He chuckles and moves closer to me, and I realize I have nowhere to go. He would definitely catch me if I tried to move around him.
When he’s a breath away, he braces one arm on the table next to my hip, and the other hand comes up to my face, stroking my cheek.
“You know I’m not lying.”
I cannot form words.
“If you don’t want to talk here, have dinner with me tonight.” He moves in closer. So close that I can smell the mint on his breath.
I look between his mouth and his eyes.
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
His head moves to the side, and his lips brush the corner of my mouth when he speaks. “Alie, have dinner with me.”
I close my eyes and try to compose myself, but it’s no use. The goose bumps are in full force, my stomach is flip-floppingall over the place, and it’s taking all my strength not to reach out and touch him.
“Liam,” I breathe.
“Say yes.”
He pulls back and runs his thumb over my lips.
I should push him away.
But I don’t.
“I gotta say, seeing you again … fuck. You’re even more beautiful than I picture in my dreams.” He traces my bottom lip.
I place my hand on his stomach with the intention of pushing him back, which is a huge mistake because I can feel every ripple of muscle through his soft, thin T-shirt. So, instead of moving him, my hand takes on a mind of its own and traces the ridges of his abs, making them contract.
“Alie, say it.”
I draw in a slow breath and drop my hand.
I owe this man nothing. I owe him less than nothing.
And yet there are conversations I’ve had with him a hundred times in my head. Speeches sharpened to a blade. Questions I deserve answers to. A finale that includes several creative insults and a well-placed knee to the groin.
I’m supposed to be furious. Instead, I’m … stuck. Because the man in front of me isn’t the villain I rehearsed for. And that’s the problem.
“Okay, I’ll have dinner with you, but I’ll meet you somewhere.”
“Let me make dinner for you at mine. That way, we can have some privacy to talk.”
“Talk? Yeah, right. No, I’ll meet you.” I place my hands on his chest, and this time, I do push him back.
“Okay, you win. Tell me where and when. But you’re gonna have to give me your number.” He smiles, and it should beillegal. This man can get anything he wants with just a little tilt of his lips, including me, apparently.
“Give me your phone.” I hold out my hand.
“Yes, ma’am.” He smiles like he just won the Lombardi Trophy, takes it out of his pocket, unlocks it, and places it in my hand.
I open his messages, create a text, enter my number, and send myself a text.
