I shift slightly, careful not to jostle her, and lean closer to him, speaking in a low, earnest tone. “My credit card is on file. I’d like to reserve the theater for the rest of the day.”
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but before he can protest, I add with a friendly smile, “And please, make sure to tip yourself generously for the inconvenience.”
For a second, he just stares, clearly caught off guard by my request, and probably my grin, which I realize might be a little too enthusiastic. But then he nods, muttering something that sounds like “Of course, sir,” before scurrying off.
Satisfied, I turn my attention back to her, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. Her lips part slightly in sleep,and the softest little snores escape her. My chest tightens, but I push it down and return to my phone.
A few minutes later, she stirs, her nose wrinkling as she blinks awake. “What…” she mumbles, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. She looks around, realizing the movie’s over and the theater is empty except for us. “Why didn’t you wake me up?” she asks, a cute little frown on her face.
“You looked comfortable,” I say, stretching my arm to get some feeling back. I glance down at her face, a smirk tugging at my lips. “The snoring gave you away.”
Her eyes widen in horror, and she gasps. “I do not snore!”
“Oh, but you do,” I tease, grinning. “You were sawing logs. And you were drooling a little, too.”
She smacks my arm, her cheeks flushed. “You take that back right now!”
“I can’t lie to you, Peach,” I say, chuckling. “It was cute. The drooling, not the snoring. That was just loud.”
Her mouth falls open in shock, “Oh my god, I hate you,” she says, but I can see a smile forming on her lips.
“Come on, sleepyhead,” I say, standing up and offering her my hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
She takes my hand, and I pull her up, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders as we walk out of the theater. Her fingers are warm and small in mine, her body still loose from laughter, but the moment we reach the hallway, I let go.
I don’t say anything. I don’t have to. I shove both hands in my pockets like they’re better off there, like I haven’t spent the entire day touching her just because I could. She doesn’t ask why.
She doesn’t need to.
I see it in the way she straightens her spine, in the way her smile disappears without a sound. She hugs the blankettighter, like it’s the only thing holding her together. And I hate myself for noticing that.
But what am I supposed to do if someone sees us? What the fuck am I supposed to say?
Hey, this is my fiancée’s little sister, and yeah, we’ve been fucking.
That’s a bomb I can’t afford to drop.
So, I stay quiet.
We walk in silence to the car, and I’m grateful when she lets me open the door for her. Blair slides and stares out the window like there’s something fascinating in the empty street.
The elevator opens into the penthouse, and the moment we step inside, the smell of roasted garlic, herbs, and something buttery and rich hits us.
Blair pauses in the doorway, blinking like the scent surprises her.
I glance at her, then back toward the dining area, where the chef’s done exactly what I asked, which is a dinner for two. It’s understated, nothing extravagant. But it feels… intentional, which honestly was not what I was going for, but what the hell, we need to eat, right?
I clear my throat. “Would you have dinner with me?”
Her eyes flick toward the stairs, where escape waits behind a locked door. I can see the battle in her expression. The guilt. The uncertainty. For a second, I think she might bolt. And I wouldn’t stop her this time.
But then she sighs tiredly, and her gaze returns to mine.
“Sure,” she says quietly. “Why not?”
Relief settles in my chest like a warm hand.
I pull out her chair. She gives me a look, half amusement, half suspicion, but sits. I round the table, uncork a bottle of red, and pour us each a glass, the liquid catching in the candlelight.
