“This is how I’ll hold your hand at dinner,” he says. “Visible. Public. Evidence we’re together.”
“Okay.”
“Now lean into me. Like I’ve said something funny.”
I lean. My shoulder presses against his arm. He’s solid—more solid than he looks, like there’s dense muscle beneath the expensive suit.
“Good.” His breath stirs my hair. “Now look at me like I’m the only person in the room.”
I turn my head. We’re inches apart. His eyes are dark in the candlelight—not quite black, but close. There are depths in them I can’t read.
“You’re good at this,” I whisper.
“I’ve had practice.”
“With who?”
“Various people. Over the years.”
“You always say that. ‘Over the years.’ Like there are more years than you’re admitting to.”
His expression sharpens. Just enough for me to notice.
“Some questions are better left for later,” he whispers in a way that feels mighty sensual.
“When is later?”
“After the wedding. When this is over. When you can decide if you desire to know.”
“I’d like to find out now.”
“No.” His hand tightens on mine. “You don’t. Trust me, Poppy. Some things are easier not knowing.”
Every rational thought screams at me to pull back. To demand answers. To remember this is fake and I barely know this man.
I ignore my rational self and stay. Close enough that I can count his eyelashes. So close, I can see the muscle jumping in his jaw.
“Okay,” I let him win this one. “After the wedding.”
“After the wedding.”
“But Julian?”
“Yes?”
“Whatever it is—whatever you’re hiding—it doesn’t change this.” I squeeze his hand. “It doesn’t change how I feel when you look at me.”
Something moves behind his eyes. Something old and sad and hopeful all at once.
“You might feel differently when you know.”
“Maybe. But let me decide that.”
He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me with that expression I can’t read—like I’m a puzzle he wants to solve and a problem he can’t escape. Something so precious he’s afraid to touch.
“We should order,” he says. “Before this becomes something neither of us is ready for.”
Dinner is easier after that.
