Page 14 of His To Erase

The blonde glances between us like she’s just realized she walked into the wrong scene of a movie and is two seconds from being written out.

I glance at her. “You might wanna find another table.”

She blinks, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

I tilt my head, slow and pointed. “He’s already had his dessert.”

She makes a little scoffing noise and turns to him again, like he’s going to defend her.

He doesn’t.

He just tips his head, dragging his dark eyes down my body with maddening patience.

“Careful, dear. Keep acting like that and I might have to find the closest ladder.”

My entire body locks up, heat flashing under my skin like a match to gasoline. I won’t give him the satisfaction. But fuck, my pulse is already thudding like it remembers exactly what happened the last time I was on a ladder with him between my thighs.

I walk away before I say something I can’t take back, and he doesn’t stop me. But I feel his stare like a brand between my shoulder blades as I duck behind the bar, grabbing the same glass I’ve cleaned three times just for something to do with my hands.

When I finally do glance up—when I can't help myself—he’s leaned back in the booth, arms spread across the top of it like he owns the entire damn room. His legs are stretched out and he has that same unreadable expression on his face. But it’s his eyes that get me.

He’s looking at me like he’s waiting for something.

I drop my gaze focusing on the glass in my hand and the way my fingers won’t stop twitching.

Goddamn it.

I’m annoyed. I’m spiraling. And I hate that the only thing grounding me right now is a cheap tumbler and a slow-building rage I’m trying to swallow down with it.

"You only clench your jaw like that when you’re holding back something violent."

The voice comes from behind me—low and smug, and entirely too close.

I jerk, nearly dropping the glass, because I didn’t even hear him, I didn’t see him leave the table.

He steps around the bar like we haven’t been dancing on a knife’s edge since the moment we met.

I stare at him, keeping my jaw tight.

“Jesus. You move like a fucking ghost.”

He shrugs, unbothered.

“You looked like you were about to commit a felony. Figured I’d come check before you shattered something over someone’s head.”

“Tempting,” I mutter. “But I have bills to pay.”

He leans in, hands braced on the bar, and suddenly his presence is a weight. I hate how my thighs press together on instinct whenever he’s close.

“Spit it out,” he murmurs. “Whatever it is. You’ll feel better.”

I want to grab him by the collar and demand to know what the hell that was—the look, the blonde, the absolute radio silence since the last time he touched me like I was something he’d kill for.

But I don’t.

Because he’s too close, and my chest is too tight. And because I’m not sure what would come out if I actually do.

Instead, I force a bitter smile.

“I’m fine.”

His eyes darken.

“You’re a shit liar.”

“Excuse me?” I snap.

He doesn’t flinch. He just lifts a brow, calm as ever.

“You’ve already taken six steps,” he murmurs. “That’s usually when you turn around and start swinging.”

My stomach twists.

Because—what the fuck?

I freeze, fingers tightening around the glass in my hand like that’s going to steady me. That’s the most unsettling thing anyone’s ever said to me.

How the hell would he know that?

I stare at him, blinking like an idiot, because now I’m replaying it in my head.

He’s still watching me with that maddening stillness like he’s not just in my head—he’s rearranging the fucking furniture.

He shrugs one shoulder, like he’s commenting on the weather.

“You did it at the library. You do it here, too. Three steps, sharp turn, back again. Always in threes.”

Always in threes.

My throat goes dry, and my blood goes cold.

I never even realized I did it that consistently until he said it out loud. And that’s what rattles me. Not the fact that he noticed—but how fast he picked up on it.

“Some people count sheep. I pace. Congrats,” I snap, tossing the rag on the counter and reaching for another glass, pretending like I’m not suddenly hyper aware of every move I make.

“Didn’t say it was a bad thing,” he murmurs. His voice sounds like dark velvet over broken glass. “Just interesting.”

Interesting.

I glare at him across the counter. “You always psychoanalyze your bartenders?”

His lips twitch into something that might be a smile—but not the kind that reaches his eyes. It’s darker than that. Sharper.

Then, in that low, deliberate voice that crawls under my skin like smoke through a cracked window, he says, “You’ve cleaned that glass for two minutes, clenching your jaw. You’ve got something to say. Spit it out.”

My spine straightens before I can stop it. Of course he’s clocking my every move.

I cross my arms, keeping my expression cool—detached—while my insides churn.

“What,” I shoot back, “you keeping a stopwatch on me now?”

He just leans forward, elbows resting on the bar like he’s getting comfortable, and ready to watch me come undone.

“You were ready to go for the throat over a blonde with too much perfume,” he says. “Don’t tell me you’ve run out of energy now.”

My mouth opens. Then shuts. Because I have nothing. Nothing that won’t sound like an admission.

He’s not wrong. And he fucking knows it.

The glass in my hand creaks like it might shatter. Which, honestly, would be preferable to letting him see how much he’s getting under my skin.

“You don’t know shit about me,” I mutter.

But it’s weak. Even I can hear it. And from the slight tilt of his mouth, he does too.

“I know how you look at me when you think I’m not watching.”

My pulse stutters.

And now I’m the one gripping the edge of the bar, hoping it holds me up while I figure out how to survive this conversation without either jumping him or throwing something.