Page 151 of here

Last time, I was able to keep the spaghetti down. I nod.

“And for you, sir?” Marcus asks.

“The ribeye. Rare.” He hands back the menus. “Oh, and some of those truffle fries she pretends not to steal.”

“I do not.”

“Please.” His dimples deepen. “Every time.”

They are delicious. Who could resist them? Who could resist his voice dropping to that low growl when he tells me to eat? Heat pools in my core. It’s the same voice he uses when he’s got me pinned against—I clear my throat. I don’t know why, but it makes it easier. To eat.

His lip twitch. “You okay?”

“Of course.” But my traitorous voice comes out breathier than intended, and my mind drifts to last night, and his fingers tangled in my hair.

“Anything else I can get for you?” Marcus asks, pen poised over his notepad.

“We’re good, thanks.” Brandon’s eyes never leave my face as Marcus nods and steps away.

“You’re staring.”

“You look different tonight.”

“Different how?” My hand instinctively reaches for my hair, but he catches it across the table.

“Relaxed. Happy. It’s a good look on you.”

It’s true, I feel lighter these days.

“Must be the dress.” I’m wearing one of the pieces we bought at Élysée, a deep blue wrap dress that actually lets me breathe.

“Must be the company.”

“Cocky much?”

“Always.” He lifts my hand, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. The gesture is so casual, so natural, but it sends sparks shooting through my veins. “But you like that about me.”

Can’t deny much of anything when he looks at me like I’m something precious, something worth protecting.

“How was your meeting today?” I ask, partly to distract myself from the way his thumb keeps stroking my hand.

Marcus returns with our wine, a rich red, and pours us each a glass before quietly retreating, granting us privacy.

“Elijah droned on about quarterly projections.” He takes a sip of wine. “Pretty boring.”

I take one, too, letting the warmth spread through me. Delicious.

“You do this little hum thing every time. It’s cute.”

“Shut up.” I set the glass down harder than necessary. “At least I don’t sniff everything like some pretentious food critic.”

“That’s called having a refined palate.”

“That’s called being insufferable.”

His infectious laugh echoes across the table, and I hide my smile behind another sip of wine, refusing to give him the satisfaction of being right. Even if he is.

Brandon swirls his wine. “How was therapy?”

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