I stare, trying to process.
This man just kissed the soul out of my body, and now he wants date night?
“You’re okay with that?” I ask. “With being seen with me?”
His brows knit, and a muscle jumps in his jaw. “Why the fuck wouldn’t I be?”
And there it is. That edge. That fierce, alpha male protectiveness he tries to keep buried under all that brooding silence.
So. Damn. Hot.
“I don’t know,” I mutter, my voice small. “You’re a professional athlete. And I’m just a chubby Jersey girl who runs a camera and gets winded taking the stairs.”
The second the words leave my mouth, I regret them.
Because his expression darkens.
Not in a scary way.
In a holy shit, this man might punch the air in outrage kind of way.
He stares at me like I just insulted someone he loves.
“Don’t say that,” he snaps, voice sharp.
My eyes go wide. “Say what?”
“Like you’re less.” He steps closer, body tense, chest heaving. “You think I give a single fuck about some label you’ve slapped on yourself? You think that’s what I see when I look at you?”
I swallow hard. “What do you see, then?”
It’s like time stands still as I wait for him to speak.
He crowds his big body against me, hand sliding to my hip, gripping it like he owns it.
Like he wants to.
His voice drops.
“I see the woman who’s been in my head for weeks. The one who talks back, who makes me laugh when I’m in the foulest mood, who filmed me mid-sprint and said I looked like a pissed-off centaur. Who completely throws me off balance in the best fucking way possible.”
My lips twitch despite myself.
“I see curves I want to bite, a mouth that makes me insane, and a heart that’s too fucking big for her own good.”
His thumb strokes the bare skin beneath the elastic bodice of my dress, and I feel myself melt into him.
“I seemine, Red.”
My throat goes tight. “You can’t just say that.”
“Why not?” he shrugs. “It’s true.”
I want to believe him.
And now I’m breathless for an entirely new reason.
“Dinner, huh?” I manage, my voice a shaky whisper.