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“Perhaps too many.”
I watch her closely as I take a sip of my own champagne. “Too many is better than too few, when it comes to thoughts, in my opinion.”
Whitney’s teeth flash as she responds with a winning smile. “Is this your way of avoiding my question?”
“Perhaps.”
A low growl escapes between her teeth, making me smile. But the arrival of our first course interrupts our exchange, and Whitney’s eyes turn hungry as she examines the artistically presented dish. I can tell she’s itching to dig in, and I gesture for her to do so as I wonder how many times she might have gone hungry in her life to eat the way she does. She’s thin in a healthy way–clearly capable of maintaining muscle for the strenuous exercise of a ballerina–but something in the speed and desperation with which she can eat makes me think she’s gone without food for an extended period before.
I’m tempted to ask and confirm my suspicion, but I don’t. Better to keep things light, more surface level, to avoid muddying our relationship with personal information. That can too easily lead to feelings, something I have neither the time nor the inclination to develop with a woman, regardless of how intriguing I find her.
Course after course passes before us, and Whitney’s sharp, unexpected humor keeps the conversation flowing, challenging me to engage in a way that most of my pets haven’t before. And perhaps it’s in part due to the relief of knowing my Bratva’s war has finally come to an end, but by the time dessert arrives, I think I’ve smiled more in the past two hours than I have in years. It’s a strange realization to have, and a bit unsettling, and at the same time, it makes Whitney all the more enticing.
“This food is seriously out of this world,” Whitney states as she works her way more delicately through the chocolate mousse before her, seeming to have come to the conclusion that she might have reached her limit on allotted calories for her strict dancer’s diet.
I can see the internal conflict as to whether she ought to stop or not.
“If you’re worried about overindulging, I assure you, you’ll more than work it off with what I have in store for you this weekend,” I promise, my voice rasping with anticipation.
Whitney’s sharp gaze meets mine as her eyes dilate in response, and she swallows visibly. Hestitating for only a moment, she licks her lips. Then her attention shifts back to her dessert, and she finishes the single-serving portion greedily. Watching her full lips wrapping around that spoon is almost more appetizing than the food itself for me. Since our last encounter, I’ve thought of little else than just what I’m going to do with them once dinner is done.
My patience finally spent, I send my credit card off before the bill arrives, and minutes later, Whitney and I are back in the car and heading in the direction of Rosehill College. Humor plays across my lips at the questioning looks Whitney throws my way every few minutes. She clearly knows the direction we’re headed and is trying to unravel the mystery of my next surprise.
It’s dark as we drive, muting the sandy-pinking tint to the historic Edgewater Beach Apartments building rising before us like a grand monument to architecture. Whitney stares silently up at the imposing structure as we pull up to the front entrance only to be greeted by a valet. This time, she waits for assistance from the car, her attention seeming to be focused on the elegant structure rather than the fact that the car door is open for her.
“Did you book a room for the night?” she breathes, her cheeks growing pink, as she lets me lead her through the front entrance.
“Something like that.” I observe her from the corner of my eye as I take her straight to the elevators rather than stopping at the reception desk.
“I didn’t think to tell my mom I would be out all night…” Whitney’s eyebrows press into a frown as the elevator doors ding open and we step inside.
“Is that a problem?” I ask, my tone hinting at the fact that it better not be. She’s agreed to the terms that she’s to be at my disposal when she doesn’t need to be at school. I’m not willing to fit within the parameters of whatever her mother might deem acceptable, though perhaps I gave Whitney the wrong impression by not imposing myself upon her by showing up at her door at my leisure.
“No, no. Not at all,” Whitney scrambles, picking up on my warning. “I just… should send her a text so she doesn’t worry.”
I gesture that she should do that, and Whitney reaches into the cuff of her signature combat boots, withdrawing her phone as though it were the most normal place to keep a cellular device. By the time we reach the seventeenth floor and the elevator doors slide open, her phone is back in its place, Whitney’s attention on our surroundings once again.
Leading her down the hall, I pull the apartment’s key from my pocket and unlock the door to number 1705. Whitney’s eyes grow wide as she takes in the elegant decor of the high-ceilinged living area, and when she spots the lakeside view out the large windows, she gasps.
“This place is incredible,” she says, making her way through the space without invitation to check it all out.
Her fingers glide across the marble countertops in the kitchen, and she takes a good look at the view outside the window before heading toward the master bedroom. I follow her silently, enjoying her enthusiasm and wondering how long it might take her to realize it’s hers for as long as we’re together.
She runs her hand over the plush pillows, feeling the soft linen sheets, and her eyes land on the door to her walk-in closet. Striding across the room, she flings it open, and her jaw drops.
“It’s… full of clothes.” Her face buckles into a frown as she turns to look at me. “Did you Airbnb someone’s apartment?”
I chuckle as I lean casually against the threshold of the bedroom door. “It’s yours to live in while you attend Rosehill. The clothes I paid a fashion stylist to pick out for you. They’re yours to keep.”
“You’re joking,” Whitney says flatly.
I shrug, pushing off the doorframe at the same time. Whitney’s eyes turn back to the impressive selection of clothes and shoes, and she sorts through them as if to ensure they’re actually there.
“I don’t… I don’t know what to say,” she breathes finally. When she turns to face me again, her eyes are inscrutable, filled with a deep emotion she’s clearly fighting to keep under control.
“Don’t say anything.” Reaching her white-washed wooden dresser, I open one of the drawers and withdraw the outfit I picked out specially for her for tonight. “Put this on.”
I toss it to her, and Whitney snatches it against her chest before looking down at the fabric.
