“You’re tipsy too,” I accuse.
He puts a hand on his chest and lifts his brows. “Me? I don’t thinkso.”
“You’ve had more to drink than I have. And I’m willing to bet you started way before me.”
“I beg to differ,” he says, affronted.
I narrow my eyes at him, but the motion is lazy, not sharp. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I enjoy a lot of things,” he says. “But yes. I’m enjoying this.”
It’s the honesty that catches me, not the words. People in these rooms don’t answer questions like that without wrapping it in a joke or a compliment or a dodge. He says it plainly, like it doesn’t cost him anything.
It should cost him something.
Nothing is free.
But I’ve already had enough champagne to let my brain slide a fraction away from suspicion and into curiosity.
“If you’re enjoying it,” I say, “you’re doing it wrong.”
He laughs, and it’s real enough to make his shoulders shift. “Doing what wrong?”
“Talking to me,” I say, gesturing vaguely between us, because I can’t be bothered to be precise right now. “I’m not… entertaining.”
He tilts his head. “You’re entertaining.”
“No,” I say firmly, and then I hear how it sounds—too firm, too defensive—and it makes me laugh, which is absurd. “I’m not. I’m efficient. I’m direct.I’m—”
“Gorgeous,” he supplies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
I roll my eyes. “That’s not what I was going to say.”
“It should be,” he says.
I take another sip, because I need my hands busy or I’ll do something embarrassing like smile too much. “You’re impossible.”
“I get that a lot.”
“I can see why,” I mutter.
His smile widens, and his gaze drifts down my face in a way that would irritate me in any other context. Not because he’s looking—men look, women look, everyone looks—but because of the entitlement that usually comes with it. The assumption that I should be grateful for their attention.
Antonio doesn’t look entitled.
He looks… appreciative.
It’s annoyingly disarming.
“And you know it,” he says, teasingly.
“Know what?” I say, tipping my glass back for another sip.
“That you’re gorgeous.” His eyes widen. “It’s why you look like this, isn’t it?”
I narrow myeyes. “Like what?”
He uses his whole arm to gesture at me up and down. “Like this. Muted. Subdued.”
