“That is exactly what I’ve been craving all day,” she says. “Like, specifically Five Guys.”
“Really?”
“Really. How did you—” She shakes her head. “Never mind. That’s…that’s perfect. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
We unpack the food together in her small kitchen, brushing elbows as we reach for napkins and plates. We sit atthe little table against the window and for a minute all I do is watch her eat. She doesn’t pick at it. She dives in like someone who finally remembered food tastes good. She hums under her breath at one bite and looks mildly embarrassed when she realizes I heard it.
“This is so good,” she says around a mouthful, eyes closing for a second.
Her response is fucking turning me on.Jesus.
Eventually, she slows down and then sets the last bit of her food down. I can see the moment she switches tracks when her shoulders shift and her gaze sharpens. “So,” she says.
“So,” I echo.
She twists her napkin between her fingers, eyes dropping to her plate. “Tell me about yourself,” she says suddenly.
I blink. “What?”
“I mean, I know some things,” she says. “You work for my dad. You are terrifyingly good at predicting comfort food.”
She’s buying herself time. Keeping the spotlight on me instead of all the “what now” questions clanging around her head.
I recognize it because I do the same thing. In the conference room, in negotiations, when I need to control the pace of a conversation. Keep things where I want them until I’m ready to pivot.
Her eyes flick up to mine for half a second, and something passes between us. A flash of recognition. Of memory. The way I kept her exactly where I wanted her that night in July, slow and deliberate, until she was the one begging me to move faster.
Her cheeks flush, just barely, and she looks back down at her plate.
I clear my throat, pushing the memory aside before it derails me completely. “Okay,” I say, deciding to play along, at least for a minute. “I grew up in Seaside, Connecticut. Moved out here for college. UCLA.”
Her eyes brighten. “I went to UCLA.”
“Small world.” Something about that makes me smile.
“I met Wyatt freshman year,” I say. “We were roommates in the dorms. We survived that and decided to stay roommates all through undergrad and law school.”
“So he’s been stuck with you a long time.” She grins when she says it, eyes lighting up in a way that makes her whole face soften. It’s teasing, not mean, and something in my chest loosens.
“Pretty much,” I say, grinning back. “My mom still lives in Connecticut. My dad passed away a few years ago.”
Her expression softens. “I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” I feel that familiar ache in my chest—dull, not as sharp as it used to be, but still there.
She reaches out without seeming to think about it and lays her hand on my forearm. Her fingers are light, but the contact sends a jolt up my arm that sends electricity through my body and makes me want her hands on more of me.
“Do you have any siblings?” she asks.
“Nope,” I say. “Only child.”
“Explains a lot,” she says, pulling her hand back, a hint of a smile on her lips. “And you were married, right? To Lauren?”
“See,” I say. “You know more than youthink.”
“What happened?” she asks. The question is gentle, no prying edge, just curiosity.
