Page 10 of Kisses and Paperclips

She tilts her head slightly, watching me, those sharp brown eyes flicking over my face like she’s deciphering something.

“I’m good at reading people,” she said, tone smooth, self-assured.

I smirk, taking a slow sip before setting my glass down, the ice clinking. “Oh yeah?” I meet her gaze head-on, letting the moment stretch. “And what’s your read on me?”

She exhales, like she’s already figured me out. Like the answer is too easy.

Leaning closer, her eyes narrowed, not suspiciously, but calculatingly.

Like she’s unlocking something I didn’t even realize I had hidden.

I chuckle, mostly out of disbelief. “What, you got some kind of psychic ability?”

She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t smile.

Just stares.

That looked deep, unrelenting, peeling me apart layer by layer.

And fuck if I don’t feel it.

I shift slightly, rolling my shoulders, adjusting my watch. Something to ground myself.

Because she’s seeing too much, and I don’t like being seen.

I glance down at my empty glass, caught off guard by my own reaction. When was the last time anyone made me feel like this?

“Control.”

Her voice is quiet, but the weight of it presses against my chest.

My head snaps up. “What?”

She holds my gaze, steady, sure. “You like control.”

I let the word sit between us, roll it over on my tongue. “Because I ordered your meal?”

She doesn’t answer immediately. Just studies me. Her lips part, but she hesitates, like she’s deciding whether I’m worth the explanation.

Then she sits back, arms folding over her chest, voice like silk but sharp as a blade.

“You’ve got kind eyes,” she said slowly, deliberately. “But I can tell they go cold when they need to. You move like a gentleman, but not because you are one, because you choose to be. And underneath all that patience?” She tilts her head. “You’re the kind of man who doesn’t wait for what he wants.”

Shit.

I exhale, a low chuckle slipping out. “And that makes me controlling?”

She nods. “A little.”

There’s something smug in her expression, something amused that I don’t know whether to be impressed or annoyed by.

“It means you like having the upper hand,” she continued, tapping a single finger against the table, watching me like she’s testing a theory. “Not just in this conversation. In everything.”

I don’t respond right away.

Because she’s not wrong.

But I don’t like that she figured it out so fast.

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