I narrow my eyes. “Poorly. My shoes hate me, my spanx are plotting a coup, and I’ve already been hit on by someone who thinks the word no is a suggestion.”
His expression darkens for half a second—just a flicker—before the flirt returns. “Sounds like a flawless night.” Then, after a beat: “You didn’t want to come, did you?”
I shake my head. “Not even a little. I thought I’d stick out like a sore thumb.”
He looks at me—really looks. “You do,” he says. “But not for the reasons you think.”
And just like that, my heart forgets how to beat properly.
I take a quick sip of champagne to hide the sudden dryness in my throat, but it doesn’t help. I’m hot. My skin is flushed. I can feel it in the tips of my ears, the tightness of my chest. He’s looking at me like he already knows the effect he’s having—and helikesit.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” I mutter, eyes narrowed.
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” he asks, voice feigning innocence but mouth crooked with amusement.
“Like you’re trying to see through my dress.”
He grins. “Who says I’m not succeeding?”
Oh god. I bite my lip, which is probably a mistake, because his gaze dips straight to my mouth—and lingers.
“You blush easily,” he murmurs, clearly delighted. “That’s dangerous, sweetheart. The wrong guy could have a lot of fun with that.”
My voice is dry. “You meanyoucould have a lot of fun with that.”
“Guilty,” he says, hand brushing my elbow in a way that’s light, casual—intimate. “But only if you let me.”
I know I should step away. Regain composure. Say something clever.
Instead, I stare at him—this stranger with a dangerous smile and a devil’s mouth—and feel myself slipping toward something reckless.
“You have that look,” he says suddenly, an ever-present smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’s got secrets he enjoys too much to share.
I glance at him. “What look?”
“Like your brain’s ten chapters ahead and I’m stuck reading the table of contents.”
I laugh, surprised. “That’s... actually kind of accurate.”
He steps in front of me, blocking my path like a living wall of tuxedo and trouble. “Alright, let me guess.”
“Guess what?”
“What you do. Your day job. Your cover identity.”
My eyebrows rise. “You think I’m in witness protection?”
“Maybe,” he says, cocking his head. “You’ve got that wholeunderstated elegance hiding world dominationthing going on.”
I cross my arms. “Okay, then. Guess away.”
He studies me with exaggerated intensity, as if my mask holds all the answers. “You’re a... conservator. You restore old paintings in dimly lit studios while listening to operas in languages you don’t speak.”
I blink. “That’s oddly specific.”
