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"Like you want to kiss me."
I huffed out a laugh. "Since I’ve met you, not a minute has gone by that I haven’t wanted to kiss you."
"Then why haven't you?"
"Because I'm trying to be a gentleman."
"Since when?"
"Approximately twelve minutes ago. It's been a difficult transition."
She laughed softly. Then she moved closer. Close enough that I could smell her face wash. Something clean and faintly floral. Close enough that her knee brushed mine. Close enough that my ability to form coherent thoughts became severely compromised.
"You know," she said, "for a man who's supposedly so good with women, you're being surprisingly dense."
I blinked.
"Excuse me?"
"You're not reading the room."
I was, I just wasn’t going to be the first one to make a move. I didn’t want to do anything she would regret.
"Are you going to make me spell it out for you?"
My heart gave one hard thud. "I’m afraid so.”
She studied me, and for the first time all night, there was no wall behind her eyes. No calculation. No weighing the risks. Just Mikayla. Looking at me.
“Have you watched Peaky Blinders?”
“Whoa. That took a left turn. You want to watch Peaky Blinders? Because clearly, I can't read a room.”
Her perfect lips curved. “No, I want to know if you've seen it.”
“Of course. Cillian Murphy and Tom Hardy are my hall passes.”
She laughed. “Remember when Tommy Shelby is talking to the woman training his horse? The one who wants him to stay the night?”
“You mean when Tommy tells May Carlton about Grace?”
“Yes!” Her eyes lit up. “Remember what she says?”
I abso-fucking-lutely did. But I wanted to hear it from those lips.
I pretended to think. “Hmm. Refresh my memory.”
“She says, ‘You've told me about her like a gentleman. Now kindly behave like a gangster again.’”
Fuck me.
“Right. That.”
She reached up, trailing her fingertips along my jaw. And I swear, if she'd asked me to sell every cow on the ranch and move to Antarctica, I'd have started researching shipping costs.
“I don't want to overthink tonight,” she whispered.
“Okay.”
