I lean in a little closer and lower my voice. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”
She gazes into my eyes with that intense and deep blue. “I’m still here because you’re standing in my way.”
I grin and shift, just enough to clear her path. “There,” I say. “Now you can leave.”
She doesn’t move. Her eyes flick past me again, like she’s checking whether someone is watching this exchange, then she looks at me with that same calm. “You think that proves something?”
“It proves you’re not as bored as you pretend to be,” I say. “Or you’d be halfway tothe door.”
Her lips part like she’s about to cut me down, but instead, she inhales and lets the air out slowly. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
“I have to be,” I say, and I keep it light, even though the words are truer than I want them to be. “If I wasn’t, people would smell it.”
“That sounds exhausting,” she says, and there’s the smallest crack in her armor—something human, something almost sympathetic before she snaps it shut again.
“It can be, but I enjoy it,” I say, being honest. I suspect a woman like her appreciates honesty.
After a beat, she tilts her head and shrugs. “Fine, buy me a drink.”
“They’re free,” I say, but I turn and gesture for her to walk beside me.
“Then, acquire me a drink,” she says.
ChapterFour
Elsa
The table is one of those tall cocktail ones that forces you to stand close or lean in, and I decide I hate whoever invented them right up until I realize it’s keeping me from drifting away.
Not that I would drift away.
Not when the man across from me has somehow managed to turn a tedious obligation into something almost… fun.
I wrap my fingers around the stem of my glass and watch the bubbles climb like they have somewhere better to be. My cheeks feel warmer than they should, and I’m aware of it in a way that makes me want to be annoyed with myself.
Not because I don’t drink—because I do—but because I don’t usually do it in rooms like this. Not enough to loosen my grip on my own thoughts. Not enough to make my edges blur.
Tonight, my edges are slightly blurred.
And it’s ridiculous how much I actually don’t hate it.
Antonio is resting his forearms on the table, jacket unbuttoned, tie loosened just enough to make him look less like a man dressed for appearances and more like a man who has been here long enough to stop pretending he’s enjoying it. His eyes are bright, his smile too easy, and he keeps watching my mouth like he’s trying to predict what I’ll say before I say it.
I shouldn’t like that.
But I do.
I take another sip and regret it immediately because the drink tastes like trouble, and I’m already light enough on my feet. I set the glass down, too carefully, and he notices anyway.
“You’re doing that thing,” he says.
I blink at him. “What thing?”
“The careful placement,” he says, nodding at my glass like it’s evidence. “Like you’re trying to convince yourself you’re not tipsy.”
“I’m not tipsy.”
His eyebrows lift. “Sure.”
