Page 6 of Kisses and Paperclips

Most women would’ve blushed, looked away, let me smooth-talk them out of the moment. But, she plants herself right there, chin lifted, gaze steady, waiting to see if I’ll bullshit her.

I don’t.

“Yes, I’m staying here,” I admit, voice even, unfazed. “And yes, I like their drinks. Both things can be true.”

Her brow lifts, skeptical but intrigued. “Convenient.”

I shrug. “Efficient.” That earns me something just shy of a smirk. A flicker of amusement she doesn’t mean to let slip. But I catch it.

“Still joining me?” I asked, tilting my head just enough to let her feel the weight of the question.

She watches me for another long beat, like she’s still deciding.

Then, with a slow, deliberate sigh—one I know is just for show—she steps past me into the lobby.

Damn. I like this woman.

I follow behind her, watching her move unhurried, unshaken, entirely at ease in a space built for men like me.

She takes in the dim lighting, the hushed murmur of voices, the live pianist filling the air with something soft and expensive. Luxury, understated and intentional. The kind of wealth that doesn’t need to announce itself.

If she’s impressed, she doesn’t show it. If this is new to her, she wears it like it isn’t.

And that? That does something to me.

A lot of women, when they step into places like this, either shrink or perform. Serena does neither.

She walks like she belongs. Like she was made for it.

Like she knows that when she steps into a room, the room should adjust—not her.

I like that about her.

We slide into a booth toward the back, the kind of spot where the rest of the world falls away. And maybe it’s the kiss still buzzing in my head, or maybe it’s the way she’s looking at me now, gaze steady, unreadable.

All I know is, I’m in no hurry for this night to end.

And I don’t think she is either.

I ordered a whiskey sour for myself and a shrimp po’boy for her. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just instinct.

I feel her eyes on me before I hear her speak.

Serena lifts a single brow, slow and deliberate, her lips curving with something that looks like amusement. “You always order for people without asking?”

I take my time, lift my drink, let the silence stretch before answering.

“Only for my woman.”

Her laugh is quick and sharp, like I caught her off guard. She leans in slightly, tilting her head, those brown eyes dancing as she studies me. “So, I’m your woman now?” she challenged, voice smooth, threaded with amusement. “I’ve known you what… five minutes?”

I lean in too, matching her energy, my voice low and even. “Long enough.”

She exhales, lips pressing together like she’s deciding what to do with that answer. Then, after a beat, she folds her arms, unimpressed.

“Oh really?” Her head tilts, gaze locking onto mine. “So you like control.” A slow blink. “First, you decide what I eat, and now you’re staking a claim without my consent?”

“It’s not about control.” I didn’t mean to, but my voice sounds more serious now. “It means you don’t have to worry about anything when you’re with me. It means I take care of mine.”

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