Page 13 of His To Erase
It says I showed up, not that I’m interested.
I pair that with high-waisted jeans—also black, and ripped—that hug every inch of me like they were personally tailored by the gods of emotional damage and good decisions made late at night.
Not that I’m dressing for him, this is for me. That way I look like I can throw a punch and walk away without smudging my mascara.
It’s a look that says, I could ruin your life, but I don’t feel like it tonight.
I lace up my combat boots, knowing they're still comfortable enough to walk home in if I decide to ghost halfway through this disaster. Which, let’s be honest, is already feeling like a strong possibility.
The Uber’s waiting at the curb, and I’m already questioning every decision that led to this moment.
The ride is quiet, giving my brain time to spiral as the city blurs past in neon streaks and glowing streetlights. The closer we get, the heavier the regret sits in my stomach.
By the time we pull up, I’m already planning my exit. The restaurant doesn’t look like a restaurant, it looks like a threat with marble stairs, and gold-trimmed doors.
Jesus Christ.
I sigh, slipping out of the car before I can talk myself into staying inside. The air is cool against my skin and the sounds of the city are muffled under the weight of too much money and exclusivity.
I spot Frank standing outside the entrance with his hands in his pockets, watching me with that same smug confidence—like he knew I wouldn’t back out.
His suit is dark and effortlessly tailored, the kind of cut that makes expensive look easy. Even under the streetlight, he looks polished—clean-shaven jaw, long hair pushed back like he stepped out of a magazine shoot. He doesn’t belong on a quiet sidewalk.
His eyes find mine, and he holds my gaze. There’s a glint in them that looks like either mischief or arrogance, I’m never quite sure which.
I feel a quiet hum under my skin. The one that always stirs when he looks at me like that. But want and trust aren’t the same thing, so I keep walking. I’ve noticed the way his mouth tilts when he watches me approach, and the closer I get, the stronger I can smell him.
"You clean up nice," he says, while his eyes drag over my outfit with something unreadable.
"So do you," I deadpan. "Shame it’s wasted on this place."
He chuckles, shaking his head. "And here I thought you were starting to like me."
I tilt my head. "Not even a little."
His grin widens, like he sees right through me. He steps closer, offering his arm. "Shall we?"
I don’t take it, but I do follow him inside.
The restaurant is too much.
It’s all dark wood, gold accents, and chandeliers dripping with crystals. It’s the kind of place where the wine costs more than my rent and the silverware probably has a better pedigree than I do. A quiet hum of conversation fills the space, broken only by the occasional chime of glass meeting glass.
Frank definitely belongs here.
The moment we step through the doors, heads turn. Not because he demands attention, but because he wears power like a second skin.
He just places a hand at the small of my back, and mutters something about reservations to the hostess who’s currently drooling over him.
She just nods, grabbing two menus, and leads us through the maze of white tablecloths and expensive conversation.
I slide into my seat, stretching out my legs like I don’t care about the stares we’re getting. Which I’m sure are due to my outfit choice. If I knew I had to go prom dress shopping to eat here, I would have definitely found a way out of tonight.
Frank watches me, amused, as he settles into his own seat. "What?"
I prop my chin in my hand, tapping my fingers against my cheek. "Nothing. Just wondering how many threats it took to get a table like this."
His smirk curves, slow and lazy. "What makes you think I had to threaten anyone?"
