Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Her lashes flutter when she looks up at me, and she doesn’t hold my gaze long—drops it to the table, hands in her lap, eyes anywhere but my face.
A waiter appears, materializing like this is a stage cue.
“Can I start you off with drinks?”
Juliette opens her mouth.
“A vanilla milkshake,” she says sweetly. “With a shot of brandy.”
I look at her.
She looks back.
The waiter nods and scribbles on his notepad.
“A milkshake,” I deadpan.
She shrugs, and I’m sure she’s blushing again. “They’re supposed to be fantastic.”
“We’re at one of the most expensive steakhouses in the city,” I say slowly. “And you want ice cream.”
Of course she does—look at her! Innocence wrapped in a satin dress.
“Is ice cream on the list of things you hate, along with having fun and smiling?”
I stare at her.
She doesn’t so much as blink.
The waiter clears his throat. “And for you, sir?”
I don’t look away from her.
“Hers sounds delicious,” I say at long last. “Two spoons. Two straws.”
Her eyes widen, pleased and surprised.
When she smiles, I know she feels reckless and wonderful, and I realize how easy it will be to make her fall in love with me.
Too goddamn easy.
“Sharing is intimate, you know,” she says carefully, unfolding her napkin and resting it on her lap.
“Is that a problem?”
She shakes her head too quickly. “No. I didn’t peg you as the sharing type—or someone who likes intimacy.”
The image of Bailey fucking Declan involuntarily flashes in my brain.
“I contain multitudes.” My tight-lipped smile barely reaches my eyes. “And I don’t mind intimacy as long as I don’t have to spill my guts to people I still consider strangers.”
Shit.
Was that harsh?
Must not be, because Juliette laughs. “You do not contain multitudes. You should have seen your face when I ordered a shake.”
“I don’t typically eat dessert before dinner.” I lift my hands. “But here we are.”
She bites down on her bottom lip. “Here we are.”
We regard one another, knees touching beneath the table, her hands still folded primly, and for a moment I consider letting the silence linger to see how she responds to it. But Juliette regards me with that sweet expression, unperturbed by my insinuation that we’re strangers.
“Have you heard from that jackass you were on the date with the other night?”
Juliette nods. “Of course. Guys like Preston have no self-awareness—he was rude, condescending. Obviously, I’m not going to see him again.”
Good.
Fuck that guy.
“What does a good date look like to you, then?”
“A good date? Hmm.” She hums, thinking. “I guess… being with someone who will listen without interrupting. Like, the person across from me is listening and not waiting for their turn to start speaking.”
I nod once. “Low bar.”
“You’d think.” Her lips quirk. “What about you?”
“Me? What about me?”
The waiter returns before I can answer, setting down a tall desert glass, whipped cream piled high, cherry on top.
Two spoons are laid next to it.
Two straws.
Extra napkins.
I gesture. “Honors to you.”
Juliette hesitates before leaning toward it, delicate thumb and index finger plucking up one of the spoons, the thin gold stack of rings shimmering from the candle in the middle of the table.
She dips the spoon into the ice cream, and I watch, transfixed, as she slowly brings it to her mouth… her eyes on me all the while, lips closing around the silver.
Pursed.
Satisfied.
Juliette is not trying to be provocative but, in my opinion, she fails miserably. Doe eyes become heavily lidded as her pink tongue laps up the ice cream.
“Oh god. Wow.” She gives a little moan. “This is fantastic.”
“Is it now?” I ask, reaching for the glass. “My turn.”
She slides it in my direction, fingers lingering at the base like she’s reluctant to release it to me.
I don’t use the spoon; I use the straw.
Sink it down into the ice cream.
Wrap my lips around it.
Inhale, drawing a mouthful, eyes never leaving hers.
It shouldn’t feel like this—sharing sugar and ice and nothing at all—but there’s something about the way she watches me, like she’s gauging my reaction to it. Searching for more.
I reach for her spoon, and she lets me take it.
Dip it into the whipped cream, through to the ice cream and brandy, letting it collect the perfect bite.
Hold it toward her.
She leans.
Lips part.
I hold the spoon steady as she licks it clean, her tongue brushing the metal, hands still folded pristinely in her lap. A faint smear of whipped cream at the corner of her mouth as she swallows.
She doesn’t notice but I fucking do.
It gives me the perfect excuse to touch her. So, I reach across the table, brushing the corner of her mouth with my thumb, slow enough that her eyes widen in surprise.
She stills.
I wipe the cream away, a soft drag of skin against skin.
“Missed a spot,” I tell her, glancing at the pad of my thumb. Without breaking eye contact, I bring it to my mouth.