Page 48

She’s been talking more tonight. Not nervously. Not in that wary, careful way she usually does when she’s trying to gauge me. She’s…relaxed. Or at least, as close to relaxed as she can be in my presence.
“I still don’t trust you,” she says, tapping her nails lightly against the phone in her hand.
I smirk, adjusting my cuff links. “That’s a shame. I was planning on making you fall madly in love with me by the end of the night.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t hide the way her lips twitch. “Big expectations. Hope you don’t disappoint.”
I let my gaze drop, slow and deliberate, to the slit of her dress where her thigh peeks through. Then back up to her lips. “Oh, I won’t.”
Her breath hitches—just for a second, barely noticeable. But I catch it. I catch the way her fingers tighten around her phone, the way her teeth drag over her lower lip before she schools her expression.
She looks away first.
I’ve won this round.
“Where are we going?” she asks after a moment, glancing at me through her lashes.
I tilt my head slightly, watching her, enjoying this game. “It’s a surprise.”
She huffs. “I hate surprises.”
“You’ll like this one.”
She doesn’t argue, just shifts in her seat, stretching her legs slightly. Her dress inches higher, but I keep my expression neutral.
Barely.
A soft chime fills the space between us, and I glance down to see her tapping away at her phone.
“Who are you texting?” I ask, my voice deceptively light.
She doesn’t look up. “Well, considering this phone only allows me to contact my mother, who do you think I’m texting?”
My smirk fades.
The words hit harder than they should.
Guilt isn’t something I feel often. It’s a useless emotion, a distraction, a sign of weakness. But watching her now, I realize that I’ve limited her in a way I never even considered. She’s trapped.
And I put her in that cage.
She looks up suddenly, catching me watching her. Something flickers in her gaze—curiosity, maybe even challenge.
“What?” she asks.
I lean back, forcing a smirk. “Nothing. Just wondering if you’re complaining about me.”
She tilts her head, considering. Then she smirks. “Oh, absolutely.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Brutal.”
“You’ll live.”
The way her fingers brush against her thigh absently, the way her teeth sink into her bottom lip—it’s intentional. Whether she realizes it or not, she’s playing a game.
And she’s damn good at it.
“You’re staring,” she murmurs, tilting her head slightly.