I sat down. Hated that he'd held out my chair. Hated the intimacy of the empty room, the soft lighting, the careful staging of it all.
The waiter appeared with wine. A bottle of something red, presented with ceremony. Sebastian tasted it, nodded, and thewaiter poured two glasses before disappearing as silently as he'd come.
I reached for my glass, tried the contents. The wine was good and I took a long sip, grateful for something to do with my hands. A drop escaped. I felt it slide down from the corner of my mouth, trailing toward my chin.
Before I could reach for my napkin, Sebastian moved. His hand crossed the table. His finger caught the drop of wine at the edge of my lip, the touch feather-light against my skin.
I froze. My breath caught somewhere in my throat. And then, while I watched, unable to move, he brought that finger to his own mouth.
His lips closed around it. His eyes held mine as he tasted the wine. Tastedme.
Something hot flared low in my stomach. A pulse of... I didn't know what. I didn't want to name it. My skin felt too tight, the room too warm, every nerve ending suddenly awake and straining toward the man across the table.
No.I shoved the feeling down. Buried it. This was Sebastian Dubois. I did not feelanythingfor Sebastian Dubois except irritation and contempt.
"I could have used a napkin," I said. My voice came out rough.
"You could have." He picked up his own glass, perfectly composed, as if he hadn't just short-circuited my entire nervous system. "But where's the fun in that?"
I looked away. Found a spot on the wall and fixed my gaze there, willing my heart rate back to normal. Willing the heat in my cheeks to fade.
The first course arrived. Scallops, seared golden, arranged on the plate like a piece of modern art. I didn’t even touch them.
"So." Sebastian's voice cut through the silence. "Tell me why you got into charity work."
I shrugged. "It's what I do."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
He studied me for a moment. I studied my plate. The scallops were getting cold. I didn't care.
"You could at least try," he said. "To have a conversation. Like a normal person."
"I don't want to." I pushed a scallop across my plate with my fork. "I'm only here because I have to be. I already told you that."
My foot tapped against the floor beneath the table. An anxious rhythm I couldn't seem to stop. The door was behind me; I'd noted its position the moment we walked in. Twenty steps, maybe less, and I could be out of this room. Away from his gaze, his questions, the way he looked at me like he was trying to solve an equation.
Sebastian set down his fork. "Fine," he said, his voice flat. "If that's how you want it."
We ate in silence.
Course after course arrived and departed. I pushed food around my plate, took small bites I couldn’t even taste, and counted the minutes. The risotto was probably delicious. The beef probably cost more than most people's rent. I wouldn't know. I was too busy watching the candles burn down, calculating how much longer this had to last.
Every few minutes, my eyes drifted to the door.
Sebastian noticed. I saw him notice. His expression grew stonier with each glance, but he didn't comment. Just ate his meal with mechanical precision, jaw tight, shoulders rigid.
The silence stretched. Grew teeth. Filled the room like something alive and breathing.
Finally, finally, the waiter cleared the last plates, offered dessert. Sebastian declined without looking at me, and the waiter vanished.
I stood immediately. "Thank you for dinner."
I was three steps toward the door when his voice stopped me.
"That's it?"
