Page 31 of Wicked God
I open the door and there he stands—Alex Hawthorne, a vision of suavity with his dark hair, white dress shirt with the sleeves pushed up, black pants, leather jacket slung over broad shoulders. He’s every inch the man who could ruin you with a smile.
“Good evening, Olivia,” Alex greets me. Our eyes meet, and the air between us crackles.
“Alex.” I step aside, bracing for Duchess’s usual hissing fit. She dislikes strangers, and even more so hates men. But to my surprise, she weaves between Alex’s legs, purring like a motorboat.
“Well, hello there,” Alex crouches, scratching under her chin. Duchess—my man-hating, demon-possessed cat—actually closes her eyes in bliss.
“That’s... impossible,” I whisper.
He glances up, mouth curved. “Your little monster doesn’t seem so fearsome.”
“She must like you. Duchess isn’t usually this… agreeable.”
“We understand each other, don’t we, Your Highness?” He stands as Duchess prances away, mission accomplished. “I have that effect on felines. And their owners, if I’m not mistaken.”
My cheeks flush. “Don’t flatter yourself, Hawthorne.”
He leans in, lips grazing my cheek. My knees turn to jelly. I inhale sharply, catching the scent of his cologne—spicy and intoxicating. Familiar.
“You look breathtaking,” he murmurs.
My heart does this stupid little tap dance. “Thanks.”
“Ready?”
I nod, not trusting my voice. As I reach for my purse, his fingers slide between mine. The touch is electric and intimate, like we never left that windswept beach house. Like I never ruined everything with my own idiocy.
“Shall we?” His voice is velvet.
We slip into his car. The silence between us is charged, the engine’s thrum echoing the beat of my heart. He drives fast, city lights blurring past, until we stop in front of a sleek high-rise. I frown, caught off guard.
“Alex, what are we doing here?” I whisper as he leads me into the lobby.
He just smiles. “You’ll see.”
The elevator climbs, higher and higher, until it opens on the top floor. Alex guides me down a hushed hallway, through a door, and onto the rooftop. I gasp, my eyes widening at the sight before me.
The entire rooftop has been transformed into a romantic oasis. Twinkling fairy lights are strung overhead, casting a soft glow over the space. In the center stands a table for two, adorned with a crisp white tablecloth and flickering candles. The city skyline serves as a breathtaking backdrop, the lights of the city stretching out as far as the eye can see.
“Oh,“ I breathe, unable to tear my gaze away from the magical scene.
My mind races, trying to reconcile this grand romantic gesture with the conversation we’re about to have.
Alex offers me a warm smile, his eyes reflecting city lights as he pulls out a chair for me at the elegantly set table. I sit, hands folded in my lap, and the tension between us shifts. It’s softer now. Quieter. Like the hush after a storm.
He pours champagne, the bubbles rising in frantic little bursts. I take the glass, my fingers brushing his. “Thank you for this. It’s beautiful.”
His gaze lingers, intense, unblinking. Enough to make me shiver. “You deserve nothing but the best, Olivia.”
“Do you still think so? Even after everything?”
“I’ve never stopped thinking that. Not for a single moment.”
It’s too much. I drop my eyes, set the glass aside before my trembling fingers betray me.
Like clockwork, two servers appear, silent and efficient, setting down delicate plates in front of us. The food is artful, fragrant with truffle and herbs, making my mouth water and momentarily stilling the butterflies in my stomach.
“This looks delicious,” I say, picking up my fork. I take a small bite, savoring the explosion of flavors on my tongue. It’s a welcome distraction from the conversation looming ahead.
