“You seem pretty sure of yourself,” I tease, sipping my champagne to steady my nerves.
“I am,” he replies, finishing his wine like he’s entirely unbothered. His confidence isn’t just in his words; it’s in the way he leans back, owning the space like it exists for his benefit alone. He glances at me, those dark eyes sharp and probing. “So, does the most beautiful woman in the room have a name?”
His question would normally make me roll my eyes, but the way he says it, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, pulls a smile from me. And of course, I catch his gaze darting, ever so briefly, to my cleavage before snapping back up.
“Lilly,” I say, extending my hand to him, curious to see how he’ll respond.
He takes it without hesitation, but instead of a handshake, he lifts it to his lips, brushing the softest kiss across my skin.
“Lilly,” he repeats, releasing my hand but holding my gaze. “Perfect name.”
The corner of my mouth curls upward at the effortless way he delivers compliments. “Thank you. And yours?”
“Theo,” he replies smoothly, then gestures toward my glass. “Another?”
“Yes, please, Theo,” I respond. He catches the bartender’s attention with a motion that feels almost royal in its ease.
As he orders, he turns fully in his seat, his broad frame shifting so that his legs bracket mine. It isn’t just confident, it’s possessive, like I’ve already taken up a space in his world that he’s intent on defending.
“Why are you here alone?” he asks, curious but genuine.
The heat rises to my cheeks, and I consider playing coy, spinning some elaborate tale. But the way he looks at me, like he might catch the lie before it even leaves my mouth, makes me decide otherwise.
“It’s my birthday,” I admit with a shrug. “And I wanted to have a drink to celebrate it.”
His lips twitch at the corners, and for the first time tonight, his smile shifts into something that feels less practiced and more real. “A beautiful woman alone on her birthday? This celebration calls for something better than champagne. Among other things, you need cake.”
“I haven’t had cake on my birthday in ten years,” I admit softly, the words tugging at memories I usually keep buried. My mom’s voice, her laughter, it all floods back in an instant, bringing with it the bittersweet ache of the last birthday I shared with her.
He tilts his head, his grin both warm and mischievous, as if determined to rewrite the emotion in my voice. “Then we need to make sure you have the best,” he declares with certainty. Without missing a beat, he pulls out his phone. A few sharp taps later, he places it face down on the bar, his eyes meeting mine with a glint of victory.
“What did you do?” I ask, my curiosity rising, though I already suspect his answer will be entirely unexpected.
“The best cake you’ve ever had will be here in about thirtyminutes,” he says simply, a satisfied edge to his tone. “Which means, Lilly, you’re stuck with me until it arrives.”
“You’ve trapped me with promises of cake,” I tease, glancing at him from the corner of my eye, trying to maintain some semblance of composure while my pulse quickens.
His grin deepens, but his gaze shifts, darkening with something far more intriguing than humor. His hand moves toward me, and the tip of his index finger lightly grazes my forearm. The touch is featherlight, innocent. Yet the warmth it spreads through my skin feels anything but. It’s a ripple of sensation that lingers far longer than it should, stirring deep in my belly.
For a moment, I stare at the point of contact, mesmerized by the contrast of his strong, inked hand against my skin. My breath catches, and when I lift my gaze, his dark eyes are locked on mine, quietly intense.
What surprises me most isn’t just the physical spark igniting between us; it’s how much deeper it seems to run. This isn’t just visual, it’s visceral. The kind of connection that’s rare and unsettling in how quickly it takes hold.
“I don’t mind being trapped,” I say softly, my voice carrying a vulnerability I didn’t intend to share. But I don’t regret it either.
Time seems to melt with him. The minutes slip away in an unspoken rhythm, our silences feeling as natural as our conversation. His presence is magnetic, every small movement drawing my attention like gravity. When his hand finds my thigh, each touch lands a fraction higher, as though testing the edges of my restraint.
The conversation stays light, skimming the surface, but the undercurrent says more. I know where this is heading—or at least, where I hope it’s heading. The simmering tension, the loaded glances, and the gradual shifts in his posture all point to an inevitable end: me breathless, in his bed, wondering if this man can make good on every promise his presence whispers.
“Theo?” A voice interrupts from behind, startling me for a moment. A sharply dressed man approaches, holding a lavender gift bag in one hand and a phone in the other.
“That’s me.” Theo’s response is casual, his deep voice smooth as silk. He reaches for the phone, signs with a quick flick of his wrist, and exchanges it for the bag. “Appreciate it.”
The courier gives a polite nod before disappearing back through the lobby. Theo sets the bag on the bar, his movements unhurried, pulling out a small white box and a pair of silver utensils.
“How did you manage to have cake delivered at eleven p.m.?” I ask, raising a brow.
He leans back slightly, giving me a self-assured grin that could probably persuade the devil to follow him to heaven. “I have my ways,” he says, his tone suggesting he isn’t about to share any secrets.
