Page 32 of The Sniper

I blinked. “Me?”

“You sit across from me looking like the reason men go to war? Yeah. You.”

I tried to smile, but the way he said it made something flutter behind my ribs. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I might start to believe you.”

He reached for his glass, eyes darkening just enough to send heat up my neck. “That’s the idea.”

I looked away, focusing too hard on the flicker of candlelight on the table. The restaurant was packed, but it felt like we were in our own little bubble—warm light, clinking silverware, the sound of laughter carried over the hum of conversation. He hadn’t touched me once since I climbed in the truck, but I still felt it—that heat, that pull. Like I was orbiting a man with gravity I didn’t understand.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, voice quieter now. “So, tell me something.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s vague.”

He smiled, just a little. “Fine. Tell me how a woman like you—pretty, strong, clearly not afraid of fire—still believes in church pews and Sunday dresses. You don’t exactly strike me as naive.”

“I’m not,” I said, sharper than I meant to. Thensoftened. “But I was raised in it. The church, I mean. My daddy’s a pastor. Baptist. First Baptist of Estill.”

He whistled low. “So you actually are a preacher's daughter. I guessed as much.”

“I am,” I muttered, sipping my water to buy time. “We had devotionals every morning, youth group every week, purity rings at thirteen.”

His brow ticked up. “You still wear it?”

I laughed, but it didn’t quite land. “No. It broke somewhere around college. But I kept the promise. Mostly.”

His gaze didn’t flinch. “Still saving yourself?”

I stiffened. “That’s a personal question.”

“It is,” he said without apology. “But you don’t strike me as someone who’s afraid of truth.”

I didn’t answer right away. Just twisted the napkin in my lap. “It’s not that I’m scared,” I said slowly. “I just … I wanted it to mean something. To be safe. With someone who saw me.”

“I see you,” he said.

The words were soft. Serious. Not a line—at least, not one meant to be smooth. And they knocked the air out of me a little.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he added. “I’m not trying to steal something sacred. I just want to know what I’m up against.”

“You’re not up against anything,” I said quietly. “I don’t date. Not really. Not since college. It’s complicated with my family, with the church … with expectations.”

Noah nodded, swirling the ice in his glass. “So, what happens if a guy like me pulls you close in the parking lot after dinner and kisses you again?”

I felt my face go hot. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether I let you.” I glanced up. “And whether I hate myself after.”

He held my gaze, something fierce and unreadable in his eyes. “You won’t.”

“You sound awfully sure.”

“I’m not,” he said. “But I’ve never wanted to get it right so bad in my life.”

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