“You’re staring,” I say, smooth as cream.
His mouth quirks like he knows it’s a trap and steps into it anyway. “I’m appreciating.”
“Mmm.” I set my glass down with care and run my finger carefully around the rim. His eyes follow. “Appreciation is free.”
He leans back a fraction, a controlled movement that doesn’t fool me. He’s trying to give himself room. He’s trying to breathe. “And you,” he says, voice a touch rough, “are very expensive tonight.”
There it is. The flirt. The praise.
The hook.
My pulse jumps like it still believes him.
I don’t let it show.
“I bought everything this afternoon,” I say, casually, as if it’s nothing at all. As if I didn’t do it with his face in my head and my anger in my bloodstream. “It seemed… appropriate.”
His gaze sharpens. “Appropriate for what?”
For hurting you.
For punishing you.
For proving you don’t get to touch me and walk away thinking you won.
I lift my shoulders in a small shrug and let the wrap slip off my shoulders completely and settle at my elbows, where it covers absolutely nothing. The shift in his focus is immediate, involuntary. His throat works once.
Good.
“Dinner,” I say, and widen my eyes in faux-innocence. “You did tell me to wear anything else. I did.”
His eyes hold mine like he’s trying to read what’s behind them. Like he knows something is different and can’t locate the fracture.
He smiles anyway. “You dressed for war,dolcezza.”
I letmy mouth curve. “Did I?”
His gaze drops again, and this time I don’t pretend not to notice. I let him do it, even push my chest out a little. I let him suffer for it.
The server appears silently. I don’t look at him long enough to invite conversation. He hands us menus, retreats.
I pick up my wine and take another sip.
Antonio watches it like he wants to be the one slipping between my lips.
The thought makes me ache in a way I resent.
I swirl the glass. “So,” I say, bright and easy, “what are we doing tonight?”
He blinks like he expected anything but that. “We’re having dinner.”
“That’s the obvious answer.” I take another sip. “I mean the real one.”
His brows lift. “The real one.”
“Yes,” I say, patiently. “People don’t get private rooms and chilled wine and a silent server because they’re craving small talk.”
His smile spreads, and it’s beautiful. It’s the same smile that undid me last night. It’s still capable of making my stomach flip.
