Page 40 of Based on You

"Fine," I conceded. "Goats it is."

He smiled, the warmth reaching his eyes.

We pivoted to other things. Easy, filling, mundane topics that asked nothing heavy of either of us. I ate fast, but he ate slow, his attention elsewhere, the food secondary to the conversation.

I glanced at his plate. He was still picking at the first half of his meal.

"Why are you eating so slow?"

He looked down at his food like he'd forgotten it was there. "Food really isn't my best thing anymore."

"What do you prefer, then?"

He lifted a slow, wicked eyebrow at me.

I stared at him one long second, taking in the implication, then shook my head hard. "Unfortunately for you, you have no one to do that with."

I grabbed my empty plate and retreated to the kitchen to load it into the dishwasher.

I heard his heavy footsteps trailing right behind me.

The air in the kitchen changed. It grew warmer, closer, the particular shift that happens when the space between two people contracts without either of them announcing it. I yanked open the dishwasher, slid my dirty plate onto the rack, and straightened up. He was right behind me. We weren't touching. But he was close.

"What book would you recommend," he murmured, "to help a man improve his abilities in bed?"

I laughed, nervous. Then I turned around to face him.

He was right there. Closer than I expected, close enough that turning fully brought us almost face-to-face, and my nervous laughter died the second I felt how little space was left between us. He was staring at me. The smile was gone. His gray eyes locked on mine, unflinching.

I took a step back. His hand shot up and caught my wrist, the pressure so faint I could have pulled free. I didn't.

"Talk to me, Violet," he said, coaxing the words out of me.

I looked up at him and couldn't make myself look away. My pulse hammered in my wrist, right where his long fingers were wrapped.

"I don't have any idea," I lied, my voice breathless, coming out thinner than I wanted. "What you're asking."

"I really want to learn." His voice dropped lower. "I want to meet your expectations."

He leaned in.

I took a sharp breath. His cologne was close now, so warm, the woody scent of him I'd learned by heart over two years of standing near him in offices, elevators, and cars. It moved through me, not loud, but sinking all the way down to my bones.

"Whose expectations?" I whispered.

He leaned in again. His lips hovered close to mine, close enough that I could feel the heat of them without any contact, which was its own kind of devastating problem.

My heartbeat quickened.

He held my wide-eyed gaze.

"What do you think?" he asked.

TWELVE

SIMON

Footsteps echoed down the main staircase.