He is, objectively, alarming.
And somehow, even more annoyingly, he knows it.
“You look more like you’d eat crayons,” I say.
His grin flashes.
“Only the good flavors.”
I laugh.
A real one this time.
Fast, involuntary, out before I can stop it.
And the second it happens, his expression shifts.
Not softened.
Satisfied.
Like making me laugh was the assignment and he just nailed it.
I hate that.
The trainer finally waves me over.
“Isa, table three.”
I stand.
Drew looks up at me from the chair, sprawling and overconfident and entirely too aware of his own body.
“You gonna be mean to me forever?”
“Yes.”
He nods like that’s perfectly reasonable.
“Cool. I’ll wear you down.”
I stare.
The smile he gives me then is all white teeth and broad male confidence and the kind of steady attention that would probably feel predatory from someone else.
From him, somehow, it feels… uncomplicated.
Infuriatingly uncomplicated.
No pity.
No tiptoeing.
No treating me like I’m breakable because another guy chose someone else.
Just interest.
Direct.
