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I close my eyes, remembering the way she kissed me back. The way it felt like falling and flying at the same time, but also what she said as she walked away.
‘Luke… don’t do this. It isn’t fair.’
‘I know. I don’t have the right. But that doesn’t change how I feel.’
I stare at the screen, but she doesn’t respond. Damn. How does she feel? For that matter, how do I feel?
‘The chocolate tart was amazing, by the way,’I finally text, giving her an easy out from the emotional quicksand we’re sinking into. But then I ruin it by typing‘Almost as sweet as you.’
‘Don’t,’Lila immediately texts back. Then,‘No dessert-based pickup lines allowed!’
‘Spoilsport. At least come sit on the deck with me whileI finish this feast you ‘tested’.’
Will she say no? She probably wants to maintain her distance and not get caught up in the complicated situation I’m in.
‘Just for a few minutes. I have to work tomorrow,’she taps back.‘but I’ll need detailed feedback on that sauce.’
I can practically see her smile through the text. Grinning, I reply.‘Of course. Very professional.’
This is a terrible idea. But as I head for the sliding glass door, I can’t bring myself to care. Sometimes, terrible ideas feel an awful lot like good ones.
I hear her soft footsteps on the deck before I see her. She’s changed into yoga pants and an oversized sweater that slips off one shoulder, and the sight of her makes my chest tight.
“Hey,” she says softly, hovering by the door.
“Hey.” I gesture to the chair next to mine. “Sit. Have some wine?”
She hesitates, thennods. “Just one glass.”
I pour her some Pinot Noir that I know she likes, watching as she curls into the chair, tucking her feet under her. The ocean provides a gentle soundtrack to our silence.
“This really was incredible,” I say, indicating the nearly empty plate. “Similar to how my mom used to make it.”
“Only similar?” she asks with a slightly disappointed grimace.
“Yeah, my mom’s gravy wasn’t nearly as smooth. It always had lumps.”
She gives an amused laugh. “I’m glad it was similar.” Her gaze soft in the dim light. “Sometimes... sometimes food is the best way to say things we can’t put into words.”
The way she says it makes me wonder what, exactly, she was trying to say with this meal. I take another sip of wine instead of asking.
“The moonlight looks beautiful tonight,” she murmurs, looking out over the water.
But I’m looking at her—the way the fading light catches her profile, how her fingers absently trace the rim of her wine glass. “Yeah, beautiful.”
She catches me staring and blushes, that lovely pink I can’t get enough of spreading across her cheeks. “Luke...”
“I know,” I say quickly. “I’m sorry. I just...” I run a hand through my hair in frustration. “Being around you makes me forget all the reasons why I shouldn’t...”
“Shouldn’t what?” Her voice is barely a whisper.
Silently, in my head I answer, ‘I want to pull you into my lap. I want to kiss you until we both forget everything else. And I want to find out if your skin tastes as sweet as it looks’.
“Nothing,” I say out loud instead, gripping my wine glass tighter. “Tell me about your day.”
She gives me a knowing look but plays along, telling me about the bakery, Jenny’s latest dating disaster, and the exciting call from Hunter Henson’s office. I listen, soaking in her voice and the way she talks with her hands when she’s excited.
The moon rises higher over the water as we talk, casting everything in silver light. She’s luminous in it, and when she laughs at something I’ve said, the sound travels straight to my heart—and groin.