Page 4 of His To Erase
He leans in, close enough that I catch the sharp hit of his cologne. It’s expensive—probably imported—but he’s wearing too much of it.
“Just persistent.”
I roll my eyes so hard I almost see last year. “It’s not happening.”
“Yet,” he says smoothly. “I’ll just keep coming back. Sooner or later, you’re gonna get sick of saying no.”
I tilt my head like I’m thinking about it. I’m not. But the performance helps me feel like I’m in control of something.
“Or,” I say sweetly, “I’ll just start charging you a fee every time you walk through the door. Win-win. That might actually pay my rent.”
His grin spreads, slow and satisfied. The kind of grin that says I always get what I want, and you just haven’t realized it yet.
“I’ll pay whatever you want me to, love. As long as you let me sit at your bar.”
Of course he would say that. The man turns obsession into flirtation like it’s a love language.
I don’t answer.
Not out loud.
Because this is the dance we do—him, charming and cocky, me, unimpressed and pretending I don’t wonder what it would feel like to let my guard down for half a second.
Spoiler: I’m not going to. But he doesn’t need to know that yet.
I’ve outrun worse.
I don’t even know this man. Not really. I mean, sure—I technically saved his life a few months ago. Mistakes were made. And ever since, he’s apparently decided I’m the prize in some long-con romance novel he’s acting out in his head.
He’s been asking me out nonstop ever since. He clearly doesn’t know how to take no for an answer. Or he does, and he’s just refusing to accept that I mean it.
I know two things about Frank. One, he either has money or really wants people to think he does. And two, he enjoys the sound of his own voice almost as much as he enjoys seeing me pretend not to be interested.
Either way—not my problem.
But maybe…just maybe…dinner wouldn’t kill me.
A free meal and a little attention I don’t have to reciprocate? That’s not the worst thing in the world. I’ve suffered through worse in cheaper shoes.
I shake my head to clear the thought, but before I can throw another verbal punch his way, the door swings open behind him, and a gust of night air follows the next customer inside—cool and sharp and laced with something that makes the hair on my neck stand up.
Frank just sips his drink, eyes still on me as I slip back into autopilot. Smile. Move. Glass. Pour.
I keep my hands busy so my thoughts don’t start asking questions I don’t want answers to, but I can feel his gaze follow me with every step I take.
"One day, Ani," he murmurs. "You’ll say yes."
I glance at him, unimpressed. "Or maybe one day you’ll learn to take a hint."
He grins, unfazed, sliding off the stool. "Not likely."
He’s a picture of confidence as he strolls toward the door. I watch him go, shaking my head as I turn back to work. I should find that more irritating than I do. Instead, I find it intriguing.
The night drags, and by the time my shift is nearly over, my patience is hanging on by a thread. The bar is mostly cleared out—just a few stragglers nursing drinks, waiting for last call. I drop off a check for one of them and start wiping down the counter when I feel eyes on me.
I glance up, and sure enough—there is. Table twelve. Alone. Overconfident. The kind of man who doesn’t ask so much as hover like you’re on display.
His gaze drags down my body slow enough to be deliberate, like I’m a meal and he’s deciding where to start.
