Chapter 8
EIGHT
AARON
I get to the steakhouse ten minutes early, which is already a bad sign.
Ha.
You’d think I was nervous.
Charter House is one of those old, dark, and obscenely expensive steakhouses that is a city landmark. Low ceilings, mahogany wood paneling, candles flickering on every table, and bathroom attendants.
I can barely see my own goddamn watch as I fiddle with it on my wrist, that’s how dim it is in this place—so why do I keep checking it?
I don’t get nervous.
I also don’t sit in the parking lot of restaurants for a full ten minutes before going inside, staring at my reflection in the rearview mirror, wondering what the hell I’m doing with my life.
“Real nice, Aaron. Mom would be so proud,” I mutter to myself, finally sliding into a velvet cushioned booth tucked into a corner against a brick wall. It’s half shadowed and private—the perfect place to start a new mistake. “Payback is a bitch.”
No. Retaliation.
A more precise word, yet still ugly.
Uglier still, a revenge fuck.
Petty? Yeah.
Calculated?
I scrub a hand over my jaw, already irritated with myself for hesitating.
What the fuck are you doing?
No woman who looks that ethereal—with soft eyes and softer hair—is going to turn me into a goddamn saint.
Juliette Kennedy is not special, and I’m about to prove it to myself.
I’m Aaron-fucking-Bishop, for fuck’s sake.
I keep shit on lockdown.
Resting my forearms on the table, I try not to continuously check my phone. I mean, who besides Sutton is going to text me now that Bailey is no longer in my life?
Except, then I see her when she walks through the door, a rush of cold air lifting her hair and teasing the hem of her skirt.
I sit up straighter.
Ease out of the booth so I can greet her properly.
She spots me, relief in her expression—as if she half expected me to be a no-show.
Not a chance. I’m here for a purpose.
She reaches me, and I do that thing where I lean down to peck her on the cheek, borrowing the move from heartthrobs in the movies.
Big mistake.
Juliette smells like she spent the morning baking muffins. My eyes dip to the exposed skin on her chest before I can stop them.
A modest dress. Scooped neckline, delicate gold buttons down the front. Capped sleeves. Glowing skin. Innocent, in a way that’s not meant to be devastating.
Her tits look great, as tits often do. Smooth and full and I would know because I had a lace-filled glimpse of them at her place.
I give my head a shake.
This is attraction, nothing more.
Big fucking deal.
“Hey,” I say, gruffer than necessary, annoyed that she exists this vividly. “You look nice.”
Color blooms across her cheeks instantly, and she ducks her head. “Thanks.”
Jesus.
I’ve dated models and social media influencers. Women who treat blushing like a medical emergency, but I’ve never dated someone who blushes this often—as if her body can’t lie, even when her mouth tries.
We slide into the booth, knees brushing, and I remain planted in place, unwilling to move mine.
Juliette is nervous.
Her lashes flutter when she looks up at me, and she doesn’t hold my gaze long—drops it to the table, hands in her lap, eyes anywhere but my face.
A waiter appears, materializing like this is a stage cue.
“Can I start you off with drinks?”
Juliette opens her mouth.
“A vanilla milkshake,” she says sweetly. “With a shot of brandy.”
I look at her.
She looks back.
The waiter nods and scribbles on his notepad.
“A milkshake,” I deadpan.
She shrugs, and I’m sure she’s blushing again. “They’re supposed to be fantastic.”
“We’re at one of the most expensive steakhouses in the city,” I say slowly. “And you want ice cream.”
Of course she does—look at her! Innocence wrapped in a satin dress.
“Is ice cream on the list of things you hate, along with having fun and smiling?”
I stare at her.
She doesn’t so much as blink.
The waiter clears his throat. “And for you, sir?”
I don’t look away from her.
“Hers sounds delicious,” I say at long last. “Two spoons. Two straws.”
Her eyes widen, pleased and surprised.
When she smiles, I know she feels reckless and wonderful, and I realize how easy it will be to make her fall in love with me.
Too goddamn easy.
“Sharing is intimate, you know,” she says carefully, unfolding her napkin and resting it on her lap.
“Is that a problem?”
She shakes her head too quickly. “No. I didn’t peg you as the sharing type—or someone who likes intimacy.”
The image of Bailey fucking Declan involuntarily flashes in my brain.
“I contain multitudes.” My tight-lipped smile barely reaches my eyes. “And I don’t mind intimacy as long as I don’t have to spill my guts to people I still consider strangers.”
Shit.
Was that harsh?
Must not be, because Juliette laughs. “You do not contain multitudes. You should have seen your face when I ordered a shake.”
“I don’t typically eat dessert before dinner.” I lift my hands. “But here we are.”
She bites down on her bottom lip. “Here we are.”
We regard one another, knees touching beneath the table, her hands still folded primly, and for a moment I consider letting the silence linger to see how she responds to it. But Juliette regards me with that sweet expression, unperturbed by my insinuation that we’re strangers.
“Have you heard from that jackass you were on the date with the other night?”
Juliette nods. “Of course. Guys like Preston have no self-awareness—he was rude, condescending. Obviously, I’m not going to see him again.”
Good.
Fuck that guy.
“What does a good date look like to you, then?”
“A good date? Hmm.” She hums, thinking. “I guess… being with someone who will listen without interrupting. Like, the person across from me is listening and not waiting for their turn to start speaking.”
I nod once. “Low bar.”
“You’d think.” Her lips quirk. “What about you?”
“Me? What about me?”
The waiter returns before I can answer, setting down a tall desert glass, whipped cream piled high, cherry on top.
Two spoons are laid next to it.
Two straws.
Extra napkins.
I gesture. “Honors to you.”
Juliette hesitates before leaning toward it, delicate thumb and index finger plucking up one of the spoons, the thin gold stack of rings shimmering from the candle in the middle of the table.
She dips the spoon into the ice cream, and I watch, transfixed, as she slowly brings it to her mouth… her eyes on me all the while, lips closing around the silver.
Pursed.
Satisfied.
Juliette is not trying to be provocative but, in my opinion, she fails miserably. Doe eyes become heavily lidded as her pink tongue laps up the ice cream.
“Oh god. Wow.” She gives a little moan. “This is fantastic.”
“Is it now?” I ask, reaching for the glass. “My turn.”
She slides it in my direction, fingers lingering at the base like she’s reluctant to release it to me.
I don’t use the spoon; I use the straw.
Sink it down into the ice cream.
Wrap my lips around it.
Inhale, drawing a mouthful, eyes never leaving hers.
It shouldn’t feel like this—sharing sugar and ice and nothing at all—but there’s something about the way she watches me, like she’s gauging my reaction to it. Searching for more.
I reach for her spoon, and she lets me take it.
Dip it into the whipped cream, through to the ice cream and brandy, letting it collect the perfect bite.
Hold it toward her.
She leans.
Lips part.
I hold the spoon steady as she licks it clean, her tongue brushing the metal, hands still folded pristinely in her lap. A faint smear of whipped cream at the corner of her mouth as she swallows.
She doesn’t notice but I fucking do.
It gives me the perfect excuse to touch her. So, I reach across the table, brushing the corner of her mouth with my thumb, slow enough that her eyes widen in surprise.
She stills.
I wipe the cream away, a soft drag of skin against skin.
“Missed a spot,” I tell her, glancing at the pad of my thumb. Without breaking eye contact, I bring it to my mouth.
Suck it clean. “Mmm.”
Brandy. Sugar. Cream.
Tastes like she did.
Juliette giggles. “Sorry. We should order real food like proper adults.”
I glance at the menu, then at her. “It’s your fault we’ve already had dessert.”
Her brows rise as she taps her chin. “Have we?”
I don’t dare respond to that.
She might be attempting to be coy and sexy, but we both know she’s full of shit. We both know bold and ballsy isn’t her style. Which is fine—I like the prissy, delicate side of her that she’s trying so hard to be.
Juliette props her chin on her hand and takes a sip of her ice water. “So, outside of intimidating women with your constant scowls, what does your life actually look like—when you’re not working?”
“My life is so thrilling,” I deadpan. “Protein shakes. Practice. Sleep. More practice. Repeat.”
“How riveting.”
“You asked.”
“True.” She pauses. “Who’s the person you trust the most?”
Not your brother, I want to say. Certainly not my ex-girlfriend.
“My sister.”
“Is she older or younger?”
“Younger by eighteen months. She’s the fucking best.”
Her eyes soften as she toys with her spoon. “You’re close with her?”
“The closest.”
“What’s her name?”
“Sutton.”
Juliette gives a satisfied nod. “I like that.”
“Which part?”
“That you didn’t say a teammate or some guy. You said your sister. It’s cute.”
I feel my mouth move into the shape of a smile. “You’re cute.”
She stills for several seconds, heat coloring her cheeks. “Careful, that sounds dangerously close to flirting.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well, I haven’t done it in so long I might’ve forgotten how.”
Her brows lift. “That so?”
“Tragic, I know. Years of emotional repression and getting hit in the skull with a puck will do that.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, on the off chance you say something sensitive, you’ve said it because of brain injuries.”
Juliette stirs her ice cream slowly, the spoon making lazy circles. The noise of the restaurant fades into something distant, like we’re sitting in our own pocket of space, growing more intimate every second we spend ensconced here.
I watch her for a second too long. “When things get hard for you, who do you call?”
Her expression shifts thoughtfully. “My best friend, Blaire—or my mom. Depends on the problem, or if Blaire is the problem. Ha ha. How long was your last relationship?” she asks quietly.
“Over a year.”
Juliette tilts her head to study me. “Do you miss her?”
The images of Bailey moaning with her tits in Declan’s mouth drag to the surface.
I shove it back down.
“No.”
The word comes out clipped—too sharp—causing her expression to falter.
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, thinking she’s stepped on something fragile.
“Don’t be,” I tell her, managing something that resembles a real smile. “It made me good company for milkshakes.”
A joke.
A shield.
A neat little bow around a mess I don’t know how to explain without sounding bitter or broken or—worse—pathetic.
Juliette doesn’t laugh right away.
She watches me. Then softly, “That bad, huh?”
I shrug, staring into the melted mess of ice cream forming inside the dessert glass. “It wasn’t dramatic,” I lie. “No fighting. Just a bad breakup.”
Her hand moves from her lap to mine, palm pressing into my thigh to console me.
It’s warm.
The contact is innocent in intent, of course it is. There’s empathy written over her face, but my body doesn’t speak that language. It speaks restraint. Quiet determination.
I do not know how to mirror her expression.
My muscles lock. My pulse kicks hard against my ribs.
Our eyes snap together.
“Oh.” She breathes above a whisper. “I’m so s-sorry.”
I can feel the shape of her palm near my groin. The weight of it, lingering too close to the sun. The way it brands me through my jeans…
She hesitates before slowly removing her hand
My throat works but I don’t trust my words. Too dirty. Too revealing. Move your hand closer…
Instead, I lean back and rest my arms on the back of the leather booth, creating distance between my body and the part of me that doesn’t trust itself to move slowly.
But my eyes stay locked on hers.
The air between us is heavy with everything we’re not saying. With the knowledge that we’ve already crossed a line, and probably want to cross it again. The unspoken tension far thicker than blatant groping.
“You don’t have to be sorry,” I tell her quietly. “You were being kind.” I lower my eyes to the smooth expanse above her neckline, allowing myself a brief peek of her tits. “You want something else to drink before the server arrives?”
Juliette follows my gaze like she felt it, then looks down at her melting dessert with concern, as if it’s a wounded animal. “I was thinking about it, but I still have this. And I don’t want to waste it.”
God forbid.
“It’s sweating harder than I am,” I say. “You’ve stirred it at least seventeen times. Besides, I’m paying. Live a little.”
Her lips twitch—she’s fighting a smile—but the server appears, refilling our waters and waiting for our orders .
I nod at him. “Whatever she’s having, I’ll have, too. I think we’re done pretending this dessert hasn’t ruined our appetites.”
“Not mine.” Beside me, Juliette huffs. “Are you always this bossy?”
“Sometimes.” All the time.
Her mouth turns down. “Well, stop. I don’t take orders from men.”
“I should hope not.”
Juliette glances between me and the server. “Diet Coke, please.”
I blink. “That’s it?”
She lifts a brow. “You just said you weren’t the boss of me.”
Touché.
“Diet Coke,” I repeat to the server. “And I’ll take mine with extra ice.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “You’re not what I expected.”
“That good or bad?”
She considers. “Inconveniently good—but you’re a little hard to read.”
“Occupational hazard.” I shrug.
She smiles at that, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You joke a lot for someone who looks like he takes everything seriously, and you pretend to be uncomplicated but you’re not.”
I lean farther back into the booth. “You’re very observant.”
“It comes from being overlooked.”
Overlooked?
“By who?” Are people fucking insane?
Her shoulders rise, up and down. “Uh, by most people. Not very difficult when your brother is a professional athlete and your parents spent all their waking time driving him to and from practice—not that I’m resentful. It’s…” She shrugs again. “You know how it is.”
No, I don’t know how it is.
“That’s not the same thing,” I say quietly.
She blinks. “What isn’t?”
“Being overlooked and being overshadowed.” I tilt my head. “They feel similar, but they’re not. And for what it’s worth, you’re not easy to miss.”
Juliette’s lips part, and she shifts her body on the seat, moving closer. Tits brush my arm, branding my bicep through my shirt as her mouth presses a kiss to the column of my neck.
She slides her nose along my skin until her lips graze my earlobe. “For what it’s worth, thank you for saying so.”
My dick stiffens almost immediately.
My brain? No longer functioning.
And that? That is not great.
But it’s also perfect—because Juliette means it. And she wants me. And she’s too na?ve to realize this slow burn seduction is anything but innocent.
Which means everything is going to plan.