Page 106 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part One

“I’m okay, Storm,” I say, trying to find a smile. “It’s really sweet you’d even thought to reassure me.”

Storm’s face doesn’t change, so I put my hand on his tense forearm. The second my palm hits his flesh, it’s like his heat pulses into my body, our connection undeniable.

So whyamI trying to deny this?

“I’d love some of the chardonnay,” I say, pulling my hand back. His eyes slide closed in a long blink, but when he opens them, he goes back to the cabinet to grab two wine glasses.

“Leave your notes and the journal article. I’ll give it a read, add my revisions to the report, and send it over to you for a final readthrough.” He pours the wine and hands me mine before filling his glass halfway.

The chardonnay has a smooth, buttery mouthfeel with pleasant notes of something citrusy. I’m not a wine aficionado by any means, but I can tell the difference between good wine and, let’s say, the boxed wine I used to guzzle at dorm parties freshman year.

“That sounds fine,” I say, taking another sip of the wine before lowering the glass to the counter, where it lands with a delicatetink.

“Great,” he says, and the oven beeps. Compared to a regular range, it warms up at what feels like warp speed. After removing the top of the dish, he efficiently slides the meal into the oven and sets the timer on the microwave.

“So now that that’s out of the way,” he says, grinning, “pack up your stuff so we can turn this into a real date.”

I swallow, my eyes going wide. Sure, he’s making dinner—or, I guess, warming it—and things are a little cozy with the sun going down, casting a golden glow from the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room.

But this is a….

“A date?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow and shifting my weight to one hip. “Sir, you did not ask me on a date.”

Storm takes a sip of his wine, a long one, before placing his glass back on the counter and looking at me with an expression I find hard to decode.

“I didn’t plan on it being a date when I invited you here, but inspiration struck me,” he says, and I tilt my chin down, giving him an incredulous look.

“Right,” I drawl, and Storm looks a little sheepish.

“ShaeI-Don’t-Know-Your-Middle-NameRivers, will you do me the immense honor of joining me for dinner in my home this evening?” He straightens when he says this, putting one hand over his heart as if swearing an oath.

I giggle, which causes me to frown, because Inevergiggle.

“Olivya,” I say.

“Olivya,” he says, stretching the word out as if feeling it on his tongue.

I shiver and think how silly it is I’m getting turned on by a man saying my name.

“So what will it be, Sweetness?” he asks again, and I reach for my wine, bringing it close to my chest.

Do it, do it, do it!Yenn’s chanting in my brain gives me confidence.

“Yes. I’ll stay for dinner. Thank you for asking,” I reply.

Now it’s Storm’s smile that rivals the sun.

“Wonderful,” he says, breaking the hypnotic spell. “Mine’s Alexander, by the way.”

“Alexander,” I say, tasting the name on my tongue. “Storm Alexander Sandoval. Were your parents expecting you to be a war general or something?”

He pauses for a minute before tilting his head back and releasing a sound that I can only describe as a chortle.

“Something like that,” he says through his laughter. I find my smile growing involuntarily.

“Come,” he says. “It’s gonna be a bit before dinner’s ready. I’ll, uh, make the sides in a few.” He points toward his living room where the plush sofa sits next to a shorter loveseat and glass coffee table.

“Why do you sound scared?” I ask, still amused. He winces.

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