Page 9 of His To Erase
I glance at him, unimpressed. "You really expect me to believe that?"
He places a hand over his heart, trying his hardest to look offended. "You wound me."
“Good,” I mutter, brushing past him to grab another bottle from the wall. “Maybe it’ll finally make you stop harassing me.”
His smirk doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens—like I just confirmed he’s winning whatever game we’re playing. Like rejection’s just foreplay to him.
“That’s what you said last time.”
“And yet you’re still here.”
“Exactly,” he says, all smooth arrogance and way too much eye contact. “Which means you’re doing something wrong.”
God, he’s relentless.
I scan the room for a lifeline—someone who needs a refill, someone vomiting on a barstool, literally anything to save me from this conversation. But there’s nothing.
“Or you just have a problem with rejection.”
I say it like I’m commenting on the weather. I’ve said no to him so many times it’s practically my job title at this point, but he just grins like I handed him another reason to stay. Maybethat’s the problem, maybe guys like him don’t hear “no.” Maybe they hear “not yet.”
Maybe they’re always looking for the crack in your armor instead of respecting the fact that it’s there for a reason.
But, I don’t say any of that.
I just keep pouring drinks and pretending he doesn’t make my skin itch in a way that feels too familiar.
He watches me while his fingers trace patterns against the counter, and I know what he’s doing. "You call it rejection, I call it persistence."
I shake my head, biting back a smirk that’s more reflex than amusement. I still don’t know what his angle is. Maybe he just likes the chase. Or he sees something in me he can’t quite name—some crack in the foundation he wants to dig his hands into. Or maybe he just gets off on watching me squirm.
Wouldn’t be the first.
Either way—I don’t trust him. Not with his smile, not with his persistence, and definitely not with the way his eyes linger. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like the distraction.
I exhale through my nose, setting down the last clean glass and grip the edge of the counter like it might have the answers I don’t. Because I know what’s coming. He’s not going to stop asking. He’s going to keep showing up and pushing. Keep circling until he either gets what he wants—or I finally break character.
So maybe it’s time to end the game. Maybe I will say yes. Just once. Just enough to remind myself why I don’t say yes in the first place.
I turn, leveling him with a look. "One date."
Frank stills. It’s brief—so quick I almost miss it—but it’s there. That flicker of something behind his eyes, something sharp and knowing, like he was just waiting for me to break first.
His smirk curves slowly. "You sure, sweetheart? Hate to think you’re giving in already."
I cross my arms. "Don’t flatter yourself. The sooner this happens, the sooner you stop asking."
He lifts his glass, tilting it toward me in a slow, lazy toast before taking a sip. "We’ll see."
I roll my eyes, already regretting this. "Pick a time and place, and I’ll meet you there."
He sets his glass down with a quiet clink, standing with that same practiced ease, adjusting the cuffs of his suit like he knew this was inevitable.
Smug bastard.
“Smart decision.”
I scoff. "It’s a pity date—don’t get ahead of yourself."
