“Just you,” he deadpans.
The fry falls onto the plate. His eyes glint, satisfied. I recover. Barely. “Why me?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He leans forward, forearms on the table, and lowers his voice just enough that I feel it right in the center of my stomach. “Because you don’t look at me like everyone else does.”
I swallow. Hard. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” his gaze drops to my mouth for a split second, “you see below the surface. And you don’t even try to pretend otherwise.”
My pulse trips. “Is that a complaint?”
He shakes his head once. Slow. “Not today.” He stares across at me, blinks lazily. The air gets hot. I need to breathe or laugh or run, but I do none of those things. Instead, I take a fry, dip it in ketchup, and pop it into my mouth just to give my hands something to do. Dean watches the whole motion like it’s obscene.
I glare. “Stop that.”
“Stop what?”
“Staring at me like I’m-” I shake my head. Nope. Not going there.
“Like you’re what?” he goads, leaning back, spreading those stupid long legs under the table until one knee brushes mine. My brain short-circuits.
“Like you’re thinking something inappropriate,” I mutter.
His grin turns wicked. “Sadie, I’m always thinking something inappropriate.”
“Wonderful. Great. I hate that I walked into that.” My face heating at the admission.
He laughs. It’s a deep, rough sound that slides all the way through me. Then he picks up his burger, takes a bite, and talks around it like we didn’t just flirt our way into an entirely different atmosphere.
“What about you?” he asks casually. “You always this tightly wound, or am I special?”
“Tightly? Excuse me?!” I cry out my disdain at being labeled.
He gestures at me with a fry. “You sit up straight when you’re flustered. You talk faster when you’re trying to act unaffected. And you’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?” First, my heart trips at the notion he’s taken inventory and cataloging my actions. Then, I glance down at myself, nose scrunching.
He makes a lazy circle in the air with his finger. “Your neck. You’re trying not to touch it.”
My hand flies to my throat. Damn him. Damn him twice.
He smirks knowingly. “Cute.”
“Dean.” I force my hand away from my neck and back to the table.
“Sadie.” That wicked grin on display again.
I lean forward, glaring. “Why are you like this?”
His expression dips into something darker, edged with heat. “Because you look really pretty when you get annoyed,” he states simply. “And because I like seeing what happens when you stop pretending you don’t feel anything.”
I freeze. A shiver runs down my spine at being so seen.
“Look,” he shrugs, “I don’t bite.”
I raise a brow. “You expect me to believe that?”
He meets my gaze steadily, heat lingering there. “No, actually.” he murmurs. “And you shouldn’t.”
