Chapter Four
Elsa
The table is one of those tall cocktail ones that forces you to stand close or lean in, and I decide I hate whoever invented them right up until I realize it’s keeping me from drifting away.
Not that I would drift away.
Not when the man across from me has somehow managed to turn a tedious obligation into something almost… fun.
I wrap my fingers around the stem of my glass and watch the bubbles climb like they have somewhere better to be. My cheeks feel warmer than they should, and I’m aware of it in a way that makes me want to be annoyed with myself.
Not because I don’t drink—because I do—but because I don’t usually do it in rooms like this. Not enough to loosen my grip on my own thoughts. Not enough to make my edges blur.
Tonight, my edges are slightly blurred.
And it’s ridiculous how much I actually don’t hate it.
Antonio is resting his forearms on the table, jacket unbuttoned, tie loosened just enough to make him look less like a man dressed for appearances and more like a man who has been here long enough to stop pretending he’s enjoying it.
His eyes are bright, his smile too easy, and he keeps watching my mouth like he’s trying to predict what I’ll say before I say it.
I shouldn’t like that.
But I do.
I take another sip and regret it immediately because the drink tastes like trouble, and I’m already light enough on my feet. I set the glass down, too carefully, and he notices anyway.
“You’re doing that thing,” he says.
I blink at him. “What thing?”
“The careful placement,” he says, nodding at my glass like it’s evidence. “Like you’re trying to convince yourself you’re not tipsy.”
“I’m not tipsy.”
His eyebrows lift. “Sure.”
“You’re tipsy too,” I accuse.
He puts a hand on his chest and lifts his brows. “Me? I don’t think so.”
“You’ve had more to drink than I have. And I’m willing to bet you started way before me.”
“I beg to differ,” he says, affronted.
I narrow my eyes at him, but the motion is lazy, not sharp. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I enjoy a lot of things,” he says. “But yes. I’m enjoying this.”
It’s the honesty that catches me, not the words. People in these rooms don’t answer questions like that without wrapping it in a joke or a compliment or a dodge. He says it plainly, like it doesn’t cost him anything.
It should cost him something.
Nothing is free.
But I’ve already had enough champagne to let my brain slide a fraction away from suspicion and into curiosity.
“If you’re enjoying it,” I say, “you’re doing it wrong.”
He laughs, and it’s real enough to make his shoulders shift. “Doing what wrong?”
“Talking to me,” I say, gesturing vaguely between us, because I can’t be bothered to be precise right now. “I’m not… entertaining.”
He tilts his head. “You’re entertaining.”
“No,” I say firmly, and then I hear how it sounds—too firm, too defensive—and it makes me laugh, which is absurd. “I’m not. I’m efficient. I’m direct. I’m—”
“Gorgeous,” he supplies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
I roll my eyes. “That’s not what I was going to say.”
“It should be,” he says.
I take another sip, because I need my hands busy or I’ll do something embarrassing like smile too much. “You’re impossible.”
“I get that a lot.”
“I can see why,” I mutter.
His smile widens, and his gaze drifts down my face in a way that would irritate me in any other context. Not because he’s looking—men look, women look, everyone looks—but because of the entitlement that usually comes with it. The assumption that I should be grateful for their attention.
Antonio doesn’t look entitled.
He looks… appreciative.
It’s annoyingly disarming.
“And you know it,” he says, teasingly.
“Know what?” I say, tipping my glass back for another sip.
“That you’re gorgeous.” His eyes widen. “It’s why you look like this, isn’t it?”
I narrow my eyes. “Like what?”
He uses his whole arm to gesture at me up and down. “Like this. Muted. Subdued.”
“I don’t know what—”
“It’s not working,” he says, then knocks back the rest of his glass of champagne before lifting his arm for the server.
“What’s not working?”
“Amore mio, sei incantevole,” he says, the Italian rolling off his tongue easily.
My heart does one hard flip in my chest, and a line of lust runs straight between my legs.
But he hasn’t noticed. “You’re too beautiful to cover those lips with peach lipstick.”
I freeze with the rim of my glass a breath from my mouth, eyes locked on his like I can find an explanation there that doesn’t make my pulse start misbehaving.
“Don’t call me that,” I say, and it comes out softer than I intend, which is a problem all by itself.
He smiles like he’s pleased he got a reaction. “Which part?”
“All of it,” I snap, then immediately regret the sharpness because I don’t actually want to push him away. Not tonight. Not when my edges are blurred, and my body is doing things my brain didn’t approve. “The… Italian. The—” I wave a hand, uselessly, toward my face. “The lipstick commentary.”
He leans closer, braced on the table, eyes bright with that easy confidence. “So I’m allowed to look, but I’m not allowed to say what I see?”
“You’re allowed to say hello,” I tell him. “You’re allowed to say ‘nice to meet you.’ You’re allowed to ask ‘how’s your night?’”
His grin turns wicked. “How’s your night?”
I stare. Then I laugh, because I can’t help it, because he’s absurd and I’m tipsy and the sound feels good in my throat. “You’re infuriating.”
“Still here,” he reminds me, as if it’s proof.
I lift my glass toward him in a lazy toast. “Unfortunately.”
The server steps in, clears out empty glasses, and leaves us with two full ones.
“You have a beautiful laugh, mia dolcezza,” he says, his voice dropping.
Heat licks up my spine so fast it’s almost embarrassing. I pick up the new glass and hold it tightly, as if it were the only thing keeping me upright.
“Don’t,” I say again, but it doesn’t have the bite it should. It sounds like a warning I’m not fully committed to. “Stop talking like that.”
His eyes stay on mine, steady, like he’s watching for the moment I actually mean it. “You want me to stop,” he says slowly, “or you want me to stop in public?”
My stomach flips. The question is too much. Too aware. It slides under my skin like he’s been reading me this whole time.
I swallow, tilt my chin, and aim for cool. “You’re making assumptions.”
He smiles—small, satisfied. “I’m asking a question.”
I take a sip that does nothing to steady me. “Then here’s an answer,” I say, leaning in a fraction, because I’m not going to let him be the only one who controls distance. “You’re enjoying pushing buttons.”
“I like seeing what happens,” he murmurs. His gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “And you keep giving me something.”
“That’s the champagne,” I say, but my voice is lower now, too, husky, and I hate that he’ll hear it.
Or do I?
“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe it’s you. Maybe you’re tired of being good.”
The words strike a chord in me. I let out a slow breath and force my eyes not to drop anywhere they shouldn’t.
“I don’t know what you think I am,” I say.
He leans closer across the table, his voice only for me. “I think you’re the kind of woman who doesn’t let anyone tell her what she wants.” A beat. “So tell me what you want right now, Elsa. Because I know what I want.”
I know it’s a mistake to ask, but I can’t help myself. “What do you want?” I whisper, breathless.
He leans forward, his lips a breath away from mine. I wait for him to brush them, my breath caught in my chest.
Then he leans back, and I blink in surprise. His eyes skim down, lingering on my chest.
“You know, I think I misjudged this dress,” he says, almost conversationally, throwing me off with his tone.”
Confused at the change in conversation, I look down.
“Umm, thanks, I guess—"
“It would look even better on my bedroom floor,” he says.
A beat of silence, then I throw my head back and laugh. His dark eyes light up with laughter, and a grin spreads across his face.
Through my laughter, I barely manage to get out: “That was a horrible pick-up line.”
His shoulders are shaking with laughter. “It’s only horrible if it doesn’t work.”
I lift my glass in his direction like I’m awarding him something. “It didn’t,” I say, but my smile betrays me. My cheeks are hot, my lungs still full of laughter, and I’m standing here looking at him like he’s the most entertaining man in the room.
In any room.
He leans in again, stepping closer to my side of the table, so his voice slips under the music. “You’re laughing,” he points out, smug.
“I laugh at tragedies,” I tell him, turning and leaning against my elbow to face him, my champagne glass dangling from my other hand. “It’s a coping mechanism.”
“Mm,” he murmurs, eyes tracking my mouth like he wants to memorize the shape of it. “Then cope some more.”
I should roll my eyes. I should tell him to stop. I go to take another sip, but find my glass is empty. He nips it from my hand and sets it on the table behind me.
“You’re very confident for someone using bedroom floor lines,” I say, letting the words drag a little on purpose.
His grin turns slow and dangerous. “You want better?” he asks. “Or do you like it when I’m shameless?”
The question puts a hitch in my breath. I swallow, and he leans forward, just enough to make my answer private. “I think,” I say, voice quiet, “you like seeing how close you can get before I push you away.”
His eyes sharpen, and for a second, the grin fades into something with more intent. “Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe I want to see how close I have to get before you pull me closer.”
My pulse stutters. I edge back and find the table pressing snugly against my lower back. When the hell did that happen? I hold his gaze as he puts a hand on the table on either side of me, caging me in between his arms. Wasn’t the table between us a second ago?
How the hell did he maneuver me here without me even noticing?
“That’s a convenient interpretation,” I say, but my voice is soft, breathless. My eyes are perfectly in line with his defined jaw. His sexy throat.
Sexy throat?
Since when do I find throats sexy? Since a man was tall enough for me to see one, I guess.
He picks up his champagne glass and shoots back what’s left in the cup. My mouth dries, and my brain glazes over as I watch his throat work to swallow the champagne.
Oh my—
I lick my lips, just as he tips his head, gaze dropping again.
The dark heat in his eyes blasts through me, and I feel it curl in my belly and settle comfortably between my legs.
“Your bedroom…” I whisper and subtly move so my body is pressed to his. “Is it far?”