Page 26 of His To Erase
I scoff. “You were the one pretending to read.”
He hums, low in his throat, the sound lazy and dangerous, like he’s amused.
When he sets his glass down like he’s got all the time in the world to play whatever game he’s started, I can’t help but drool a little.
“Was I pretending?”
My pulse skips–a full traitorous stutter.
I narrow my eyes, leaning in just slightly, refusing to let him see how much that one line got to me.
“You tell me.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. Just a fraction. And then he leans in, slow and intentional, like he’s doing it to prove a point. The scent of whiskey curls off his breath, laced with something darker.
God, he’s infuriating.
And hot.
But mostly infuriating.
I shift my weight, pretending to straighten a bottle behind the bar just to break eye contact.
“I think,” he murmurs, voice like a velvet noose, “you’re just looking for excuses to be near me.”
My jaw tightens.
Oh, fuck you.
I don’t say it out loud, but I think it hard enough that I’m sure he hears it. His eyes don’t leave mine. He just lets the words hang there like a challenge.
A line I haven’t decided whether to cross—or set on fire.
My fingers twitch against the bar and I roll my eyes with a little more force than necessary. “You’ve got a real problem with misreading people, huh?”
He tilts his head, studying me with the kind of focus that makes your skin feel too tight. He's peeling back layers with his eyes and not even pretending to be subtle about it.
“I don’t misread anything, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart?
Yeah, no. The way he says it—it’s not sweet, it’s a threat dressed as affection. A dare.
Heat prickles up the back of my neck, curling low at the base of my spine and I know without a doubt, it’s a warning I should listen to.
But don’t.
Then it spreads, pooling right where I don’t want it to. God, I hate the way my body betrays me sometimes. I press both palms against the bar, grounding myself against the cool surface.
“I’m not your sweetheart.”
The words snap out sharper than I intend, but he only smirks—wider this time.
“You keep telling yourself that.”
He takes another slow sip of whiskey, mouth curling around the rim of the glass like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
His eyes stay locked on mine—steady, and impossible to read.
