, slips a card into my hand. His fingers are cold. "Please do. I think we have much to discuss."
He leaves, and I'm standing there feeling like I just shook hands with a ghost.
When the room finally clears, it's just me and Alena.
She exhales, slumping back. "I hate that."
"You were perfect."
"I felt like a circus animal." She shifts, reaching back. "Fuck, I think my bra is sitting wrong."
I lean in. "Yeah, you haven't hooked it properly. One sec."
She turns slightly, giving me access. I slip my hand under the back of her dress, fingers finding the clasp. Her skin is warm, impossibly soft. I linger, thumb grazing the dip of her spine.
Her breath hitches.
Mine catches.
One wrong move and I'd have her bent over this table.
I fix the hook, force myself to pull away.
My cock throbs.
"Thanks!" She smiles at me—genuine, not the polished version she gives everyone else.
That smile does things to me it shouldn't.
We stand. My hand finds the small of her back as we head for the door—possessive, familiar.
"Drinks tonight?" I ask, casual as I can manage. Like my pulse isn't hammering.
She pauses. "No. I have a date."
The words land like a fist to the gut.
I keep my face neutral. "Yeah? Anyone I know?"
"A chef." She doesn't look at me, focused on her phone. "I met him at that book signing last week."
A chef. Fucking perfect. Some handsy bastard who'll cook for her, touch her while she slides food past those lips.
Touch her hands.
Maybe more.
"Good for you," I say, and I almost believe I mean it.
"I'll call you if my night opens up."
Translation: I'll call you if I don't fuck him.
"Don't worry about it," I say, pulling out my phone like I've got somewhere to be. "I'll fill my night."
She knows exactly what that means. I've got a list of women. Finding company is easier than breathing.
But what she doesn't know? For the past six months I've been searching for the one woman who'll finally kill this thing I feel for her.
