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“Thank you,” I murmured.

“You’re welcome.” He turned back and did the same with another cup.

Then he fully shifted.

A shockwave hurtled through the air at the full impact of him.

Giant and foreboding.

Tattooed flesh and bristling muscle and gentle gaze.

He lifted his glass. “To success. To joy. To your dream coming true. May you find endless days of happiness and satisfaction in this place.”

His words rumbled.

Little echoes that bounced off the walls.

“To happiness and satisfaction.” I tapped my glass against his and we both took a sip.

He inched forward a tiny bit, and his voice dipped in sincerity. “You deserve it, Little Apple.”

Warmth touched my cheeks with his affection.

“We all deserve joy, Trevan.”

I knew he wanted to argue it, but instead, he sent me a cocky yet reverential grin. “Some of us more than others.”

Then he angled his head to the plush lounger in the corner. “Sit.”

“The best suggestion you’ve had all day,” I told him breezily, though I was sucking in the dense, thickened air.

On bare feet, I shuffled over to it. I shifted my booty around on the seat and tried to keep my skirt from bunching up around my waist as I settled onto the cozy cushions, though it still slipped up a couple of inches.

I crossed my legs in an attempt not to flash Trevan. Okay, I kind of wanted to. Really wanted to. I wanted to goad and tempt and see if he was feeling half of what I’d been feeling after what happened yesterday.

I groaned as I sank into the plush support because my feet were, in fact, killing me.

But Brinley was totally right. I felt like a goddess wearing them.

Trevan pulled out one of the hard plastic chairs tucked under the round table and spun it around to face me.

Three feet away, he sank down onto it and stretched his long legs out between us.

Close enough that our calves brushed.

A flame licked up my leg.

Heat and desire and comfort.

I swore, everything felt a perfect contradiction when it came to him.

A heaving bolt of air left him, and he took a quick sip of his champagne.

Distaste squished up his nose.

“That’s awful,” he grumbled.

I giggled. “That’s because you lack refined tastes, Heathen.”