The naked honesty in his admission steals my breath. "Is that why you keep plants?" I ask softly. "To have something to care for?"
A small smile touches his lips. "Maybe. Your turn."
And suddenly we're playing a new game. Truth for truth. Real secrets instead of fictional romance.
"I've never been in love," I admit. "Not really. I've dated, but I've never felt that overwhelming thing people talk about."
"I have." His voice is quiet. "Once. Long time ago. It didn't end well."
"What happened?"
"Prison happened." He says it matter-of-factly. "Hard to maintain a relationship through three years and bars."
I nod, uncertain what to say. "I'm sorry."
"Ancient history." He clears his throat. "Your turn."
"The real reason I broke up with Brett wasn't just because he didn't support my culinary dreams." I trace patterns on the tablecloth. "It was because when he kissed me, I felt nothing. No spark. No heat. Nothing."
Colt's eyes darken slightly. "And earlier? In the coffee shop?"
My face burns hot. "That was... different."
"Different how?" His voice drops lower.
I should stop this conversation. Should keep things professional. But the way he's looking at me makes truth spill from my lips. "It wasn't nothing. It was... a lot of something."
The corner of his mouth lifts in a half smile that does dangerous things to my insides. "Glad it wasn't just me."
The air between us grows pregnant. With want. With the acknowledgment that whatever sparked between us in that kiss was real, not just for show.
"It's getting late," I say, though I make no move to stand. "We should probably get some sleep."
"Probably." He doesn't move either. "One more truth."
"Okay."
"I didn't plan to kiss you like that." His eyes never leave mine. "But I've been thinking about doing it again ever since."
My breath catches. "Now? We're in private. That's not part of our arrangement."
"No." He agrees, voice rough. "It's not."
We stare at each other across the table, the moment stretched taut with possibilities neither of us anticipated when we made our deal.
"I should take the couch," I finally say, breaking the spell. "It's your house."
"Not happening." He stands, collecting our plates. "You take the bed. I insist."
Ten minutes later, I'm alone in his bedroom, wearing his t-shirt that falls to my mid-thighs. His scent surrounds me, masculine and oddly comforting. The bed is surprisingly comfortable, the sheets clean and soft.
I toss and turn, unable to quiet my racing thoughts. That moment in the kitchen plays on repeat in my mind. The intensity in his eyes when he admitted he wanted to kiss me again. The heat that flooded my body at his words. The desire I'm still trying to suppress.
This is insane. We barely know each other. Our relationship is a business arrangement, not a romance. But my body doesn't seem to care about those logical arguments. All it remembers is the feel of his mouth on mine earlier today. The strength in his arms when he pulled me against him. The way he looked at me across the dinner table, like he wanted to devour me.
I press my thighs together, trying to ignore the pulsing need building between them. This isn't part of the deal. Physicalattraction wasn't supposed to be a factor. But every time I close my eyes, I see his face. Feel his hands. Imagine what might have happened if I hadn't backed away.
Maybe if I just... relieve the tension, I can think clearly again. Get this out of my system so I can approach our arrangement with the professional detachment it requires.
