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“You haven’t changed,” I say.
“You have,” he tells me, face like stone. It sends something cold down my spine. Silas pushes the door open, and we walk out into the restaurant. He picks up my coat from where I’d draped it over the chair and holds it out for me to slip my arms into. I do.
“Does she have a credit card here?” Silas asks thebartender who nods. “I’ll take it. Put her drinks on my bill.”
“Yes, Mr. Cruz.”
I look over at him, eyebrows raised. He takes my card and drops it into my clutch, then hands me the bag, but holds onto my scarf and hat as we head toward the door.
“How do they know you?” I ask him as we walk out.
“Business,” he says, his answer vague.
A sedan pulls up in front of us. Silas opens the back door and gestures for me to get in.
“I live a few blocks away. I’m fine,” I say, reaching for my hat and scarf.
“You’re not fine. You’re drunk. It’s snowing. You’re wearing ridiculous shoes for the weather. And your legs are bare.” His eyes are on my legs.
He drags his gaze back up to mine, eyes darker than usual.
I swallow hard.
“They’re not ridiculous,” I stammer.
He grins. “Right. Even if you weren’t drunk and wearing proper shoes, I wouldn’t let you walk home alone. Get in, O. I won’t ask again.”
“What will you do, deposit me in the car?” I ask, hand on my hip.
He looks at me like it’s a no brainer.
“Well, okay then.” With a sigh—and also because honestly the vodka is hitting me and it’s freezing and the snow has picked up, not to mention that theshoesareridiculous for the weather—I get in. Silas follows.
“The brownstone, Hamish.”
“You have a driver?” I ask Silas as he straps me in, the two-and-a-half martinis I drank hitting me. “La di da.” I lean my head against the seat and close my eyes to stop the spinning.
He brushes my hair back, the touch of his hand against my skin electric, but when he sets something freezing against my temple, my eyelids fly open.
“What the?—”
“You’re cute when you’re drunk. Hold this,” he says. I take it and he sits back, taking out his phone and scrolling.
“Where did you get an ice cube?” I ask.
He points to the ice bucket. Of course, the car comes stocked with drinks.
“I’m fine.”
“It’s for the swelling.”
I lower the window and toss the ice out. “Are you texting your date?” I ask, leaning over to have a look.
“I am, actually.” He pulls his phone away.
“Or should I say sexting?” I cock an eyebrow.
A corner of his mouth tugs upward. This is Silas Cruz amused. I like this version of him. “Would you be jealous if I was?”
