Page 45 of The Marriage Mistake

“I’m fine.”

I wasn’t fine. I was completely rattled. I was in over my head, but walking away meant saying goodbye to a life-changing amount of money. The cost/benefit analysis still favored staying here and seeing it through.

“Ember,” Jack tried again.

I braced myself and looked at him. He pushed the plate toward me, and I stared at it like he’d laced it with cyanide. A huff made me look up at him again, and there was sincerity in his gaze—the real amusement, not the sleek, fake smile he’d given me before.

“Eat,” he said quietly. “Please?”

I sighed and pulled the plate closer. I took a bite, closing my eyes as the crunchy, creamy, tangy deliciousness hit my tongue.

“I won’t touch you again,” Jack said when I’d swallowed. Narrowing my eyes at him, I said nothing as he added, “I apologize for making you feel uncomfortable.”

An apology was more than I expected from him. I jerked my chin down in a nod, took another bite, and sighed. Then I put my hand down on the table where it had been before, my fingers lightly circling the base of the stem. “Do it again,” I told him.

Jack blinked. “What?”

“Touch my hand again. Do your move.”

“But—”

“We’re supposed to be doing this. Falling…” I cleared my throat. “Making it believable. And you’re right. I can’t keep flinching away from you. I know I do it all the time. It’s not your fault, I promise. So touch me.”

He stayed where he was, but I noted the way he flexed his hand. Because he didn’t want to touch me?

Or because he wanted to, and he was holding back?

Then, moving slowly as if to give me time to change my mind, Jack leaned forward and put his forearm on the table. This time, he didn’t touch my hand. His fingertips stroked the back of my wrist, drawing abstract shapes between my protruding wrist bone and my thumb. It became hard to breathe very, very quickly.

But I didn’t tell him to stop, even when his thumb dipped to my inner wrist, stroking the soft, thin skin there with the pad of his callused thumb. Over and back. Over and back. Over and back.

The space between my legs throbbed. My panties were wet.

“Breathe, Ember.” His voice was low, the command gentle.

I sucked in a breath and realized I was lightheaded. “This move is pretty good,” I admitted in a choked voice.

The light in Jack’s eyes shifted. Intensified. “You want me to stop?”

“No,” I blurted, then closed my eyes. Shook my head. “Yes. I don’t know.”

His chuckle was low, and then his knee nudged mine. I fought the urge to jerk away from him, to retreat back to my shell. Jack’s thumb kept stroking my wrist, and his knee pressed against my leg. Two points of contact. Two tiny areas of my body that took up the entirety of my attention. Crowded out the sight of the ocean, the beautiful dining room, the multitude of waiters, the clanging from the open kitchen, the chatter of all the other guests. All that existed was my wrist, his thumb, my knee, his knee.

I licked my lips—and made the mistake of blinking up to look at Jack’s face.

His expression was—how could I even describe it? He was rapt. Ravenous. He looked like I was the focus of his entire world. Like nothing else had ever been—would ever be—as important as the array of reactions he could identify and itemize in me.

“Okay! Careful now, because these plates are hot. I’ve got one steak with peppercorn sauce, hold the type 2 diabetes”—the waitress grinned at Jack, proud of her joke, but his eyes were still glued to me as he let go of my wrist and gave her space to set down the plate.

His knee remained exactly where it was. Pressed harder against my outer thigh, so I could feel the heat of his calf all down the outside of mine. I felt it through the fabric of my tights. I felt it at the apex of my thighs.

The waitress put my plate down, asked if we wanted anything else, and disappeared. I hardly noted any of it. My heart was beating too hard. My wrist was raw and oversensitive. My thighs trembled and clenched.

Jack watched me. Devoured me with his gaze. Made every sensation ten times more intense.

I dropped my gaze to my plate and, with unsteady hands, picked up my cutlery. My restlessness was so acute that I forgot to check the chicken for doneness before taking the first bite. I chewed mechanically, swallowed. Tasted none of it.

Finally, Jack followed my lead and took a bite of his food. His knee remained pressed against mine, and his eyes strayed toward me every few seconds. I felt his attention like a physical touch, using every bit of my focus to try to appear unaffected.