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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

After my extremely mature speech to my boss, you'd expect all my neurons to be firing at full capacity.

I should change out of my uniform into casual clothes and slip out the back door, sticking to my “bold yet lonely” plan of getting a scoop of the best ice cream in Massachusetts.

Is that what I do? No.

As if something has taken over my judgment, I cross the restaurant floor and head toward the man who's stirring chaos inside me.

Like a panther watching everything around him, he observes my approach. I notice he’s barely touched his food, and I wonder if it’s because of me—because I know the sea bass is delicious. I had it for lunch today.

"You haven’t even closed my check, and yet you're already leaving," he says without an ounce of politeness or an attempt to hide that he's scanning my body—not in my uniform now, but in a flowy, floral summer dress.

"I’m sorry," I apologize sincerely, embarrassed by my childish move to flee just because I feel attracted to him.

No, let’s be more accurate. Wildly attracted is closer to the truth.

Because here I am again, near the lion's den.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you hand off my table to someone else?"

"Because you make me nervous. And since you asked me a personal question, I feel entitled to do the same: why didn’t you eat your food?"

"I like to give one thing my full attention. I don’t just go through life obliviously; I study every little thing in it that catches my interest. I tasted the fish. I have to agree, it’s excellent. But it doesn’t compare to you."

"I’m more excellent than the fish?" I tease, understanding exactly what he meant but enjoying the exchange between us.

I know some customers are watching, and I know how inappropriate it is to be standing here, dressed to leave, talking to Jasper. But I can’t help myself. I can’t walk away, no matter how much I know I should.

"If you're going to flirt with me, at least sit down."

This is the moment when I should tell him he’s misunderstood. A sensible girl would say goodnight and stick to her plan of gorging on sweet, melty delight, but I don’t feel like being sensible tonight. The man seems to have awakened a part of me I didn’t even know existed.

"Are you having dessert?" I ask, still standing.

His expression softens a bit, and just the corner of his mouth lifts. It’s not quite a smile—more like the ghost of one—and still, it makes my knees wobble.

The man is dangerously charming.

"If I say yes, will you sit and share it with me?"

I take a deep breath, risking a leap into the unknown and, worse, having no idea where I’ll land. "I was going to suggest I take you to try the best ice cream in town."

When I said “take you,” I could feel my pulse pounding in my ears and almost backed out, but that would’ve been more embarrassing than the offer itself.

Silence again.

I’m starting to realize I’m not the only one who analyzes everything, and that's not even the real issue—it’s the way Jasper looks at me. Like he’s torn between growling “beat it, kid” or pulling me in for a kiss.

A kiss? Oh no. If I went crazy enough to kiss this man, I wouldn’t stop at one. I’d need at least half a dozen—wet ones, with tongue and teeth clashing.

A shiver runs through me as my cheeks heat up, and I’ve never been so grateful that The Ugly Shrimp isn’t well lit.

I watch, in slow motion, as he stands and pulls out at least four hundred-dollar bills from his wallet—even though I know the dinner didn’t cost even half that, wine and tip included.

Without saying a word or caring who might be watching, he places a large hand on the small of my back, guiding me toward the exit.

I’ve always considered myself strong and immune to swoony reactions. I’ve read so many romances where the heroine says her knees went weak and she felt butterflies in her stomach, and I’d roll my eyes because I never imagined someone could actually make me feel that way.

Right now, though, it’s like my whole body is flooded with electricity—my brain completely disconnected, with no logical thoughts in sight.

The heat of his hand through the thin fabric of my dress is transforming me into a volatile cocktail of hormones and want.

The humid night air hits me as we step outside, making me even more lightheaded.

"My car is just—" he starts, but I cut him off with a wave of my hand.

"I’m not getting into a car with you, si?—"

"With you . No sir."

Yes, I have to admit it’s ridiculous to keep calling him “sir” when, in my head, I’ve already imagined us making out. "I’m not getting in a car with you ."

"Why not?"

"I don’t know you."

He looks at me like I’m joking, but I don’t even blink. "You’re serious."

"I am."

"How do you plan to get to your precious ice cream, then?"

"It’s only about a quarter of a mile from here. We’ll walk. Or you can go home and spend the rest of your life wondering how you missed out on the world’s best ice cream because of pure laziness."

"I could come back another day."

"But it wouldn’t be with me. You said I caught your attention. Doesn’t seem like that happens very often."

"It doesn’t."

"So what do you have to lose?"

"Nothing."

"Then what’s the problem?"

"Aren’t you cautious about me?"

"I am. But cautious is my default setting."

"Then why invite me if you feel that way?"

"If I tell you the truth, you’ll laugh."

"I rarely laugh or smile," he says, and I’m pretty sure he’s not joking. "And if I do, it’s never on purpose."

"Fine. The reason I invited you is because I feel like I already know you. I don’t trust easily or let people get close. Until you came into the restaurant today, I thought my interest in you came from a conversation I had with my mom the other day, when she told me to take more chances."

"But you don’t think that anymore?" he asks, genuinely curious.

"No. If this were just about taking chances and living more, I’d go out with one of the guys who come into the restaurant and ask me to parties every weekend."

"What do you want, then, Alexis?"

"To spend a little more time with you. And I can’t explain why yet, because I don’t even understand it myself. I know you said you don’t do friendship, and I get that, but I think, whether we like it or not, it’s already begun."

"We can’t get involved, sweetheart. Like I told you before, I’d end up hurting you, even if I didn’t mean to."

"I believe you. And I don’t want that," I lie, somewhat, because right now I’m caught in a whirlwind of emotion, "but I’ve never felt this way before."

"Felt how?"

"Like I’m coming home . . . even though it’s a home I didn’t know existed."