“Can't change how I was born,Dubois.”
My eyes rolled even harder as he opened the door to thecaféfor me. His hand brushed against the small of my back, barely there but enough to send a jolt of white-hot heat rushing through me.
Despite the teasing, his presence was grounding. Welcome.
When I glanced at him over my shoulder and saw him watching me like he was debating something, I held his stare. Long enough to show him I wasn't afraid. Just… hungry.
His mouth curved. “Still not going soft, by the way,” he said under his breath.
Oh my God.I would not survive this man. I bit back a grin. “Good to know,” I murmured. “Would've been such a shame if I was losing my touch.”
Thecaféwas quiet,just the hum of the espresso machine, the earthy scent of roasted beans, and the soft murmur of early risers.Auréliemoved with a natural grace, her hair catching the light as she settled into a corner booth. I followed, my tea in hand, wondering why this felt so… odd.
Last night's conversation had lingered with me longer than it should have. The way she teased, the way she thanked me—it all felt too familiar. Dangerously easy. And now, here we were, sharing a morning together like we did this all the time and I wasn't already halfway obsessed with her.
“Did you sleep?” I asked, breaking the silence as she took a sip of her pistachio latte.
“Not really,” she admitted, her voice soft. “Too much adrenaline, I think. And you?”
“Same.” I paused as she traced the rim of her cup with a finger. I thought of all the ways I typically worked that adrenaline off—like fucking someone against the nearest flat surface—and had to stop myself from only picturing her in those scenarios. I wasnotwalking out of here with a hard-on. Not today. “Guess we kept each other companyin a way.”
Her hazel eyes flicked up to meet mine, lashes heavy. “Maybe,” she said, her tone light but thoughtful.
The awkwardness from earlier began to dissolve as we talked—about the race, about Shanghai, even about the ridiculous fan edits that seemed to multiply by the hour.
“Have you seen the one where we're rivals in a soap opera?” she asked, laughing softly.
I shook my head, grinning. “No, but now I have to look it up.”
“They cast you as the brooding hero,” she teased. “Guess you're living up to the reputation.”
“And you?”
She tilted her head, pretending to think. “Oh, you know. The schemingfemmefatale.”
“Sounds about right,” I said, and she rolled her eyes. I was learning her tells. She either did that, or scoffed, when she was trying not to smile.
There was a pause, and then she added, a little too casually, “They wrote a fanfiction about us, too. Different story.”
“Oh?” I leaned in. “What kind?”
She looked away, biting the inside of her cheek. “Enemies to lovers. Lots of unresolved tension. A slow burn with… ridiculous amounts of longing.”
I raised a brow, my interest piqued. “And you read it?”
“I skimmed." Her cheeks turned pink.
“You absolutely did not skim.” I laughed.
"I was curious!" she defended. "It had a ridiculous title."
“Oh, now you have to tell me because I need to read it.”
“No,” she said quickly, eyes wide. “You really don't.”
“Oh, I definitely do.”
"It's much more dramatic than the soap opera."
