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My throat goes tight; it’s hard to get the words out. “Of course.”
He greets me by sliding a hand along my waist, cupping my lower back. Tonight, I get a welcoming kiss on the cheek, his lips grazing against my cheek. He pulls away, leaving a trail of tingles along my waist and on my skin where he kissed me.
“You look beautiful,” he says. “As always.”
Heat warms my cheeks at his compliment. I slip into the chair as he holds it out for me. “Thank you.”
“That’s my favorite of the dresses you’ve worn,” he says. “It brings out the flecks of gold in your eyes.”
“I have brown eyes,” I say.
“You do,” he says. “But when you’re in the candlelight, you can see flecks of gold.”
“I didn’t realize.” I want to pick up the butter knife from the elegantly set table and peek at my irises to check, but my manners hold me back.
“There’s a lot you don’t realize about the way you look,” he says.
“Really?” I pick up my wineglass.
“Yes.”
I take a deep sip of my rosé, needing the warmth of the wine to calm me. I find his intense focus on me both flattering and unsettling at the same time.
I ask, “How so?”
He leans in, his arm resting on the table. “You have a tiny dimple at the corner of your mouth when you smile. But only when it’s your real one, not that polite grin you do to please people.”
“Oh,” I say, keeping my manners. “I hadn’t heard that before. And I didn’t realize I had a fake smile.”
“Not fake,” he says. “Just not heartfelt.”
“And have I ever given you my heartfelt smile?” I ask.
“Yes. When I make you laugh.” He stares at me.
Like he likes me.
Like he wants to please me. The moments are few and far between, but I catch him in them, seeming to be forming some attachment to me. A tremor runs through me.
Then he goes and says, “Which is why I use my humor so often at these dinners. It’s my attempt at making that dimple appear.”
He likes me.
“What else?” I say, twisting the wineglass between my thumb and finger, my gaze transfixed on the light pink liquid swirling in my glass.
He slides a hand over mine, stopping my small movement, forcing my gaze to flicker upward to meet his. “You bite your bottom lip when you’re nervous. You look up and to the left when you’re thinking. You bend your knees, dipping into an almost curtsy when you greet Apollo after dinner.”
I’ve noticed things about him as well. I may have formed my own strings of attachments. The words flow from me with no end in sight.
“You run a hand over your jaw when you think. You look off into the distance whenever you talk about your dad. You hold in your laugh when I say something you find funny. And you do this little clicking thing with your jaw whenever you listen to me speak about my past,” I say. “What is that?”
“It’s me holding back my anger. Wanting to hurt anyone who’s hurt you.” He stares at me.
The words hit my heart. My throat goes tight. I swallow before I speak. “I didn’t know you cared.”
He tosses me a look. “You didn’t? Why have I kept you here? Why didn’t I hand you off the moment we landed?”
“I don’t know. And I still don’t know what you plan on doing with me, or when we are leaving. Can you tell me those things?” I ask.
