Page 16 of Can't Stop Watching
"I insist," I say, already moving away to serve other customers, needing breathing room from whatever this magnetic pull is.
I keep in taking orders, mixing drinks, making change—all on autopilot while acutely aware of him watching me. Not leering. Just... observing. Like he's cataloging my movements, filing away information.
When I circle back, he's nursing the same whiskey, barely touched.
"Not up to standards?" I ask, nodding at his glass.
A ghost of a smile. "Taking it slow tonight."
"That's a first for this place."
"I'm not much like this place."
No, he's not. The Old Haunt is predictable, comfortable, safe. Dane is none of those things. He makes me think of a storm wrapped in human skin, promising both destruction and thebreathless thrill of standing in open air while lightning strikes too close.
And isn't that just the problem?
Because part of me—the reckless, stupid part I've spent years burying—would love to step right into that kind of storm.
The crowd thins after eleven. A few stragglers nurse their beers, but the usual Monday rush is over. I'm wiping glasses when I feel it—that prickle across my skin that makes me look up.
I lock eyes with Dane. He gives this almost imperceptible nod, like some secret military signal.Come here.
My feet move before my brain catches up. Traitors.
"Need a refill?" I ask, even though his glass is still half-full.
"No." He sets his whiskey down, eyes intent. "I'm heading out soon, but I wanted to ask you something first."
Oh shit. Here we go.
"What's that?" My voice sounds way too breathless. Get it together, Lila.
"Have dinner with me. Tomorrow night."
Not a question. A statement. Like he's already decided and is just informing me of the plan. Classic alpha-male bullshit that shouldn't be attractive but...
Danger, danger, danger—my internal warning system blares again.
"Dinner?" I repeat like an idiot, buying time while my body and brain have an epic showdown. My body's argument is simple:Look at him. My brain's making a PowerPoint presentation titled "Men Who Seem Perfect: A Horror Story by Lila Marks."
"Yes, dinner. Food. Conversation. Maybe even… dessert." His lips curve slightly as he lean forward a bit.
God, those lips. They shouldn't be allowed.
"I know what dinner is," I say, fidgeting with my ear cuff. "I'm just... surprised."
"Why?"
"Because you're… um… you and I'm—" I gesture vaguely at myself. "Working my way through grad school behind a bar."
"I'm me and you're you. Seems simple enough."
My heart does a stupid little flip. This is exactly how it happens, they make you feel special right before they show you that you're nothing.
"I don't even know your last name," I say.
"Wolfe," he says.
