9. Aria #3
I reached for my glass, tried the contents. The wine was good and I took a long sip, grateful for something to do with my hands. A drop escaped. I felt it slide down from the corner of my mouth, trailing toward my chin.
Before I could reach for my napkin, Sebastian moved. His hand crossed the table. His finger caught the drop of wine at the edge of my lip, the touch feather-light against my skin.
I froze. My breath caught somewhere in my throat. And then, while I watched, unable to move, he brought that finger to his own mouth.
His lips closed around it. His eyes held mine as he tasted the wine. Tasted me.
Something hot flared low in my stomach. A pulse of... I didn't know what. I didn't want to name it. My skin felt too tight, the room too warm, every nerve ending suddenly awake and straining toward the man across the table.
No. I shoved the feeling down. Buried it. This was Sebastian Dubois. I did not feel anything for Sebastian Dubois except irritation and contempt.
"I could have used a napkin," I said. My voice came out rough.
"You could have." He picked up his own glass, perfectly composed, as if he hadn't just short-circuited my entire nervous system. "But where's the fun in that?"
I looked away. Found a spot on the wall and fixed my gaze there, willing my heart rate back to normal. Willing the heat in my cheeks to fade.
The first course arrived. Scallops, seared golden, arranged on the plate like a piece of modern art. I didn’t even touch them.
"So." Sebastian's voice cut through the silence. "Tell me why you got into charity work."
I shrugged. "It's what I do."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
He studied me for a moment. I studied my plate. The scallops were getting cold. I didn't care.
"You could at least try," he said. "To have a conversation. Like a normal person."
"I don't want to." I pushed a scallop across my plate with my fork. "I'm only here because I have to be. I already told you that."
My foot tapped against the floor beneath the table.
An anxious rhythm I couldn't seem to stop.
The door was behind me; I'd noted its position the moment we walked in.
Twenty steps, maybe less, and I could be out of this room.
Away from his gaze, his questions, the way he looked at me like he was trying to solve an equation.
Sebastian set down his fork. "Fine," he said, his voice flat. "If that's how you want it."
We ate in silence.
Course after course arrived and departed.
I pushed food around my plate, took small bites I couldn’t even taste, and counted the minutes.
The risotto was probably delicious. The beef probably cost more than most people's rent.
I wouldn't know. I was too busy watching the candles burn down, calculating how much longer this had to last.
Every few minutes, my eyes drifted to the door.
Sebastian noticed. I saw him notice. His expression grew stonier with each glance, but he didn't comment. Just ate his meal with mechanical precision, jaw tight, shoulders rigid.
The silence stretched. Grew teeth. Filled the room like something alive and breathing.
Finally, finally, the waiter cleared the last plates, offered dessert. Sebastian declined without looking at me, and the waiter vanished.
I stood immediately. "Thank you for dinner."
I was three steps toward the door when his voice stopped me.
"That's it?"
I turned. Sebastian was on his feet, a napkin thrown on the table, moving toward me with a controlled fury that made the air feel thin.
I kept going, ignoring him. I heard him murmur to the hostess, something about settling the bill with his assistant. I didn’t care. I speed-walked in my damned high heels until I was out the door and on the sidewalk. The cool night air felt like a balm on my overheated skin.
I tried to hail a cab, but Sebastian finally caught up with me, taking my elbow and pulling me toward his car. I tried to wriggle out of his grip, but he was too strong. “Let go of me, now!”
"That's it?" he repeated. "Two hours of monosyllables and you're just going to walk out?"
"The dinner is over. I held up my end."
"Your end." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You sat there like a hostage. You barely spoke. You wouldn't even look at me."
"I looked at you plenty."
"You looked at the door." He stopped in front of me, close enough that I had to tilt my head back. "Constantly. Like you were planning your escape."
"Maybe I was."
"Why are you so stubborn?" The words came out sharp, frustrated. "I tried tonight, Aria. I put my reservations aside. I was decent to you. I held the door, I pulled out your chair, I attempted actual conversation—and you couldn't return the favor for even five minutes?"
"I didn't ask you to do any of that."
He stared at me. "What is wrong with you?"
"You." The word exploded out of me. "You are what's wrong with me. Why can't you just leave me alone? Why do you have to be everywhere?"
"Because you forced my daughter to work for you!"
"I didn't force her to do anything!" I stepped closer, jabbing my finger toward his face. "She wanted to work for me. She came to me. She chose to."
He grabbed my wrist.
The movement was fast, sudden, and then I was being pulled forward, my body colliding with his chest, his grip firm around my arm. His eyes blazed down at me, gray gone dark like storm clouds.
"And what did you want, Aria?" His voice was low, rough. "To drive me crazy? To make sure I lose my mind? Is that why you're doing all this?"
"Let go of me."
His fingers didn't loosen. His chest rose and fell against mine, his breath coming fast.
"Let go," I said again, but my voice had lost its edge. Something else was creeping in. Something that had to do with how close he was, how warm, the way his hand felt wrapped around my wrist—firm but not painful, his thumb pressed against my pulse point that was hammering too fast.
Sebastian's gaze dropped to my mouth.
I stopped breathing.
And then his lips crashed against mine.