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The way the sun has darkened his skin hints that he’s not wholly a creature of the night or endlessly locked inside beneath corporate white lights.
That one unruly lock of hair.
His little bit of rebellion, curving over his decisive, worry-ridged forehead to tease at his right eyebrow.
What would happen in this strange air between us if I reached across the table, tucked that wild lock of hair back, and caressed his cheek?
What would he do if I kissed him again?
Wouldn’t it be all right?
In public, we’re meant to be intimate, to make people believe we have eyes for no one and nothing but each other.
Would he cradle my hand against his cheek, kiss my palm, let me feel the heat of his lips and the scratch of his beard?
My chest hurts.
This so isn’t like me.
I always try to smile. I always look for the bright side of things.
I’m looking now, but it’s so hard.
Maybe when this is over, I’ll smile, because I’m realizing now that I’ve never actually been in love before.
In lust, sure.
But this feeling, this desperate desire for this one person, it’s new.
It’s definitely crazy.
Then again, this whole thing has been insane from the start.
“What are you smiling at this time?” August whispers, almost affectionately.
I blink, recoiling a little with a tiny thump of my heart.
He’s very good at watching me without seeming to, and it hits me.
The entire time I’ve been looking at him, he’s been looking at me.
I hadn’t even realized I was smiling. That’s how entranced I am.
But I look for a quick excuse and flick my gaze to his hair again. “I’m just wondering how much hair wax you used to try to get your hair to lie down, and it still doesn’t listen.”
It’s not a lie.
I was thinking about that bit of hair.
August groans. There’s a burr to his voice, raw and gritty, like the bubbles in the sparkling wine have gently sanded his voice down to give it the texture of crushed velvet.
He reaches up to flick the little arc of black hair aside with one blunt finger, only it sways right back to the same spot on his brow.
“It’s been like this since I was a child,” he grumbles. “I could use an entire tin of pomade, and in minutes it would pop right back out. It’s terrible for my professional image. I look like Tom Sawyer.”
I snicker. “It’s cute. But if you really hate it that much, you could clip it. I have some little colored barrettes that would look adorable on you.”
“You’re not funny.” His foul look doesn’t have the usual force behind it.
