“Would it be easier if I smiled?” he asks, tone unreadable. “You did say you’d like me to be more charming.”
That pulls a startled laugh from my throat. “Ilikeknowing where I stand. You’re kind of the opposite of that.”
Declan tilts his glass. Dark liquid sloshes from one side to the other, catching the candlelight. “Tell me something.”
Jutting my chin, I tuck my hair behind my ears. “I feel like I’ve just told you a lot of things.”
“Tell me more.”
Whatever spell was taking hold loosens.
Every word he’s said since I walked in has been about me. Reflections, deflections, questions lobbed back. He hasn’t revealed a single thing about himself. Not one.
Sure, he’s gorgeous, built like a fantasy, and smells like a luxury candle. And yes, I found this persona compelling and mysterious and sexy on the app. I also understand how Declan could expect me to purr and flirt—play my part and match the version of myself I created online. That’s completely fair. I did build her and then hide behind her.
But here now, in person, with my dress stuck to my thighs and my anxiety gnawing on my brain, I’m realizing there’s a part of me that might actually want something that doesn’t fit the script. Not a full-blown relationship. Not forever. Just proof that I exist outside the version of myself I’ve been choreographed and ritualized into existence.
So him sitting there, cool and composed and unreadable, stings more than it should. Because I’ve made this about more than it’s supposed to be.
This isn’t only about the heat that’s been building between us. It’s about wanting to know if I can have a real connection without losing the armor that keeps me functioning. And if thisisa real sign from the universe and not just coincidence, then maybe this time I’m supposed to stop performing long enough to actually feel something.
Fuck. I hate self-reflection.
“Okay,” I say flatly, setting my glass down. “You haven’t said anything meaningful since I got here. You expect me to do all the work, carry the conversation, guess what you’re thinking, and somehow still look hot doing it. And I get what this was supposed to be about, but it hasn’t even been an hour, and I’m already exhausted.”
Before I finish the drink—or let my vagina convince me to stay—I push to my feet.
“This was fun,” I say, managing a smile that feels clean and final. “But I think I need to figure some shit out. Meeting in person was a mistake.”
I slide toward the edge of the booth, chin lifted, ready to sashay off with my boundaries and self-respect. Only my purse catches on something under the table.
I tug. It doesn’t come unstuck.
Declan shifts, rising halfway to help.
“I got it,” I say through gritted teeth, yanking harder.
The strap refuses to budge.
“I really don’t—shit—need—ugh—help—”
We both reach under the table at the same time, and we crash into each other, forehead to forehead, like two actors in a slapstick routine.
“Shit!”
“Damn it.”
Declan gently pries the bag free with one smooth movement. “It was caught on the purse hook,” he says, lifting it up triumphantly.
Rubbing the spot above my brow, I snatch it from him and straighten my spine. “Great. Thanks. Good night.”
Before I can spin on my heel and storm off in a blaze of righteous dignity—
“Amanda, wait.” The steel in his voice is gone, softened at the edges. “You can go. I won’t stop you.” He stands to his full height, hands open, expression stripped of all its glossy, closed-off coolness. “But I’d like the opportunity to start over.”
I hesitate long enough for him to continue.
“No brooding or cryptic one-liners. I’d like to have a real conversation. If you’ll stay.”
