“Yes,” he managed, nodding once. “Everything’s good.”
Lies. His pulse roared in his ears, his body still humming from the ghost of her foot against his.
Damn it. This was exactly the kind of moment that spiraled into regret.
His grip on the fork turned white-knuckled. He’d promised himself he’d be better than this. Less careless. Less him. Ella didn’t know. She saw the façade, not the guy who’d rented out pieces of himself. Whose face and body were floating around the internet, tagged and archived and endlessly searchable.
She didn’t know how easily he could step out of his own skin. The way he’d groaned “oh baby, yeah” so often he wasn’t sure he remembered what real pleasure felt like. Whatever that had done to him wasn’t fair to put on her.
He needed to shut it down. Before her adorably perfect toes reached for him again. Before he forgot, even for a second, that he wasn’t safe.
Nate straightened his spine and grabbed for humor like a drowning man lunging for a life preserver.
“Alright,” he said, patting his stomach. “I surrender. Completely annihilated by butter and beef.”
Her eyebrow lifted.
“A tragic end,” he rushed on, because momentum was key here, “for someone who was, up until recently, absolutely crushing the suave dining partner role.”
She glanced at his plate. “You haven’t finished.”
“Ah, but you see,” he said, gesturing, “I’ve crossed the threshold into eating for pride, not pleasure. So maybe we call it a night. End on a—”
“Dessert?” the waiter cut in.
Nate’s eye twitched.Motherfucker.
“I really shouldn’t,” Ella said, lips pursing.
“We could skip?” Nate suggested.
She rolled her eyes. “This is the part where you say, ‘Actually, you absolutely should,’ and I cave and order the chocolate tart, which, let’s be honest, I was going to do anyway.”
Every alarm in Nate’s head blaredbad idea, but he heard himself say, “You absolutely should?”
Her smirk was all triumph. “Fine. Tart it is. But for the record? You’re a terrible influence.”
“I’ve been told,” he muttered, surrendering completely and ordering the tart and a crème brûlée for himself.
A few minutes later, the waiter returned, sliding the desserts between them.
“Ooh, let me try some of yours,” Ella said, eyes sparkling.
Nate’s fork stalled midair. “Uh, I mean…”Dessert is safe, his brain chanted.Dessert is innocent. Dessert is something you share with a nun. He scooped up a bite and held it out to her.
Ella leaned forward, lips parting as she took it, her lashes fluttering shut. When they opened, her grin was pure devilry. “Mmm. So smooth.” A dab of custard clung to the corner of her mouth. She swiped it with her finger, then slowly, deliberately drew it between her teeth.
Nate’s laugh came out choked, heat flooding his face. He realized his knee was jammed against the table leg, as if he were physically bracing against the moment. Forcing himself to unclench, he scrambled for neutral thoughts: basketball statistics, Ikea manuals, the alphabet backwards. Anything but the way her tongue had just moved.
By the time the bill arrived, Nate was still off-kilter. They paid up and stepped outside, where the street was quieting as eveningsettled, the air cooler now, lamplight painting soft halos around the buildings and Ella.
“Walk me back to my hotel,” she said, not quite a question. “It’s in Pâquis. Just a few minutes from here.”
Nate’s mind ran in frantic circles: Make an excuse. Go back to your room. But when he finally spoke, his voice delivered a single, fatal word.
“Sure.”
They fell into step, the city folding around them. Narrow lanes spilled into hidden squares where café tables clung to the edges of the pavement, laughter and clinking glasses drifting into the night air. Somewhere, a street musician played something slow and melancholy. Nate had the absurd thought that the universe was laying it on a bit thick.
