Page 80 of The Heiress's First Date

Look who’s alive.

He’s not wrong. I ghosted him hard. Wrapped up in my own turbulent feelings. Out of sorts with Alex so far away. At war with myself over the Cort acquisition.

Part of me felt guilty as I called everyone into the office for a late-night meeting, all while ignoring King’s texts. But there was a part that was absolutely sure time and distance were necessary.

A golden brow lifts as he awaits my answer.

“It’s not a done deal yet.”

He steps closer, only a few feet away now. An arm’s length. My pulse picks up speed, and my breathing does that weird, shallow, low-in-my-lungs thing.

Fuck, he’s beautiful.

There’s just no other way to say it. Golden skin, haunting eyes the color of sea foam. God, his cheekbones. But it’s his lips that have a lock down on my attention.

It’s his lips that leave me flustered. Daydreaming. And then cutting off all communication.

“So something else, then,” he says, and I swear he’s whispering.

Holy. Fuck. Yes.

Wait.

Does he mean... No. He’s glancing at the wine selection. Isn’t he? I narrow my eyes. Wait. Is he staring at my crotch?

I pull my shoulders back a fraction. Why? I have no idea.

He reaches for my belt buckle. My breath freezes in my lungs. I don’t dare move a muscle. Ohmygod, this is happening.Is this happening, or am I dreaming?

He reaches past me. I glance down and see those long fingers wrap around the neck of a bottle. It’s fucking indecent the way my mind substitutes my dick for that bottle.

Is time really slowing down, or is he just pulling the wine out all slow and seductive-like?

“I’ve heard good things about this one,” he murmurs, reading over the label.

My breath rushes out, embarrassingly harsh in the quiet space. I lick my lips and swallow back my lust. Why the hell does he smell so good?

“Yeah, ugh, I was saving that for a special day.” I reach for it, and our fingers brush. Electric sparks shoot up my arm, and my grip tightens so I don’t drop it. “I think this is it.”

I set the bottle on the shallow display shelf to my right, not trusting myself right now.

“Are you sure?” He jerks a thumb toward the floor-to-ceiling racks overflowing with wine behind him. “We can pick something else.”

“I’m sure.”

Somewhere in the last twenty-four hours, several wrinkles in my life ironed themselves out, and all the uncertainty I felt when I woke up next to Kingston after our movie marathon is gone now. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m on the right path.

Making peace with the past. Ready to really grab my future by the horns.

Or the hips. Whichever.

“Your dinner’s getting cold,” he says.

I don’t care. “That’s what microwaves are for.”

His light green eyes pin me where I stand, then narrow on my lips.

He’s thinking it.

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