“I don’t know what—”
“It’s not working,” he says, then knocks back the rest of his glass of champagne before lifting his arm for the server.
“What’s not working?”
“Amore mio, sei incantevole,” he says, the Italian rolling off his tongue easily.
My heart does one hard flip in my chest, and a line of lust runs straight between my legs.
But he hasn’t noticed. “You’re too beautiful to cover those lips with peach lipstick.”
I freeze with the rim of my glass a breath from my mouth, eyes locked on his like I can find an explanation there that doesn’t make my pulse start misbehaving.
“Don’t call me that,” I say, and it comes out softer than I intend, which is a problem all by itself.
He smiles like he’s pleased he got a reaction. “Which part?”
“All of it,” I snap, then immediately regret the sharpness because I don’t actually want to push him away. Not tonight. Not when my edges are blurred, and my body is doing things my brain didn’t approve. “The… Italian. The—” I wave a hand, uselessly, toward my face. “The lipstick commentary.”
He leans closer, braced on the table, eyes bright with that easy confidence. “So I’m allowed to look, but I’m not allowed to say what I see?”
“You’re allowed to say hello,” I tell him. “You’re allowed to say ‘nice to meet you.’ You’re allowed to ask ‘how’s your night?’”
His grin turns wicked. “How’s your night?”
I stare. Then I laugh, because I can’t help it, because he’s absurd and I’m tipsy and the sound feels good in my throat. “You’re infuriating.”
“Still here,” he reminds me, as if it’s proof.
I lift my glass toward him in a lazy toast. “Unfortunately.”
The server steps in, clears out empty glasses, and leaves us with two full ones.
“You have a beautiful laugh,mia dolcezza,” he says, his voice dropping.
Heat licks up my spine so fast it’s almost embarrassing. I pick up the new glass and hold it tightly, as if it were the only thing keeping me upright.
“Don’t,” I say again, but it doesn’t have the bite it should. It sounds like a warning I’m not fully committed to. “Stop talking like that.”
His eyes stay on mine, steady, like he’s watching for the moment I actually mean it. “You want me to stop,” he says slowly, “or you want me to stop in public?”
My stomach flips. The question is too much. Too aware. It slides under my skin like he’s been reading me this whole time.
I swallow, tilt my chin, and aim for cool. “You’re making assumptions.”
He smiles—small, satisfied. “I’m asking a question.”
I take a sip that does nothing to steady me. “Then here’s an answer,” I say, leaning in a fraction, because I’m not going to let him be the only one who controls distance. “You’re enjoying pushing buttons.”
“I like seeing what happens,” he murmurs. His gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “And you keep giving me something.”
“That’s the champagne,” I say, but my voice is lower now, too, husky, and I hate that he’ll hear it.
Or do I?
“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe it’s you. Maybe you’re tired of being good.”
The words strike a chord in me. I let out a slow breath and force my eyes not to drop anywhere they shouldn’t.
