My legs go warm and numb at the same time. Amazing how the body just… quits.
He walks toward me with slow, deliberate steps, like he’s trying not to spook me.
Or like he already knows I’m going to run and will not let me.
“Ruby,” he says softly.
God. His voice. I could bottle it and sell it as a weapon.
“You came.”
“I’m… here,” I say, which is possibly the dumbest sentence ever constructed.
His eyes move over me, not like a creep, not like a man undressing me with his gaze, but like he’s taking me in piece by piece, memorizing everything.
“You look beautiful.”
Cue heart malfunction.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice doing that embarrassing pitch wobble I hate. “You look… good. Fine. Decent. Acceptable.”
He almost smiles. “I’ll take acceptable.”
“I meant..." I stop myself. “Let’s go inside.”
He steps closer and offers his hand gently, not grabbing, not claiming, just a quiet invitation.
I stare at it.
He lifts a brow. “You’re safe with me.”
“I’m not worried about safety,” I mutter.
“What are you worried about?”
“You.”
His eyes darken. “Good.”
I let him guide me inside, our fingers brushing. Not a full touch, just enough to send heat up my arm.
The maître d’ appears instantly like summoned magic.
“Mr. Cole,” he says with genuine respect, “your table is ready.”
Of course it is.
We’re led to a private corner table under soft lighting. Candles. Wine glasses. The whole setup screams romance, not professionalism, not a work dinner, not anything I can hide behind.
Jaxon pulls out my chair, and I sit like a woman who has lost all motor control.
He sits across from me, relaxed and maddeningly confident.
“So,” I say. “Business?”
He laughs quietly. “Sure. Let’s pretend.”
I glare at him. “Jaxon.”
