Dinner’s almost over, and I’ve forgotten most of what I ate. Theo’s small hand fits into mine, fingers interlocked as if we’ve done this a hundred times before. Only we haven’t, and I’ve got no business noticing how soft her palm is. Or how my thumb keeps circling in a quiet rhythm, because I don’t want to stop.
She’s sitting opposite me, perfectly poised and composed. There’s a tension in her hand. Not resistance, more alertness. And her pulse kicks against my fingertips.
This should be easy. Hold hands, smile for the camera, sell the illusion. I’ve done far worse for a lot less. But this feels different. She feels different. She curls her fingers against mine, giving me permission one breath at a time, and that rattles me more than if she’d giggled and leaned in with her tits out.
Theo MacMickin is a mystery. Tight smile, calm voice. But the second she talked about her family, she dropped her eyes like the words weighed too much. Said ‘Elie’ as if it wasn’t worth remembering. I know what it sounds like when someone skips over the worst parts. I’ve been doing it my whole life.
She hands over puzzle pieces one at a time, and I want the full picture.
I’d tried to throw her off with jokes and cheek, but she never missed a beat. She’s smart. Scarily smart. The way she watched me when I laughed, as if she was filing it away for future reference. And I’ve got the sneaking suspicion she’s hiding something. Not scandal-hiding, not my kind of hiding. But as if the reason she’s so contained is that she’s spent years building that armour.
The way she didn’t deny the breakup, only flinched. And that flinch did things to me. Things that make no sense, because we’re fake. A limited-time offer with full returns and no emotional repercussions. And yet I’m trying to decode the story behind one blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment. The old me wouldn’t have noticed. Would’ve clocked the dress, the legs, the mouth, and skipped the small talk. But I want to know what happened to her. She’s dressing it up, but the hurt is obvious.
I want to know who broke her so I can break him.
And why she still looks like she’s trying to tape the pieces back together in silence.
Am I staring? Yeah. I should stop.
But…God, those lips.
Red as a fuck-you. Her top lip has a natural dip. I keep wondering what she tastes like. How long she’d let me kiss her before she pulled away.
Before I could mess it up.
Cause that’s what I do.
A waitress places the bowl between us with a smile that lingers a tad too long on our hands. I don’t let go.
Cranachan. Berries bleeding into cream, oats, whisky, honey, and one of those sugar shards stuck on top.
‘One dessert.’ I nod at it. ‘Suppose we share?’
‘Of course.’ She blinks slowly. ‘For the photos.’
‘It’s what lovers do. Very cutesy couple-core.’
She gives me a look so flat it could iron a shirt, but inches a little closer. I take the spoon and scoop a bite, making a show of it. My hand is controlled. My thoughts aren’t.
‘Open up,’ I say.
‘Don’t you dare?—’
But I already am daring, spoon held out like a challenge.
And she…leans in.
Every nerve in my body is tuned to the moment she parts her lips. I don’t mean to stare. I honestly don’t. But her bottom lip cushions the spoon – full and shaped like a problem I’d fucking love to have – then the top seals over it. She closes her eyes and draws back slowly until it’s clean.
And I swear the entire restaurant blurs around her.
Holy shit.
I rock forward in my seat, refusing to picture what I’m already halfway hard for. I could devour this whole bloody dessert, and it’d do fuck all for the throb firing south every time she moves her cherry-painted, fuckable lips. This wasn’t for the camera. This was real.
And if I didn’t know it better, I’d think this was for me.
But that’s impossible. This is Theo. List girl. Little Miss Professional. This wasn’t in her brief.
