“I’m with you,” I say, cringing inwardly at the obvious, nervously spoken statement so ridiculous that I’ve invited further probing.
His hand curls around mine and he drags it to his knee, and the way he’s looking at me, like the rest of the room, no, the rest of the world, doesn’t exist, steals my breath. I haven’t allowed anyone to really look at me in a very long time.
“Emily,” he says, doing whatever he does to turn my name into a sin that seduces rather than destroys me.
“Shane,” I manage, but just barely.
“Did you say yes to dinner because you didn’t want to be alone?”
I am not sure where he is going with this, if it’s about reading me or if he needs validation that I am here for him, so I give him both. “I like being alone,” I say, and on some level, it really is true. “I said yes to dinner because you are the one who asked.” My lips curve. “Actually you barely asked. You mostly ordered.”
“I couldn’t let you say no.”
“I’m actually really glad you didn’t.”
“And yet you say you like being alone?”
“It’s simple and without complication.”
“Spoken like someone who’s lived the opposite side of the coin.”
“Haven’t we all?”
“Who burned you, Emily?”
I blanch but recover with a quick, “Who says anyone burned me?”
“I see it in your eyes.”
“Back to my eyes,” I say.
“Yes. Back to your eyes.”
“Stop looking.”
“I can’t.”
Those two words sizzle, matching the heat in his eyes, and my throat goes dry. “Then stop asking so many questions.”
He reaches up, brushing hair behind my ear, his fingers grazing my cheek, and suddenly he is closer, his breath a tease on my cheek, his fingers settling on my jaw. “What if I want to know more about you?”
“What if I don’t want to talk?”
“Are you suggesting I shut up and kiss you?”
Yes, I think. Please. But instead I say, “I don’t know. I haven’t interviewed you as you have me. I know nothing about you. I want to know if you—”
He leans in, and then his lips are on mine, a caress, a tease, that is there and gone, and yet I am rocked to the core, a wave of warmth sliding down my neck and over my breasts. He lingers, his breath fanning my lips, promising another touch I both need and want, as he asks, “You want to know if I what?”
Everything. “Nothing.”
“The food has arrived,” our waitress announces, and I jolt, tugging my hand from Shane’s and feeling like a busted schoolgirl and bringing attention to myself I don’t need or want.
“Here you go,” our waitress announces, setting a plate in front of me, the scent of butter and spices teasing my nose, but I am suddenly no longer hungry. In fact, I feel a little queasy. Noting the way the waitress has set her stand in front of Shane’s side of the table, I grab my purse and round the seat opposite him and murmur, “I’m going to the ‘room.” I don’t look at him but I feel him watching me, willing me back to my seat, while he remains somewhat, thankfully, trapped.
“In the back of the main dining room,” the waitress calls after me.
“Thank you,” I murmur, pretty sure it’s not loud enough to be heard, already almost to the bar exit. I pass the leather wall and I stop, my gaze landing on the front door and an easy escape.
“Bathroom?” Susie asks.
“Yes,” I say. “Please.”
“Behind me and all the way to the back and left.”
“Great. Thanks.” Following her directions, I cut left, away from the exit, relieved Shane hasn’t shown up, and actually thankful I haven’t made it out the door. If I’m to start a new life, I can’t hide in my apartment out of fear. I have to pay the bills, which means navigating Shane and every other person, and situation, I might face. This is my life now and I have to learn to cope with questions I don’t, and won’t, answer.
I pass through the dimly lit dining room that is far too long, giving me way too much time to think and yet I can’t think. I reach a long hallway that cuts left. I’m almost at the bathroom door when suddenly my wrist is shackled, and another second later, I’m against the wall, with Shane’s big body crowding mine.
My hands land on the hard wall of his chest, his legs framing mine. “What are you doing?” I demand.
“You’re upset.”
“You just shoved me against a wall in a hallway,” I say. “Yes. I’m upset.”
“That’s not why you’re upset.”
“I’m a very private person.”
“Good. So am I.”
“You have me shoved against a wall,” I repeat. “In a public place. And you kissed me. In a public place.”
He cups my face. The act is possessive, a claiming driven home by the way that autumn scent of his teases my nostrils. “That wasn’t a kiss,” he declares, his mouth closing down on mine, his tongue pressing past my lips. The instant it finds mine, the taste of spiced cognac fills my senses. Another lick and I moan, my fears, the public place, and my secrets fading away, for the first time in an eternal month. This, him, is what I craved this night. Not brown butter ravioli and fancy wine. I don’t fight to remember the privacy I’ve declared I value. My fingers curl around his shirt, and suddenly I am kissing him back, my body swaying into his, the warmth of his seeping into mine, but it doesn’t last.