Page 119 of With a Cherry On Top

My hands find their way to her waist, fingers slipping under her dress and grazing the curve of her hip. “I guess they caught me staring at you.”

She tilts her head as her gaze flickers to my lips. “I told you, Chef. You have no poker face.”

Maybe I don’twanta poker face when I look at her. What if I want her to see everything? Everything I feel, everything I want? What if I want her to know that the moment she steps into a room, the air itself rearranges to make space for her? That she’s the gravity pulling me in, the only thing my eyes search for, the only thought that has mattered since the second I first saw her?

“So what does my face tell you right now?” I ask, stroking her side.

She giggles, her breath warm against my cheek. “That you’re drunk.”

“What else?”

“That you really want to kiss me.”

Fuck yes.

“Will you let me?”

She breathes out a laugh, shaking her head slightly. “You’re drunk, Chef.”

“Will you let me kiss you?” I say again, my grip tightening.

Her eyes flicker, and she bites her bottom lip. She’s thinking about it. I give her my most sincere smile, hoping it’ll tip her decision toward the answer I’m desperate for.

“The moment we kiss, this will stop being about the fun of sneaking around,” she says, her voice lower now, serious. “The thrill of danger.”

“I think we’re past that already, aren’t we?”

“Not until wekiss.”

“What will it be about then?” I ask.

She leans into my touch like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I guess that depends on how the kiss goes.”

Well, I want to find out. Us kissing—it would be everything. Iknowit. I can feel it in my bones. The taste of her, the heat of her body against mine. I want to kiss her until my head spins, until my hands memorize the curves of her body. Until nothing else exists but her and me.

“Let’s do it,” I say, leaning forward.

She tilts back, giggling. Her glass shifts in her hand, the cherry bobbing in the liquid, and my chuckle vibrates against her skin as I kiss the delicate spot just below her jaw. The sound she makes—a breathy sigh—sends heat curling through my veins.

“You’redrunk,” she reminds again.

“Stop saying that.”

“But you are!”

“Who cares?” My fingers press into her lower back. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks, Charlotte. Since you were just Cherry to me.”

She studies me, her fingers grazing the nape of my neck, tracing deliberate circles. “And you want to do it in front of your friends?”

I shrug. “They told me to. Amelie said that I shouldonlycome back a winner.”

“Amelie?” Her joy dims slightly. “I thought you said it was a bachelor party. Why isshehere?”

I frown. Again with this? “It’s a bachelor-slash-bachelorette party—and she’s married. All the women with us are taken.”

Before I can reassure her further, she grabs my hand and pulls me with her.

The dance floor is packed, bodies swaying and colliding under the pulsing strobe lights. The music pounds in my ears, the bass thrumming through my chest. She stops in the middle of the crowd, the press of people forming a barrier around us. It feels like another world in here—dark, hazy, intimate.

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