Page 49 of Saving Saul

“Then let me keep working,” he murmurs.

The server clears our plates and brings out the entrees—perfectly seared duck breast with a blackberry gastrique for me and Saul, a buttery ribeye cooked medium-rare, plated with a bordelaise sauce, and truffle mashed potatoes.

The food is exceptional, but our tension is even more intoxicating.

I don’t know if it’s the wine, the slow, deep lilt in Saul’s voice when he speaks, or how his gaze never leaves mine, but every moment stretches tight, humming with electricity.

And then, when I think I might be able to focus on my meal, he does something dangerous.

He reaches across the table, dragging the pad of his thumb across the corner of my mouth.

I freeze.

“You had sauce,” he murmurs, his voice like gravel and sin.

Oh. Oh, hell.

His thumb lingers for just a second too long, his touch branding me, sending a hot flush creeping up my neck.

My breath stutters.

I could kiss him right now.

I should slap him right now.

But instead, I grip my fork, my knuckles tight. “Saul,” I say, my voice dangerously close to a whisper. “What are we doing?”

He exhales through his nose, sitting back in his chair like he’s giving me space to breathe. I hate that I miss his touch the second it’s gone.

“I told you,” he says, his voice softer now. “I’m making up for lost time.”

I scoff, breaking the moment before it swallows me whole. “You think fancy wine and expensive dinners will fix everything?”

“No.” He pauses, then lifts his wine glass in a silent toast. “But it’s a damn good start.”

I shake my head but can’t fight the small, traitorous smile tugging at my lips.

The meal continues, every bite punctuated by lingering glances, hands brushing too close when we reach for the same thing, and the kind of heat that builds, slow and steady, promising something inevitable.

By the time we finish dessert—chocolate soufflé with whiskey caramel—I’m practically vibrating with unresolved tension.

Saul leans in slightly, his voice dipping into something dangerously smooth. “Tessa.”

I swallow, meeting his gaze.

“I meant what I said. I want another chance.” His fingers skim over the back of my hand. “Let me take you home.”

The air between us crackles.

God, I want to say yes.

I almost do.

But I catch myself—catch the way my body is already folding into him, already surrendering.

No.

Not yet.

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