Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 52663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
“Yeah.”
“Where’s your car?”
“In the lot.”
Aidan shakes his head, clearly annoyed but trying to keep it under wraps. “You know this place has valet.”
“I don’t need valet.”
I catch the look my mom gives Aidan—tight-lipped and sharp. For once, I’m with her. He’s not even pretending to be civil.
We sit, and conversation starts to drip like a leaky faucet. Aidan launches into his upcoming book tour, full of vague references to keynote speeches and “high-level conversations.” My mom hangs on every word like he’s reading poetry. Cole stays quiet, flipping his water glass in slow, steady circles.
I watch the condensation bead on his fingers, trailing down his knuckles, collecting at his wrist.
Under the table, his knee brushes mine.
I stay still.
A minute later, it happens again—slower this time. His leg shifts against mine and doesn’t pull back. Just rests there, solid and warm. Intentional.
He’s not playing. He’s letting me feel him. And he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Aidan leans across his plate, oblivious. “The CEO of Gryphon Media’s supposed to be at the party next month,” he says to Cole. “Might not hurt to show your face. Make some real connections.”
Cole doesn’t look up. “I have connections.”
“Professional ones.”
“I have those too.”
“I’m talking about the kind that actually help your future. You don’t want to be inking girls’ lower backs at thirty-five.”
A flicker of something cold flashes in Cole’s eyes, but he doesn’t take the bait.
The server appears just in time, saving us all. I order the salmon. My mom gets a salad she’ll barely touch. Aidan picks something with saffron, probably to prove he knows what saffron is. Cole doesn’t even look at the menu. “Burger, medium rare,” he tells the waiter without hesitation.
While they talk about wedding venues and backyard renovations—as if their relationship actually has a future, I tune it all out and watch Cole instead.
He eats with one hand. The other never stops moving—spinning his glass, tapping the table, brushing condensation from the base of the cup. His foot taps once under the table, then stills.
Then his fingers graze my thigh. Just the edge of them. Just long enough to make me suck in a breath I hope no one hears.
He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t smirk. Just goes on sipping his drink like nothing happened.
His leg is still pressed against mine.
This time, I press back—just a little. A test. A yes.
That’s when he looks up.
His gaze finds mine across the flickering candlelight. His eyes are unreadable, but his focus is absolute.
My pulse stutters.
I look away first, but only because I have to. Because if I don’t, I’m going to forget we’re not alone. That this boy—this man—could potentially be “family.”
And that what I want is the furthest thing from allowed.
But God, I want to know what his hands would feel like on me if they weren’t holding tattoo needles. I want to know what his mouth would taste like if it stopped being so unreadable and finally gave something away.
I stab my salmon with more force than necessary.
His fingers find my thigh again. A slow pass. No higher, no deeper—just enough.
I sit still for the rest of dinner, quiet and burning, letting myself feel every stolen touch he gives me under the table. Pretending it’s nothing. Pretending I’m not unraveling one brush at a time.
And when Aidan flags down a passing server and says, “Would you mind snapping a quick photo of the family?”
—I almost choke.
The camera flash hits like a slap. Too bright, too sudden.
The light fades, but the performance clings to my skin like smoke—hollow, weightless, and nothing close to real.
12
COLE
Sunlight cuts across the balcony in long, slanted bands, painting the floorboards in gold and gray. I layer cobalt onto the canvas, dragging the brush through the waterline of a narrow two-lane road that stretches between mirrored lakes. It’s nearly finished—deceptively calm, deliberately still. But underneath the surface, the whole thing hums with tension.
Footsteps cross behind me.
She enters without a word, the sound of a tray settling onto the table cutting through the quiet. When I glance over my shoulder, she’s already moving past me—bare legs visible beneath one of my shirts, hair twisted into a knot, a few strands curling along her jaw like they belong there.
No performance, no nerves. She’s just here.
“For the record,” she says, her voice rough with sleep, “I don’t usually stalk people.”
“I didn’t mind,” I say, setting the brush down.
Her gaze meets mine for a second, then drops.
There’s a pause as she adjusts the mug in her hands. Her grip is a little too careful, like she’s holding more than just coffee.
“And another correction,” she adds, quieter. “I’m not trying to give my virginity away to just anyone. Not anymore.”
I study her for a moment. There’s no teasing in her voice. Just truth—stated plainly, like she’s trying to level the ground between us.