“And macarons aren’t my only venture.” I don’t know why I’m still speaking, but there’s something about the way he’s willing to sit here and soak in my every word that has me wanting to ramble on. “I have my fingers in a few pies.”
His brow rises. “Literally?”
“Some days.”
Another laugh breaks free from him.
“I have other bakeries,” I explain, encouraged by his amusement. “My sweet tooth couldn’t be contained with just macarons. I also have a few cafés and boutiques, but those are a pretty new venture.”
“You’re making me feel inadequate,” he says, but there’s no resentment behind the confession. “All I do is drive around a track for a living while you’re out here taking over the world.”
I drop my voice to a loud whisper. “And you’re not even winning. I’mmuchmore impressive.”
When he laughs this time, he throws his head back, drawing my eyes down the line of his neck.
“You find me very funny, don’t you?” He’s been delighted by nearly everything I’ve said, no matter how dry or deprecating. With most people, I try to tone it down to keep from coming off as insulting, but I can’t hold it back with him. More importantly, he seems to understand my humor, something Étienne hardly did.
Stop thinking about him. It’s not like he’s thinking about you.
Thomas shoots me a grin as he recovers. “What can I say?” he admits. “You’re incredibly entertaining.”
“I think you meanhonest.”
“I was trying to have some tact.”
“Very English of you.”
“Nice of you to notice.”
“But you did call my ex a cunt,” I point out, enjoying this back-and-forth far more than I should. “I think it’s a little late for tact.”
“And you all but invited me to fuck you, so I’d say we’re on equal footing.”
Heat blazes through me like a wildfire, settling somewhere in my lower belly as he stares me down. I have a name for that earlier feeling now—attraction. Maybe even desire. It’s been so long since I’ve felt anything like it that the sensation is almost foreign. But this time, miraculously, only a faint brush of guilt joins it.
“As far as I remember,” I say, trying not to let on to how breathless his casual comment has left me, “I was just giving you another option for a toast. It wasn’t an invitation.”
And it’s true. This night isn’t going to end with us in bed—or pressed up against a wall in a dark corner, or locked in a grody bathroom stall. Old Stella wasn’t sleeping with everyone, but she was certainly (and happily) leading them on. That’s all this is going to be.
He could get up and walk away now that he knows there’s no chance of us hooking up. I wouldn’t blame him for it either. Why waste his time hitting on me—if that’s even what he’s doing—if it’s not going to go anywhere? I don’t think he’ll call me a bitch or a cocktease, like some other men might in this situation, but what do I know? This guy’s a stranger I justhappen to have a mutual connection with, and we’ve been thrown together in one of the strangest situations imaginable.
“Good to know,” he says, like it’s really that easy for him to accept the limit I’ve set. “I’m perfectly fine with just talking.”
I snort, not buying it. “Oh, really? Am I that interesting?”
“Compared to our current company?” We both glance out at the rest of the high rollers’ room just as Sydney climbs up onto one of the poker tables and throws a shower of plastic chips in the air with a joyous squeal. “I’m happy spending my night with you.”
He’s already looking at me when I turn my head back, his eyes like pools of dark water, threatening to drown anyone who dares to stare for too long. Even I’m tempted to take a dip.
My stomach churns again, stirring heat through me. I didn’t expect to feel anything like this so soon after ending a relationship. It feels wrong and yet agonizingly right.
“Sweet words,” I finally eke out, lifting my glass again in hopes that more whiskey will wash away whatever’s simmering in my gut. Instead, it’s like throwing gasoline on a flame.
I have to glance away, so I stare down at my lap. At some point, and I couldn’t say when, I uncrossed my legs. Now we’re fully facing each other, my knees parted just enough that one of his has slipped between them, while the other brackets my right leg, almost as if he’s keeping me from bumping it against the bar. It’s annoyingly considerate.
But it also means he can probably see up my dress. Not that I mind. Someone other than me might as well admire my designer lingerie, five hundred dollars’ worth of chocolate-brown lace—but admiring is all he’s going to be able to do.
Well…unless I let him do more.
