Chapter Six #2
Our glasses clink, and I notice how he’s shifted closer. I’ve moved in too. His presence feels magnetic, drawing me in despite my usual caution.
“You still haven’t told me what you do,” I say, taking a sip.
His lips curve. “Import/export, primarily.”
“That’s delightfully vague.”
“Is it?” His eyes catch mine, holding them with an intensity that makes my breath catch. “Perhaps I enjoy maintaining an air of mystery.”
The champagne has loosened something in both of us. “And here I thought we were getting to know each other.”
“We are.” His finger traces the line of my cheek and my breath catches. “Just… selectively.”
The champagne has made me bold, or maybe it’s just him — the way his eyes never leave mine, how he stays so attentive when I speak. I find myself sharing stories that dance around the edges of truth, carefully edited versions of my life.
“There was this time in college,” I say, swirling the golden liquid in my glass, “when my friend convinced me to sneak into the library after hours. We were desperate to finish a paper, but really, we just wanted the thrill.”
His knee brushes mine under the table. I don’t pull away.
“Did you get caught?” His voice has dropped lower, more intimate.
“Almost. The security guard found my student ID, but…” I pause, remembering how close that call really was. “I talked my way out of it.”
“Clever girl.” His approval sends warmth spreading through my chest.
“I have my moments.” I take another sip of champagne, hyperaware of how our legs are now pressed together beneath the crisp white tablecloth. “Though sometimes being clever gets me into trouble.”
“Like tonight?” His eyes hold mine, and I know he’s referring to how he found me nearly crying.
“That was…” I lick my lips. “That was more about being foolish than clever.”
His hand finds mine on the table, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. The touch is electric. “Sometimes trust and foolishness look very similar.”
I should pull away. I should maintain some distance. I don’t. Instead, I turn my palm up, letting our fingers intertwine. “Speaking from experience?”
“Perhaps.” His thumb traces patterns on my palm that make my skin tingle. The sensation shoots straight through my skin and into my core. “Though I prefer to learn from watching others’ mistakes.”
Our eyes lock. Our knees press closer together, and the contact sends sparks racing up my thigh. Every point where we touch feels like a live wire, charged and dangerous.
The waiter sets an elegant plate of pavlova between us, the meringue nestled in fresh berries and cream, but I barely notice. All my attention is locked on the way his fingers trace patterns on my palm, each stroke sending electricity through my skin.
What the hell are you doing, Stella?
This is crazy!
My rational mind is screaming at me. I just found out about Gianni’s betrayal hours ago. I don’t even know this man’s name. But his dark eyes hold secrets I want to unravel.
“You’re thinking too much,” he murmurs, his thumb finding a sensitive spot that makes me shiver.
“Old habits die hard.” I take another sip of champagne, letting the bubbles dance on my tongue. “I analyze everything.”
“And what are you analyzing now?”
“Whether this is incredibly stupid or exactly what I need.”
His lips curve. “How about both?”
The dessert sits forgotten as he shifts closer.
I should feel guilty. I should be home mourning the loss of my future life as Mrs. Gianni Maranzano.
Instead, I’m electric with awareness, every nerve ending alive to this stranger’s proximity.
Maybe it’s the vodka, or the champagne, or just the liberation of knowing this is just one night — no expectations, no complications.
“You’re dangerous,” I whisper, but I don’t pull away when his fingers thread through mine.
“So are you.” His voice has dropped lower, rougher. The sound resonates through me like a physical touch.
The pavlova melts slowly on its plate, cream pooling around forgotten berries. Neither of us reaches for it. The air between us has grown too thick, too charged with possibility.
His gaze tracks my every movement — the way I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, how my fingers trail along the stem of my champagne glass. The weight of his attention makes my skin tingle. Each time our eyes meet, the air grows thicker with unspoken possibilities.
I find myself mirroring his body language without meaning to, leaning forward when he speaks, angling toward him. The restaurant’s ambient noise has faded to a distant hum. All I can focus on is the timbre of his voice, the subtle shifts of expression across his striking features.
His hand still covers mine on the table, thumb tracing lazy circles that send sparks shooting up my arm. The touch is deceptively casual, but there’s nothing casual about the heat in his eyes when they meet mine.
He leans in closer, close enough to make me feel the warmth of his skin.
“I have a hotel room here,” he murmurs, his voice pitched low enough that only I can hear. “Come back with me.”
His words hang in the air between us, heavy with possibility. My heart is racing so fast that I feel light-headed.
I should say no. I should make my excuses, go home, and properly mourn my broken engagement. That’s what a sensible woman would do. But I’m no sensible woman. Not tonight.
That other woman’s voice on his phone, casual and intimate echoes through my mind. The way she’d laughed when telling me to leave her boyfriend alone. All those nights he was “working late” suddenly take on new meaning.
My jaw tightens, and my throat works. Why should I sit at home crying over a man who never deserved my tears? Why shouldn’t I take what I want, just this once?
“Yes,” I breathe, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounds. “Take me upstairs.”
His hand tightens on mine, and the heat in his eyes makes my skin flush. Without breaking eye contact, he signals for the check. Every movement is controlled, deliberate, but I can sense the tension thrumming beneath his composed exterior.
The champagne hums in my blood, but this isn’t about being drunk. This is about choosing something for myself, something wild and impulsive and completely separate from the careful life I’ve built. Something that belongs only to me.
My pulse races as he helps me stand, his hand settling at the small of my back. The simple touch sends a jolt of lightning racing up my spine. I lean into him slightly, drawn to his warmth, his strength.
“Last chance to change your mind,” he murmurs close to my ear as we wait for the elevator.
I turn to face him, tilting my chin up. “I won’t.”