I let out a strangled laugh. “There’s a lot going on here.”
The weight of his gaze presses against me as I stare back down at his palm and gesture vaguely.
“This line here is your creativity,” I ramble. “It curves upward, which usually means you have a great imagination, which, same. I used to steal my mom’s bodice rippers and rewrite the endings so the heroine saved herself and the storyline with the hero was just frosting. Then I’d hide them under my bed. My mom thought I was writing erotic fan fiction.”
I blink up at him and then over his shoulder, suddenly unsure where to look.
“So you’re a writer.”
“I’m a wannabe editor.” I shrug. “I also make witchy content, sell moon-charged things, give workshops no one signs up for.”
“You read palms in fancy lounges.”
Smiling, I glance at him. “What about you, former rock climber turned venture capitalist?”
He pauses, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth. “There’s no money in rock climbing,” he says finally. “No prestige. At least, not the kind you can put on a résumé or talk about over Sunday-night family dinners.”
My brows lift. “You have dinner with your family every Sunday? I can’t remember the last time my mom even wanted to hang out with me.”
“It’s really not as great as it sounds. It’s less being a family and more like a weekly performance review.”
I let out a surprised laugh. “That’s bleak.”
“That’s being a Thorne,” he says, and I catch something in his expression that feels honest.
It makes me hesitate. Makes me want to stay for longer than just tonight. For a second, I even consider setting my purse down—physically and metaphorically.
Then he nods toward his palm. “What else do you see?”
“Right.” I clear my throat. “So this little break in your head line usually means a shift in perspective. Like you’re changing how you think about your life. Or your future. Or your whole identity.”
“You think people can change like that? Shift perspective or make a choice and become a different person.”
I meet his eyes, and for once, I don’t dodge. The weight of his gaze is steady, searching, like he’s not truly asking aboutpeople—he’s asking about himself. “When I figure that out, I’ll let you know.”
He watches me for a beat too long, mouth parting like he’s about to speak. Then he shuts it again. With a slow shake of his head, he shifts his attention back down at his hand.
“And this…” I follow the slashes etched into his palm, my fingertip hovering just above his skin. “Well, it’s clear you don’t let people in easily, but when you do—”
My voice falters. A blush creeps up my neck as I clamp my mouth shut, teeth sinking into the inside of my cheek.
Stop talking, Amanda.
He leans in, closing the small space between us. I catch the smoky edge of liquor on his lips, the faint spice of his cologne threading through it, and it’s suddenly hard to remember how to breathe.
“But when I do?”
The crackle of his words against my temple sends heat flaring through me. My pulse pounds in my fingertips, in my throat, in places I’d rather not think about right now. The steady pulse of music from the dance floor fades to a muffled hum, every nerve tuned only to him—how close he is, how easily he could close the distance.
“They don’t forget it.”
I can’t resist. I press the tip of my finger to the curve of his love line. He jumps at my touch. The spark is immediate. A searing surge of heat races up my arm. My breath escapes in a rough exhale. Touching him feels like touching a live wire. Something inside me is waking up, one nerve ending at a time.
I pull back, but I don’t have space to process it. My side is hot. Like, really hot.
Declan’s gaze flicks down.
“Your purse,” he says slowly. “It’s…smoking.”
