27. Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I ’m all too aware of Ethan touching me, of him standing so close I can feel the heat of his body, but it does nothing to wipe away my anger. He doesn’t want me to go? Is he serious?
“You don’t want me to go?” I demand. “You just called me a liar.”
“That was not my intent, Sofia,” he assures me, his fingers flexing slightly on my arm.
“You said—”
“I know what I said. I know how it came across, and I’m sorry .”
“But you feel a certain way about me. That’s clear.”
“You can’t be clear on what I think or feel for you, Sofia, when I am not. When I said no more lies, I meant both of us, because for me to allow you to believe this is all business to me is a lie and unfair.”
“So, you don’t like my work?”
“That’s one hundred percent not true. You are very talented, which is the only reason I didn’t say no, and keep this personal.”
“You’re confusing me. I need to go back to my room. ”
“Macaroni and cheese, remember? Eat, and then if you want to walk away when you are not making a decision with a vodka buzz, I won’t stop you.”
“This is—”
“Crazy? I know. And for the record, you said I don’t care what you think, but I do. Just as I cared when you walked out on me in Hawaii before I had the chance to say goodbye, or ask you not to say goodbye. I’m asking now.”
It’s right at that moment that the waiter arrives with our food, and I breathe out, releasing the heaviness in my chest. “I’ll stay,” I say, but he doesn’t immediately release me. He studies me intently, as if judging my sincerity, and then finally, reluctantly, it seems, releases me.
I slide back into my seat, and he does the same, across from me, and it’s not long before I am staring down at the best macaroni and cheese I’ve ever seen, bubbling with cheese and in some sort of cast iron bowl. Once Ethan has been delivered his burger and fries, the waiter leaves with the promise of bringing me a diet soda and Ethan horseradish sauce.
“If this tastes as good as it looks,” I say, picking up my fork, “I’m going to embarrass myself and eat every bite of this, and I won’t even care.”
“I’m damn sure going to eat every bite of mine,” he promises.
The waiter returns already with my drink and his horseradish. I dig into my mac and all but moan with just how good it is, but then, isn’t everything great when you're tipsy? Though I’m fairly sure this mac would win me over without the vodka.
“Well?” he prods.
“I’m eating it all,” I confirm.
He laughs, and there’s a lighter mood between us now, at least on the surface. Beneath it all, though, there is a crackle of energy that is very present between the two of us. He dips a fry in the sauce immediately. “You eat horseradish with your fries? ”
“It’s the best. Try it.” He literally slides his plate my direction, offering me the opportunity to share his food.
My breath catches with the intimate offer, and my eyes meet his, and there is no question he’s aware of the message he’s sending, and it’s the one he’s already spoken out loud. We’re more than business, but I don’t know where to go from here. Do I dive into where this takes us, or hold a firm line to protect my Zoey brand?
I don’t hold the line. I never had the chance.
I grab a fry and dip it in the sauce and taste it, with him watching me with anticipation and...hunger. The man is watching me like he wants to gobble me up and eat me right here in public. And I want him, too. I’ve been seduced by way of a French fry, and that tells me I’m one wrong move from naked in his hotel room.
Which would be, oh, so right and wrong at the same time.
His lips curve and his eyes dance with amusement, and I suddenly realize I’m staring at him, and I’ve not been even a little discreet. “Well?” he asks. “Was it good?”
The French fry, or being naked with him? I’m not sure what we’re talking about right now, but I decide to answer both questions. “Very much,” I murmur. “Yes.” It’s out before I stop it, and it feels as if I just answered the silent question, thickening the air between us.
Will we end up naked again?
His handsome face lights with approval, and my awkward silence follows.
It seems as if I should offer to let him taste my mac, but it’s somehow different than just grabbing a fry, and it feels like I’ll be offering him something much more. And as much as I might want so much more with this man, I do not think it’s a smart decision.
I decide right then I will not offer him the shared intimacy of a bite of my food.
Plus, he doesn’t seem like a mac ‘n’ cheese kind of guy. Does he? I mean, he ordered a burger and fries.
“You want more?” he asks, snapping my gaze to his, and oh yes, there is heat in his gaze, so much heat, that he’s officially the sun and I’m the chocolate, melting right here in the hotel bar.
Do I want more?
I did. I do.
I do.
Unbidden, I flashback to our dinner and conversation in Hawaii, and somehow my vodka-zapped mind is present enough to remember quite clearly my impression of everyone wanting something from him. I want something from him, too, and I hate that I do. I hate this is how we came back together, and I regret leaving without finding out what might have been, if anything at all.
I want him, but I also want the Zoey brand to breathe with a life of its own.
There is no denying this truth.
And this truth will create an impression with him, no matter how he might say otherwise that I’m just like everyone else, after what he can give me, outside of a really good orgasm. I’ll never get past that impression by way of being naked and in bed with him. No matter how much my desire-laden body thrums in his presence, no matter how much appeal one more night with him holds. And what if this is a test, one he doesn’t even realize he’s creating—a way to judge me and my character?
This is a test that I don’t even know if he’s offering me intentionally. It’s just bred into him to gauge the people around him and in his life. And I didn’t get a grand start. The thing is, too, that I like him. I really, really like him. I think he needs me to be something others are not.
I will not fail this test and make him feel like I’ll do anything to get what I want, including him. Decision made, I play our word game, and reply with, “Sometimes, even when you want something, you have to say no. ”
His eyes flicker with surprise, and several heavy beats pass before he asks, “Final decision?”
No , I think. No, it is not my final decision . “It’s a girl’s prerogative to change her mind, right?”
His lips quirk at the edge, and he says, “And mine to help you.” And the way he says those words is velvet on my senses, the way his tongue was on my body.
Ask me again, I think, and I’ll say yes, no matter how foolish the decision.
I both wish he would push me right now and pray that he will not.