Page 15 of Compulsion

Shock immobilizes me when he casually touches my hair, trailing his long fingers over the purple streak. It’s curled in a loose wave, and I intentionally keep it swept in front of my shoulder as a matter of habit.

“I like this,” he remarks, and his deep voice seems to rumble through me. “Why purple?”

“It’s my favorite color,” I reply.

“It suits you.”

I flush at his compliment and speak before I can stop myself. “My dad used to say he would disown me if I ever colored my hair.”

I’m babbling to dispel some of the overwhelming tension that’s building between us in the cramped space of the elevator. I’m anxious in a way I’ve never experienced before—it’s a fizzy sensation that makes my body feel strangely light even as my stomach flips with nervous energy.

“But I’ve wanted to do it since I was thirteen,” I continue. As soon as I dropped out of college and started my new life two years ago, I made sure to dye in my amethyst streak. “So, I’m glad I did. My manager at the café doesn’t mind. Another advantage of avoiding a corporate job.”

“Beautiful.” Dane isn’t looking at my hair anymore, but he keeps the curl loosely curved around his forefinger. Those verdant eyes are fixed on my face, flicking over each of my features as though he’s memorizing me.

My cheeks heat again, but not from embarrassment this time; I’m gratified at his intense attention. I take a quick breath and barely suppress the urge to lean into him. His spicy cedar scent infuses my senses, intoxicating and darkly seductive.

“What’s your favorite color?” I ask, keen to know more about him, even if the question is a bit inane.

“Blue.” He’s staring into my eyes now, as though he can peer straight into my soul.

My head tips back, and I sway toward him, drawn in by his hypnotic gaze.

The elevator dings, breaking the intimate moment. His fingertip traces the shape of my purple curl almost regretfully, then he withdraws.

A sense of loss hollows my chest, and I quickly straighten my shoulders to brace against the sinking sensation. It’s completely unreasonable. All he did was touch my hair, but I feel as thoughhe stripped me bare. I curve my fingers around his corded forearm, grounding myself to him.

He steps out of the elevator and guides me onto the rooftop. The bar is to our left, the area covered with a black awning that shields our eyes from the setting sun. To our right, the golden syrup sunlight bathes the open rooftop with waning summer heat. The sky is turning a stunning shade of pink at the horizon, framing the historic church steeples that define the Charleston skyline.

The familiar artistic urge to drink in the stunning sight tugs at my heart like a cord toward the railing that surrounds the rooftop, but my hand might as well be glued to Dane’s arm. I can’t bring myself to put distance between us, not after that magnetic interaction in the elevator.

A reckless, giddy thrill thrums through my system. The strange high should be slightly alarming, but it’s too addictive for me to question it.

We reach the bar, and Dane summons the bartender with a single nod. The gesture is almost imperious, but the air of authority suits him.

I’m so caught up in his commanding bearing that I don’t immediately protest when he orders an old fashioned and a glass of Champagne. It’s not until the crystal flute is placed in front of me that I realize he’s ordered for me.

I shoot him a small frown.

“What’s wrong?”

“I was going to order something different.”

I can’t afford Champagne, but I’m too embarrassed to admit it. I intend to pay for my own drinks, but this means I can only have a single glass of bubbly on my meager budget.

A dark brow lifts. “Oh? Don’t you like Champagne?”

I shrug as nonchalantly as I can manage. “I had planned to order a strawberry daquiri.”

He huffs a laugh, and the rich sound surrounds me like I’m being submersed in warm honey. “Why am I not surprised? I should have known you’d want something sugary.”

I tilt my chin at him, puzzled. “And how would you know something like that?”

His half-smile is a touch indulgent. “Those badges you wear on your apron,” he explains. “I particularly like the happy donut.”

I release a small laugh of my own—a shy, girlish giggle I’ve never heard issue from my own throat before.

“I didn’t realize you pay so much attention to my pins.”

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