I roll my eyes, tipping my head back just enough to look disgruntled. But in reality, I’m stalling to buy myself time. The pet name slams into my chest like a bruise I don’t ever want to fade.
If I ask him to join me, I’m taking a very big, size thirteenstep over a line I might not be able to find my way back from of my own free will.
I turn to my left, my eyes immediately meeting his and that fucking tilted head that makes his hair flop over his forehead. Every muscle in my body recognizes him before my brain does. This is dangerous muscle memory.
He’s watching me with an intensity that steals my breath, and yet his lips remain amused. His lips.
I suck in a slow breath, and I’ll be damned if I can’t detect a hint of fucking cinnamon on the air. Does he carry a bag of the stuff with him and just waft it around for dramatic effect?
Either way, it’s working.
Like Pavlov’s dog I’m being conditioned to think of him every time I get a whiff of my favorite spice. He smells like Christmas, cinnamon rolls, and smirks like a giant fucking caution sign.
I shake my head, not sure whether it’ll be the devil on my right shoulder, or the angel on my left who wins the silent push-pull argument surging through my muscles.
My phone lights up again.
Goal Daddy: Go on. Live a little, Sweet Cheeks.
Fuck it.
Artemis: Would you like to come over and join me?
Control was supposed to be my armor. Lately it feels more like a choke chain. What’s the worst that could happen?
Artemis: I’ll even share my potatoes.
Goal Daddy: It’s not your potatoes I want, but it’s a start.
He slides into the seat across from me our knees knocking together with a jolt of energy up my leg as he sits.
His brows quirk as though he feels it too, then he places his margarita on the table in front of him before reaching for my fork and stabbing a few potatoes on it.
I watch their path to his mouth, his lips curling around the cool metal of the silverware I just had in my mouth before his eyes flicker closed. The guttural moan that falls from him on a sigh sounds spiritual, like I’m witnessing a private experience that shouldn’t be on display, but I can’t look away.
What I wouldn’t give to be a fried piece of potato coated in spicy tomato sauce right now.
When his eyes pop open, his nostrils flare as his face morphs into a smile.
I clear my throat. “Some people pay to hear noises like that.”
He nudges my foot with his. “And here I am giving them to you for free. Is it working? Do you want to hear more?” He drags the tip of his finger around the salt-coated rim of his glass before putting his fingertip in his mouth and sucking.
My hands itch with the urge to redirect his digit to between my lips. Fuck. What voodoo is this guy doing on me?
His eyes don’t leave mine as he spins the pieces of paper in front of me, so they face him. He taps his chin. “I’d send them back to your team to take another swing. What’s it for?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him it’s a rebrand of my father’s company. “Merger.” That’s not a lie, though it’s not the entire truth either.
He picks up the page with the potential taglines on it.
Elevating the Future.
Precision in Motion.
Built to Rise.
When he doesn’t say anything, I lean forward. “Built to Rise is a bit on the nose, don’t you think?” His smirk feelslike a permanent fixture right now, and I admit, the more I stare at it, the more at ease I’m feeling. I’m not sure how a person can smile as much as Xavier does, but it’s not as unnerving as it once was. He seems like a genuinely laid back and content kind of guy. It’s like he wears sunshine on his sleeve.
