Page 15 of I Wish I Would’ve Warned You (Forbidden Wishes #3)
EMILY
B y the time I get back to the house, the light outside has thinned into that moody gray-blue that makes the trees look like silhouettes. The whole world feels paused—too late for afternoon, not quite night.
My mom’s voice floats up from downstairs, sing-song and too bright. That tone always means one thing: she wants something.
“We’re going out for dinner, Em! Aidan made reservations—get dressed!”
I stare at my closet like it personally offended me.
Thirty minutes later, I’m in the backseat of Aidan’s SUV, squeezed between my mother and her cloud of perfume, wearing a fitted black dress that feels too formal for whatever casual upscale seafood is supposed to mean.
Cole is already at the restaurant when we arrive—alone, of course. No one thought to tell him we were coming. Typical.
He looks up from the bar as we walk in, eyes flicking over us. There’s a pause—like he’s weighing whether or not to care—then he nods once and turns back to his drink.
He doesn’t stand when Aidan approaches. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say a word until someone forces one out of him.
“Did you drive here?” Aidan asks, like he’s catching him in something.
“Yeah.”
“Where’s your car?”
“In the lot.”
Aidan shakes his head, clearly annoyed but trying to keep it under wraps. “You know this place has valet.”
“I don’t need valet.”
I catch the look my mom gives Aidan—tight-lipped and sharp. For once, I’m with her. He’s not even pretending to be civil.
We sit, and conversation starts to drip like a leaky faucet.
Aidan launches into his upcoming book tour, full of vague references to keynote speeches and “high-level conversations.” My mom hangs on every word like he’s reading poetry.
Cole stays quiet, flipping his water glass in slow, steady circles.
I watch the condensation bead on his fingers, trailing down his knuckles, collecting at his wrist.
Under the table, his knee brushes mine.
I stay still.
A minute later, it happens again—slower this time. His leg shifts against mine and doesn’t pull back. Just rests there, solid and warm. Intentional.
He’s not playing. He’s letting me feel him. And he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Aidan leans across his plate, oblivious. “The CEO of Gryphon Media’s supposed to be at the party next month,” he says to Cole. “Might not hurt to show your face. Make some real connections.”
Cole doesn’t look up. “I have connections.”
“Professional ones.”
“I have those too.”
“I’m talking about the kind that actually help your future. You don’t want to be inking girls’ lower backs at thirty-five.”
A flicker of something cold flashes in Cole’s eyes, but he doesn’t take the bait.
The server appears just in time, saving us all. I order the salmon. My mom gets a salad she’ll barely touch. Aidan picks something with saffron, probably to prove he knows what saffron is. Cole doesn’t even look at the menu. “Burger, medium rare,” he tells the waiter without hesitation.
While they talk about wedding venues and backyard renovations—as if their relationship actually has a future, I tune it all out and watch Cole instead.
He eats with one hand. The other never stops moving—spinning his glass, tapping the table, brushing condensation from the base of the cup. His foot taps once under the table, then stills.
Then his fingers graze my thigh. Just the edge of them. Just long enough to make me suck in a breath I hope no one hears.
He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t smirk. Just goes on sipping his drink like nothing happened.
His leg is still pressed against mine.
This time, I press back—just a little. A test. A yes.
That’s when he looks up.
His gaze finds mine across the flickering candlelight. His eyes are unreadable, but his focus is absolute.
My pulse stutters.
I look away first, but only because I have to. Because if I don’t, I’m going to forget we’re not alone. That this boy—this man—could potentially be “family.”
And that what I want is the furthest thing from allowed.
But God, I want to know what his hands would feel like on me if they weren’t holding tattoo needles. I want to know what his mouth would taste like if it stopped being so unreadable and finally gave something away.
I stab my salmon with more force than necessary.
His fingers find my thigh again. A slow pass. No higher, no deeper—just enough.
I sit still for the rest of dinner, quiet and burning, letting myself feel every stolen touch he gives me under the table. Pretending it’s nothing. Pretending I’m not unraveling one brush at a time.
And when Aidan flags down a passing server and says, “Would you mind snapping a quick photo of the family?”
—I almost choke.
The camera flash hits like a slap. Too bright, too sudden.
The light fades, but the performance clings to my skin like smoke—hollow, weightless, and nothing close to real.