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“I also came by to tell you not to spoil your dinner by eating pears.”
“Right, of course, you did!” I laugh, completely blindsided by him.
He smiles. “Seriously though, we seem to be two glasses short. Can we borrow some?”
“Sure.” I lead him to the kitchen and open the cupboard where they’re kept. “Wine or water.”
“Wine.”
I hand him the glasses which he secures by the stems.
“Thanks.” With his free hand, he tangles his fingers with mine. He does this a lot and it does stupid things to my nerves, lighting them up, my whole body feeling connected to his. “See you in a bit.”
“I hope you’ve got salad and garlic bread,” Tabi calls. “I’d hate to leave a poor review of my dining experience.”
Our hands unlatch as he turns to leave, a bolt of pain slicing through my temples. “Yup. All the trimmings,” he assures her, heading for the door.
Shaking off the sensation, I follow him, looking at the glasses clutched in his hand. For some reason, I can’t help but feel like he’s holdingme, something fragile and breakable. Tonight, for the next few nights at least, he’s acting as a brief custodian of a delicate item, and he needs to be careful. “Don’t break those,” I murmur, pointing to the glassware.
Leaning in, he kisses me softly on the cheek, whispering, “I won’t.”
Having ensuredshe got to sit next to Sam at dinner, Tabi grills him with questions as we demolish our meal. Already used to her take-no-prisoners, give-no-shits attitude, he’s unfazed.
“What do you do?”
“I’m a lawyer.”
“Ooh. Sounds brainy.”
He snorts, grinning at her.
“Where do you live?”
“London.”
“How do you know Max?”
“Business.”
“Are you his lawyer?”
Sam’s eyes drift to Max. “He already has one.”
My eyes drift to Max too. He’s pouring me a glass of champagne, my third of the night, and I don’t wonder if he’s spiked it.
“You okay?” I ask him. Melancholy projects from him. I wonder if it had anything to do with the message he got shortly after we arrived. He’d glanced at his phone when a message pinged and his whole body deflated. After that, he gave Logan—who’s lying in his bed like a good boy—a load of fuss.
“I’m good. You?” His strong, heavy arm wraps around my lower back, his hand securing me at my waist. I suck in a breath, his touch unexpected. But as he just studies me, waiting for me to get used to it, or move away, I guess, I find comfort in his presence.
I’m glad he doesn’t ask if touching me is okay. I don’t want to be asked that question ever again, I just want him to do what’s natural. To take. And the only reason it makes sense to feel like this is because Jonas’s gentle treatment of me was frustrating. I need the opposite of that.
I look into the amber and black striations of his eyes, knowing I’ve never seen eyes so pretty. “Really good,” I say.
His attention drops to my mouth, a short, frustrated groan sounding. “When can we lose the others?” he murmurs. “I’ve got plans for you.”
And . . . oh my God.
My heart kicks out, heat flooding my veins as I consider all the plans he might have for me. Even though it feels far too soon forbigplans, I am very curious and interested to exploresomeof the plan.
