Page 10 of Marry Lies
Something akin to surprise flashes across his features. His eyes glitter as he assesses me. “You know, you have to be one of the most interesting women I’ve ever met, Estelle.”
“Stella,” I remind him. “And thank you. I abhor boring people. Case in point,” I add, glaring at him.
“I never saidinterestingwas a compliment,” he murmurs.
I shrug. “Better to beinterestingthan boring, in my eyes.”
He laughs quickly, but then his mouth closes tightly. He looks almost vulnerable when he utters his next sentence.
“I suppose being interesting is a privilege. Some of us must fly under the radar however we can.”
“Well, maybe it’ll make you feel better if I tell you that I don’t actually think you’re boring. You just want people to think you are.”
He arches a brow as he stabs a piece of steak, chewing it slowly as he digests my words. I study the way his jaw muscles ripple when he chews. The way his mouth moves. The way his long fingers grip the fork and knife firmly. The image of Miles Ravage eating is highly erotic.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. What is wrong with me?
I wait for him to respond. I don’t like this game of mental football we’ve been playing. It makes me feel ill at ease. I pride myself on knowingwhoI am and what I stand for, and most certainly how to deal with men. I had to learn at a young age how to brush off snarky comments, how to deal with a male-centered world, and how to find my own unique strengths. I’m no stranger to men taunting me, and most of the time, I’m able to remain clear-headed.
Quick-witted.
That’s what my father liked to call me. Being a curvy, plus-size woman meant I’d spent my twenties learning how to gain people’s respect. Since most people didn’t respect young, ambitious women—especially women with bodies that didn’t fit into society’s idea of acceptable—I had to teach myself ways to even the playing field. That meant learning how to call people out on their bullshit.
It was especially important lately, with people so interested in our family and what we were doing. I couldn’t take anything personally, so I’d built up a thick skin.
But for whatever reason, being around Miles feels sort of like my head is buried in sand. All the witty remarks I’m normally so good at get lost somewhere between my brain and my tongue. The barbs and jabs that usually come easily fall to the wayside the second I stare into his bright, green eyes.
Why is that?
My whole body tingles when I think of how it felt to be pressed against his body in that taxi. How his hands ran down my thighs, reaching under my shirt and brushing my skin with his fingers. How it felt like my spine was being electrocuted. Howhardhe was underneath my hand, like he wanted me just as much as I wanted him.
I close my eyes briefly, thinking of the harsh way he pushed me off of him—the stoic look on his face when the taxi sped off.
It was a total brush off.
When Miles is done chewing, he hums. “I see. It seems you’ve spent some time condensing me into a perfect, little box. What else have you observed about me?” he murmurs, his voice gravelly.
My cheeks heat.So. Many. Things.
“I can read people easily, that’s all,” I explain, dabbing my lips with my serviette.
His eyes narrow slightly as he stares at me. “And I can read people easily as well, Estelle.”
“Please, call me Stella.”
Cocking his head, he places his fork and knife on his plate as he looks me over. My skin erupts in goosebumps as they peruse over my neck, chest, down to my lap, and back up to my face.
“Why does your real name bother you so much?” I open my mouth to retort, suddenly feeling hot and flushed.It’s not the name. It’s who used to call me that name.But before I can reply, he lets out a low laugh. “It’s a beautiful name. Did you know it means ‘star’ in Latin?”
Something dark and dangerous swoops low in my stomach at his words, and I can’t look away from him.
He stares right back at me, daring me to look away with his cocky smirk. He knows he’s unnerved me, and I take a slow, steady breath to orient myself. I’ve never met anyone like him—witty, quick, able to match my banter. I never get what I put out, but somehow, I suspect I’ve met my match in Miles Ravage.
His eyes darken slightly as they rove down to my mouth, and before I can register what he’s doing, he’s leaning forward and gripping my chin with his hand. I suck in a sharp breath as his thumb comes to rest on my lower lip.
“You have something on your lip…” he trails off, and my eyes flutter as he swipes the rough pad of his thumb against the corner of my mouth.
Everything feels hot—and my whole body goes taut as his eyes flick between mine, as he stays there for just a second too long.
