Page 39 of Ruthless Edge

It almost works.

Except I'm aware of Knox every second. He's directly across from me and I can see him in my peripheral vision at all times and I keep catching him looking and every time I do I look at my food.

By the time the table is clearing plates I've had enough. I excuse myself and head toward the back of the restaurant, which has a dim hallway with the bathrooms at the end and a pay phone that hasn't worked since probably before I was born. I go in and run cold water over my wrists, look at my reflection, and have a direct internal conversation with myself about what I expected, what's happening, and whether I'm handling it well. The answer is no, but I'm handling it.

I dry my hands.

I push back out into the hallway.

Knox is there.

He's leaning against the wall across from the bathroom door with his arms crossed, and he straightens when he sees me. The hallway is dim, narrow, and suddenly a lot smaller than it was when I walked in.

"What are you doing," I say. It's not really a question.

"What is this?" He gestures toward the dining room. The whole thing. Owen, the evening, all of it.

"It's a date. I'm on a date."

"You brought him to my game."

"Owen surprised me with tickets. I didn't know where we were going until we got there, and I would never voluntarily⁠—"

"In that outfit."

I stop.

Knox's jaw is tight. He's looking at me in a way he hasn't before, at least not where I could see it clearly. Not the warm easy look he gives me at committee meetings and library tables. Something more direct than that. It makes my pulse do something I don't have time for right now.

"What's wrong with my outfit?" I say.

He makes a sound that's almost a laugh. "Emma."

"I'm serious. What's wrong with it."

He steps closer. The hallway is narrow enough that closer means something. I can see the exact line of his jaw and the specific way he's looking at me, and I am very aware that there are just a few inches of space between us and I'm not moving.

"Men see an outfit like that," he says, lower now, "and they can't stop thinking about it. Can't stop looking." His eyes move over me briefly and come back up. "You know what you look like right now. You know how sexy you look."

"Knox—"

"You knew when you got dressed."

I did know. I wore it because Paige handed it to me and told me I looked incredible. I believed her and it felt good to feel incredible for an evening, but that has nothing to do with Knox Carter and I need him to understand that.

"This has nothing to do with you," I say.

"I know." He steps closer again. I should step back. I don't step back. "That's what's driving me insane."

He reaches out slowly, not grabbing, just his fingers brushing along the edge of my neckline, the fabric, and my entire nervous system short-circuits. It's barely a touch. It's the lightest possible contact and it undoes everything I've been holding together all night. I feel it everywhere.

"This," he says, very quiet, "is the kind of outfit that makes men forget what they were thinking about. Makes sane men do stupid things." His thumb grazes my collarbone and I press back against the wall because I need something solid behind me. "I have been across that table from you all night trying to have a normal conversation and all I can think about is⁠—"

"Knox."

"Come outside with me." He's close enough now that I have to look up to see his face. "Just walk out. Right now. Leave with me."

For one moment I see it.