He’s watching me too closely when he says it. Like the question has a second meaning.
“Better,” I admit. “Whoever wrote it undersold it.”
The smile that crosses his face does nothing good for my ability to think straight.
His knee finds mine under the table. He doesn’t move or acknowledge it, and neither do I. We keep talking like nothing happened.
Except I’m tracking every word and feeling every bit of contact at the same time. By the time the bottle is empty, I’ve stopped pretending those two things aren’t connected.
The candle has burned low. The neighboring tables emptied at some point, and I didn’t even notice. Now it’s just us, and the quiet that settles in when neither person wants the night to end.
When the check comes, I open my mouth, but he raises a hand. “Don’t.”
The server takes the folder and disappears.
Outside, the street is empty and cool. My cab is waiting half a block down, and Lev walks beside me. His shoulder is close enough that I feel every inch between us.
When we step around a crack in the pavement, his hand settles at the small of my back. It’s there and gone, but my spine keeps remembering it.
We reach my cab, and I stop and turn to face him. The streetlight catches the angle of his jaw and the faint scar along his collarbone, just visible above his collar. His eyes move over my face like he’s taking me in, letting himself have this.
My breath stutters, and I look down at my purse strap to hide it. “Thank you for dinner,” I manage.
“Thank you for showing up.” His eyes drop to my mouth for a second, then lift again. “Get home safe, Doctor.”
I stand there a beat too long, close enough to feel his heat, waiting for him to close the distance. He watches me with an infuriating smirk that tells me he knows what he’s doing.
He’s going to make me want it.
And it’s working.
