Chapter 11 #2
“Maybe they don’t want to be found.” I accept the wine glass when he hands it to me. Our fingers brush during the exchange, and I feel the contact like an electric shock.
Leo feels it too. I can tell by the way his eyes darken slightly and how he pulls his hand back just a fraction slower than necessary.
“Maybe,” he agrees, his gaze holding mine for a beat too long before he looks away.
We eat in a silence that feels heavy with all the things we’re not saying.
Every time I look up, I catch him watching me.
Every time he looks up, I’m sure he catches me watching him too.
It’s this constant feedback loop of awareness that’s making it hard to focus on anything except the fact that we’re alone in this room and there’s maybe three feet of table between us and I can’t stop thinking about what it would feel like to close that distance.
“We need to talk about something else,” I blurt out, because if I spend another minute sitting here in this charged silence I’m going to embarrass myself.
“Like what?” There’s amusement in his voice that suggests he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“I don’t know,” I say desperately. “Politics. Philosophy. The best restaurants in Manhattan. Anything.”
“The best restaurants in Manhattan,” Leo repeats, his lips curving into a smile that makes my stomach flip. “That’s a dangerous topic between us.”
“Why?” I ask, even though I remember our last debate about Carbone versus Marea got pretty heated.
“Because you’re wrong about Carbone being overrated,” Leo says, tilting his wine glass in my direction and leaning forward, “and I enjoy proving you wrong.”
“You can’t prove I’m wrong because I’m not wrong,” I counter, leaning forward too without meaning to. We’re closer now, close enough that I could reach across the table and touch him if I wanted to. Which I do. I want to. Very much. “Marea has better pasta and you know it.”
“Marea has good pasta,” Leo concedes, his dark eyes locked on mine. “But Carbone has atmosphere. History. That’s worth something.”
“Atmosphere doesn’t make up for hour-long wait times and people who are only there to be seen,” I argue, and I’m getting into it now, my competitive streak kicking in despite the tension crackling between us. “Good food should speak for itself.”
“And Carbone’s food does speak for itself,” Leo counters. He’s smiling now, which transforms his whole face and makes my heart stutter. “You just can’t admit when I’m right.”
“You’re not right,” I insist, but I’m smiling too now, caught up in this familiar rhythm of our debates.
“I’m always right,” Leo says, and there’s this teasing quality to his voice that I’ve only started hearing recently.
“You’re impossibly arrogant,” I shoot back.
“You like it,” Leo says, and the way he says it—low and certain and just a little bit challenging—makes heat rush through me.
“I don’t,” I start, but the protest dies in my throat because we both know I’m lying.
The moment stretches between us. Under the table, Leo’s knee is pressed against mine and I can’t remember when that happened, but I’m not moving away. His hand is on the table, inches from mine, and I’m staring at his fingers and remembering how they feel against my skin.
His fingers drum absently against the wood, and I’m watching them move with way too much interest.
“You’re doing it again,” Leo says, his voice huskier than it was a minute ago.
“Doing what?” I drag my eyes up to meet his.
“Staring.” There’s something in his expression that makes my breath catch. “You’re staring again.”
“Am not,” I protest weakly.
“You have,” Leo says, and he’s leaning forward now, his elbows on the table. “And I’ve been letting you.”
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. “Leo—”
“Do you know what you do to me?” he interrupts, and his voice is rough, almost raw. “When you look at me like that?”
I can’t breathe or think. I can’t do anything except stare at him across the table while my entire body goes hot and tight with want.
“I should go,” I manage to say, but I don’t move.
“You should,” Leo murmurs in agreement, but he’s leaning closer, and so am I, like there’s some magnetic pull between us that neither of us can fight.
We’re both standing now—when did that happen?—and somehow we’ve moved around the table. There’s maybe a foot of space between us, maybe less, and I can smell cedar and bergamot and him, and my hands are shaking with the need to touch him.
“Emma.” His hand comes up, his fingers hovering just next to my face like he’s asking permission.
I should step back and tell him no. I should do literally anything except tilt my head into his touch, but that’s exactly what I do. His palm cups my cheek and my eyes flutter closed at the contact, at the warmth of his skin against mine.
“Look at me,” he whispers. When I open my eyes he’s so close I can see the amber flecks in his dark eyes and can count his eyelashes.
His thumb brushes across my cheekbone and I’m pretty sure I’ve stopped breathing entirely. His other hand comes up to my waist, pulling me closer until there’s barely any space between us at all and I can feel the heat of his body through our clothes.
“Tell me to stop,” Leo says, his voice barely audible, and he’s leaning in, his forehead almost touching mine.
I should tell him to stop. But instead I grip his shirt with both hands and pull him closer. His breath hitches in a way that makes heat pool low in my stomach.
His nose brushes against mine. His lips are maybe an inch away. Less than an inch. I can feel his breath on my mouth and I’m tilted up on my toes and he’s bending down and—
His phone buzzes on the table, loud and jarring in the quiet room.
We both freeze. The spell breaks. Reality crashes back in like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head.
I jerk back so fast I nearly trip over my own feet, my face flooding with heat that has nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with mortification. What the fuck was I just about to do? What were we just about to do?
Leo’s still standing there, his hands dropped to his sides, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His phone is still buzzing, insistent.
“That’s…” His voice comes out rough and he clears his throat. “That’s Dante. I have to—”
“Take it,” I say quickly, wrapping my arms around myself because I don’t know what else to do with my hands. My face feels like it’s on fire. “Y-You should take it.”
Leo stares at me for another second, a complicated and frustrated look crossing his face, before he grabs his phone and answers it.
“What?” he snaps at Dante, his voice hard in a way it never is with me.
I don’t wait to hear more. I practically run from the dining room, my heart pounding and my face burning with embarrassment and shame and about fifteen other emotions I don’t want to name.
We almost kissed.
Leo almost kissed me. I almost kissed him. We were seconds away from crossing a line that can’t be uncrossed, and if Dante hadn’t called—
I can’t let myself finish that thought.
I go straight to my room without waiting for Leo to come back, not trusting myself to face him again tonight.
My hands are shaking as I close the door behind me, my heart still pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
I lean back against the door and close my eyes, but that’s worse because all I can see is Leo’s face inches from mine, his dark eyes, and the way he looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered.
I push off the door and pace the room, running my hands through my hair, trying to calm down.
My skin feels too tight, too hot, like I’m burning up from the inside out.
I can still feel the ghost of his hand on my face, his thumb brushing my cheekbone.
I can still smell cedar and bergamot. I can still feel the heat of his body when we were pressed close together.
A shower. I need a shower. That’ll help clear my head, cool me down, and wash away the memory of his touch and the almost-kiss and the way my entire body is still buzzing with unfulfilled want.
I grab clean clothes from the dresser without really looking at what I’m picking—sleep shorts and a tank top, fine, whatever—and head into the bathroom.
I turn the water on as hot as I can stand it, steam already starting to fill the space as I strip off my clothes.
My hands are still trembling slightly as I pull my hair up into a messy bun to keep it mostly dry.
The mirror is fogging up but I can still see my reflection: flushed cheeks, bright eyes, lips slightly parted. I look like I’ve been kissed even though I haven’t been, and that somehow makes it worse.
I step under the spray and close my eyes, letting the hot water pound over my shoulders and down my back. It should help. It should calm me down, clear my head, give me space to think rationally about what almost happened and why I need to make sure it never almost happens again.
But it doesn’t help.
Because even with my eyes closed and hot water running over my skin, I can’t stop thinking about him.
About how close we came. About his hand on my face and his thumb on my cheekbone and the way he looked at me. How his lips were less than an inch from mine and how badly I wanted to close that distance.
About what would have happened if Dante hadn’t called.
I want him in a way that goes beyond just physical attraction, though god knows there’s plenty of that.
I want his attention and his time and his rare smiles that he only seems to give me.
I want to be the reason his voice softens and his eyes warm.
I want to understand all the complicated layers of him, want to know every story behind every scar, want to be the person he trusts with his grief and his loneliness and all the parts of himself he keeps hidden from everyone else.
But right now, in the privacy of my shower where no one can see or judge, I’m thinking about the physical want.