Page 48 of Saving Saul

TESSA

The restaurant is a dream—softcandlelight flickering against exposed brick walls, the low murmur of jazz humming beneath the clink of crystal glasses, and murmured conversations. Everything about the place exudes elegance and warmth, but the most decadent thing in this room isn’t the black-and-gold décor or the gleaming chandeliers.

It’s the man sitting across from me.

Saul.

Dressed in a crisp black suit and open-collared white dress shirt, he looks like sin personified. The soft glow of the candlelight sharpens the strong lines of his face—cheekbones carved by the gods, full lips that once whispered my name through a wall, and deep brown eyes that dare to still see through me.

I hate how good he looks.

I hate how my pulse flutters every time he sips his wine, how his fingers stroke the glass stem like he imagines something far more sensual.

I should be focusing on my food. Not his hands.

But my body has a mind of its own.

And judging by the way his eyes keep dropping to my lips every time I speak, his does, too.

Damn him.

The server returns with our appetizers—crab beignets drizzled with a cayenne honey glaze for me and charred octopus over a bed of white bean purée for Saul. My stomach flips when he carefully plates a piece of octopus onto my dish without me asking.

“Try this,” he murmurs, his voice like warm honey, thick and slow. “From stalking all your food porn on Instagram, I know how much you love a perfect char.”

I hesitate for half a second before spearing the bite with my fork and popping it into my mouth.

Oh.

My eyes close for a brief moment, the balance of smoky, citrus, and spice melting on my tongue. The texture is flawless—tender but with the perfect amount of snap.

When I open my eyes, Saul is watching me, his lips slightly parted, his gaze fixed on my mouth. He swirls his wine glass absently like he’s trying to distract himself.

“Good?” he asks, voice rougher than before.

I clear my throat and nod, reaching for my wine. “You’ve got a good palate.”

He smirks. “I have a good memory.”

The weight of that simple statement lands between us, thick and charged.

I swallow, shifting in my seat. “Tell me, Mr. Mensah, when did you become such a wine snob?”

Saul chuckles, the rich sound curling around me like silk. “You act like I wasn’t already.”

He gestures to my glass. “You have a glass of Louis Latour Corton-Charlemagne 2018 before you. A rare white Burgundy, aged in oak barrels, with enough complexity to complement thedepth of our meal.” He leans back, assessing me. “And you have no idea how hard it was to get a bottle last minute.”

I blink, then take another sip, letting the smooth, buttery notes linger.

Damn it. It’s really good.

I glance at him over the rim of my glass. “Are you trying to impress me, Saul?”

He tilts his head, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Is it working?”

I set my glass down slowly, trailing my fingers along the delicate stem. “I haven’t decided yet.”

Saul watches me like he’s waiting for a sign, his patience both infuriating and impossibly sexy.

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