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If I was, maybe I wouldn’t feel like I was running all the time.
“Sadly, just you.”
Lifeless in my answer, I slump in the seat, avoiding his gaze.
That stupid smile remains stuck on Jett’s chiseled face, and it’s like he knows exactly what look to shine my way to rejuvenate me.
Pushing the salad toward the opposite side of the table, I reach for the maple-glazed Brussels sprouts. A dish I’ve been drooling to try since the waiter first sat them down.
Almost to my placemat, Jett stops my movement.
“You may be good at redirecting conversation, but my memory is sharp, my girl.”
“I’m not your—”
“So, show me. If you’re so confident you don’t like anything about me, then prove it.”
“And how am I supposed to do that?”
I quirk a sassy eyebrow, shamelessly curious about what the fuck he’s getting at. Pulling the small plate of Brussels sprouts in front of him, he scoots farther away from the linen-covered table, eyes the food, his lap, and then me.
Oh, hell no.
“Come sit.” He taps his leg.
“Are you obsessed with me sitting in your lap or something?”
“Aren’t you?”
Yes.
“Hell no,” I clip, the pulse at the base of my neck quickening as I sneak a glance at the tapping of his tattoo-covered fingers on his open legs.
“Whatever you think it is, I can prove it from here.”
Jett’s head falls back into another fit of laughter. A sound so rich, the velvet texture could replace any dessert I craved after this meal.
“Not possible.”
His stare deepens, and when our competition of the most headstrong commences, like always, he comes out victorious.
Inhaling a shaky breath, I rise, smoothing my cashmere joggers. Reluctantly, I maneuver myself between his legs, his strong hands rising immediately to grip my hips in a possessive hug.
The strength of his touch steals my breath.
Flashbacks of just a few hours ago combine with the memory of two years prior, and I can’t help but relax beneath his touch.
Bending just slightly, I prepare to sit, but his hands tighten their grip on my waist, keeping me in place.
“Let’s make a deal.” His sexy rasp vibrates my lower back, traveling to my lower stomach.
“I don’t make deals with the devil.”
“No? I always pegged you for the type of girl who liked to play with fire.”
I was, but I still have scars from the burns.
Jett’s snark switches on a passionate inside of me that only he can release. An unfiltered version of myself that I search high and low for when I’m not around him.
