“Hm, sounds like jealousy to me.” I shrug teasingly and smirk.
He sips his drink again, seeming to be contemplating my statement, but quickly dismissing the idea. “Do you…” He pauses.
I wait patiently.
Do I what, Harrison?
He points to a seating area completely secluded behind the DJ. “Maybe want to talk some more over there?”
Jackpot.
It takes everything in me not to break out in a massive grin, so instead, I nod eagerly. “Yes, I absolutely do.”
He releases a breath as if he thought I might reject his offer, then takes my drink, carrying it to the table for me.
I turn toward Becks, who is now standing with Matteo, motioning toward the seats, and she nods, not giving off much emotion.
I’ll unpack that later.
Hours, days, minutes later, who cares? All I know is we’ve had a thousand drinks, and we’re having the best time ever. I haven’t stopped smiling or laughing, and he’s right there with me.
Harrison Davenport has been completely and utterly unexpected in the best possible way.
He still has this elusive alpha dominance thing going on, even now, with how he’s leaning back in the chair—arms and legs stretched wide, commanding all my attention. But besides all that manly hotness, he’s also charming, intelligent, and funny in a dry, unbothered way.
He reaches forward, grabs my chair, and quickly pulls it toward him. I squeal loudly with laughter. “Harrison!”
His arm stretches across the back of my chair. “How did you get so far away from me? I like you close.”
“Oh.”Swoon. “Close together sounds good.” Like a lovesick puppy, I can’t take my eyes off this man. I’m not sure I’ve ever been so attracted to anyone in my life, and I can’t pinpoint what it is.
His flirty smile, big blue eyes, or chiseled jaw? I have no freaking clue, but all of them together are doing all the right things. Even his grown-in stubble is a turn-on.
His hand reaches over, and his finger traces my shoulder. He smirks flirtatiously when he feels my skin pebble under his touch.
“You feel familiar to me,” he murmurs.
Hmm, probably because you flirted with me all night at the restaurant. I’m not going to tell him that, though, on the off chance he doesn’t remember, and I embarrass myself. Let him figure it out himself.
I sip my water for hydration, “Probably because I’m so likable,” I say straight-faced, until he playfully pinches my side, and we both laugh.
“Truth. You are.” He nods. “So, you’re a baker?”
“A pastry chef whose mom taught her. I work at her bakery.” I purposely left out my dancing career tonight. Knowing it’s bound to dampen the mood, and tonight is not the night for a pity party.
“Your mom’s the baker who owns a bakery, and you’re just a poser?” He raises his brows and smiles wide.
“Bingo.” I clink his glass. “In France, they separate their bread and pastry shops, but here they often combine them, so my mom did the same. Technically she’s a maître pâtissier, a?—”
“Master pastry chef,” he finishes.
“You know French?” I ask excitedly.
We never speak French at home. Mom taught Dad and me; she even sent me to French school when I was younger, but she wanted to embrace her American life, so we only spoke English.
Unless she’s mad…that’s a different story.
“I do. As well as German, Italian, and Spanish,” he tells me confidently, but not in a bragging way.
