Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Despite myself, I laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“It’s part of my charm.” She looks up. “For real though, Hails. I’m happy for you. You deserve someone who looks at you like you’re worth figuring out.”
My phone buzzes. A text from Knox: I’m outside whenever you’re ready. No rush.
“He’s here.” I grab my coat, check my reflection one last time. The woman looking back at me seems brighter than usual, more present, like someone who actually believes good things might happen to her. Maybe that’s what hope looks like.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Chloe calls as I head for the door.
“That’s a very short list.”
“Exactly.”
Chapter Eight
Hailey
I’m still laughing when I hit the stairs, taking them two at a time, and when I push through the front door of my building, Knox is waiting on the sidewalk in a charcoal coat that makes his shoulders look impossibly broad. He watches me descend the steps with a look I’m still learning to read, something between hunger and reverence that makes my stomach flip.
“Hi,” I say, because apparently I’ve forgotten how to form complex sentences.
“Hi.” He offers his hand, and when I take it, his fingers close around mine like he’s been waiting to touch me all day. “You look beautiful.”
“You clean up okay yourself.”
Understatement of the century. The man is lickable. His jaw is freshly shaved, and I want to drag my teeth across it just to hear what sound he’d make. A black sweater peeks out from under the coat, fitted enough that I can see the outline of muscle underneath, and suddenly I’m thinking about what it would feel like to slide my hands beneath that wool and find warm skin.
Down, girl.
But it’s hard to behave when Knox Bishop is standing there looking like every dirty fantasy I’ve ever had, watching me with those gray eyes that seem to be calculating exactly how long it would take to get me out of this dress.
The restaurant is called Osteria del Cuore, and it’s tucked behind an unmarked door between a dry cleaner and a boutique selling overpriced candles. Easy to miss unless you know what you’re looking for. Knox leads me down a short flight of stairs into a candlelit cellar where exposed brick walls are hung with old photographs and dried herbs. The ceiling is low enough that he has to duck slightly, and there can’t be more than ten tables, all of them tucked into intimate alcoves that feel like secrets.
“How did you find this place?” I ask as a hostess leads us to a corner booth hidden from the rest of the restaurant by a half-wall of wine bottles.
“I did recon.”
“You scouted restaurants for our date?”
“I scouted several restaurants.” He pulls out my chair, and when I sit, his hand brushes my shoulder in a way that sends heat racing down my spine. “I wanted to find somewhere we wouldn’t be interrupted.”
The table is small enough that our knees brush underneath, and neither of us moves away. I look around, taking in the flickering candles, the quiet murmur of other couples, the way the light catches the wine bottles like captured sunsets, and the tightness inside me loosens. This isn’t a place for small talk or surface-level conversation. This is a place for telling truths.
Wine arrives without us ordering, something red and Italian that Knox apparently selected in advance. When he pours for me, his fingers brush mine on the stem of the glass, and I have to remind myself to breathe.
“So.” He leans back, but his eyes never leave my face. “Tell me something I don’t know about you.”
“You probably already know everything, given your research methods.”
“I know your patterns. Your routines. What coffee you order, what books you buy, how you walk when you think no one’s watching.” His voice drops lower. “I don’t know what’s underneath all that. The things you hide. The things that keep you up at night.”
“Maybe there’s nothing underneath. Maybe I’m exactly as shallow as I appear.”
“There’s always something underneath.” He reaches across the table, and his fingers find mine, just resting there, warm and steady. “Tell me what you’re afraid of.”
Umm . . . I expected flirtation, banter, the usual dance of a second date. Not this. Not directness that cuts straight to bone.
“Wanting something I can’t have,” I hear myself say. “Getting close enough to taste it and then watching it disappear. I’ve done that before, wanted someone so badly I could hardly breathe, and when it fell apart . . .” I trail off, then force myself to continue. “I’m afraid of feeling that again. I’m afraid of not feeling it again. Both options terrify me.”
His thumb traces a slow circle on my palm. “What do you want?”
“Right now?” I meet his eyes. “This. You. Whatever this is turning into.”
“It’s turning into something.” His grip on my hand tightens slightly. “I’ve never been good at halfway, Hailey. When I want something, I want all of it. Every piece, every corner, every shadow. That can be a lot for some people.”