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I lean against the red leather booth seat, wondering if Sin would notice if I slowly but surely start sliding closer to her. “How?”

“You scowled.”

“I scowl at everyone. Including you.”

“She probably thinks you’re mean.”

“I am mean.” Why bother hiding it? “She’s fine. I’ll never see her again after tonight.”

“You really just don’t give a damn, do you?” Sinclair sounds shocked. Amazed by my behavior.

“I don’t. Why should I? Who is she to me? No one important.” I shrug.

“But she’s a human being. She matters to someone. You should at the very least treat her with respect,” Sin points out.

I take a huge swallow of my bourbon, savoring the burn as it slides down my throat. I might need to get drunk after all, if my date is going to come at me every chance she gets. “I’ll consider what you’re saying.”

Sinclair beams. “Perfect.”

“Only if you’ll sit closer to me,” I tack on.

Her smile falls the slightest bit. “Why do you want me to sit closer to you?”

Why wouldn’t I, is the question. I want to feel her thigh pressed into mine. Smell her skin and her hair. Watch her breathe, for Christ’s sake. Is there any harm in that?

Most likely. I sound like a lunatic in my thoughts and I might, in fact, be crazy, but only because of her.

“It’ll be easier when we share the frites.” I smile at her, trying not to scowl or grimace or whatever other facial expression I do that makes me look, as she said, mean.

The table isn’t so large that I wouldn’t be able to share a dish with her but she scoots closer to me without protest, careful not to put any strain on the skirt of her dress. I’m glad I double-checked the dress code here with Iris because everyone else is dressed similarly and I wouldn’t want to make Sinclair uncomfortable or embarrassed.

I wipe my hand across my mouth, disgusted with my thoughts. Who am I again? Why do I care about her? As she loves to remind me, we don’t even know each other. Physically we’re compatible but whatever happens between us tonight feels like a test. One I will most likely fail.

Epically.

Chapter Thirty-Four

SINCLAIR

The food is delicious. August ordered an Aperol spritz for me and the server brought it without question, not bothering to card me. It was the perfect drink to accompany the truffle frites and fried artichokes, which were both amazing. The alcohol also calmed my nerves and steadied my shaky breaths. It’s like I can’t breathe when he looks at me. As if he’s trying to see through my clothes, my skin, into the very heart of me. Not that August cares about my heart.

Does he?

But now I’m three spritzes in and feeling as loose as a freaking goose while I nosh on yet another piece of their delicious table bread, praying it soaks up all the alcohol I’ve consumed.

I glance over at August to find him already watching me, his thigh pressed intimately against mine. Like he needs to keep it there so we’re in constant contact. It’s hot. He’s hot. It’s baffling to me how I’ve become the exception.Me. The girl he used to bully and taunt and humiliate. I still don’t get how this happened.

“Tell me about your family.” He slouches against the backof the red leather booth, the epitome of a relaxed, confident man who’s just finished a meal and is now looking at his date as if she has somehow also become a continuation of his meal that he can’t wait to devour. My entire body tingles in anticipation until his question truly sinks in.

Talking about my family is the last thing I want to do.

“I’d rather not.” I rest my hands in my lap and try to put on a demure act, but the gleam in his eyes tells me he’s not buying it. “It’s a boring story.”

“I don’t think anything you say can possibly be what you call a boring story.”

He should not say those sorts of things while looking at me that way. Ugh. He’s infuriating—with a hint of sweet. “You’d hate them.”

“Who?”