commodity at the moment.
My eyes search the restaurant, scanning the other diners, and I feel overdressed.
The maître d’ approaches. “Miss Mitchell?”
I nod. How does he know who I am?
“Please, follow me.”
We weave between tables until we reach a wood door with divided and beveled glass panes that distort all the corners as I look through. I don't have any trouble making out Jared.
Mick.
He stands when he sees me through the glass, and I have the sudden and overwhelming urge to cry. It's such an unexpected, old-fashioned gesture that I halt, momentarily stunned. He smiles, and it lights up my core like a match. I feel my insides sear with fire.
With want. It's like spontaneous combustion.
The maître d’ pushes through the door and leads me to a sequestered table. After a moment, I trail after him.
“Watch your step, Miss Mitchell,” he cautions.
I look down. The floor moves ever so slowly. The seam at the rim of where the table sits moves, but the center remains stationary. Vertigo slides over me, and I want to sit down. I think of the doctor's words—vertigo, loss of balance—and I reach out blindly. My hand is taken by McKenna, and my face swivels to his.
The maître d’ melts away, and McKenna draws me closer, his eyes running over me ravenously.
I've seen that expression in hundreds of eyes.
But never one I care about.
One who matters.
~ 9 ~
I think his eyes will go to my breasts or the unseen v between my legs, but they don't. That deep gaze travels to the edge of a bruise that my makeup can't completely hide.
He'd have to be looking for it to notice.
Mick does.
He holds my hand, his eyes pegging the proof of what happened. I try to take my hand out of his and he grips it, those dark eyes moving to mine.
“Don't, Miss Mitchell.”
“You don't have to do this, Mr. McKenna.”
A dark auburn brow rises. “Do what?” He corrects me, “Mick.”
I watch his eyes narrow with an intensity that changes how I breathe, and my palm grow warm in his. He waits for my answer while our flesh melds.
“Feel guilty,” I answer. “I mean...” I indicate our surroundings by sweeping my free hand around the view. The floor moves underneath our feet as the cityscape minutely changes while we stare at each other.
His eyes move to the chair behind me, and he releases my hand as he pulls out my chair. I'll look like an ass if I bolt. I don't think I've ever felt as contrary as I do in that moment.
Mick looks at me as if he's sure I'll sit. What makes him that sure? Is it the money? Does everyone say yes to Jared McKenna? Did he just get flung into money right out of the cradle or is he self-made.
Why does he own strip clubs? It doesn't seem to fit him somehow.
He slides the chair in as I sit as if he's done it a thousand times before. I barely keep from sulking, thinking about the hundreds of women who have stared at those eyes, dreamed about what it could be like with him. That's the difference between them and me—I don't dream. I live it. Right now. Right here.
Mick sits across from me and puts his elbows on the table. He knots his fingers and rests that full mouth against them. We say nothing as we look at each other.
He startles me with, “I don't feel guilty. Just so you know.”
My face must show my surprise because he grins. I realize I kind of want him to feel guilty.
I want someone to feel guilty.
He says, “I know you weren't paying attention before you walked into the street. I couldn't have stopped. There was nothing I could have done differently.”
I feel my brows furrow. “Then... why?” I stare at him, thinking he'll rush in with a good explanation, throw me a life raft. Instead, he lets me fumble around. “Then why take me out like this?”
“I want to,” he says simply.
Those brown eyes stare into mine, and I shift in my seat. What does he want from me? I don't reply but allow myself to stare back. I stare because I want to. My life sentence has given
My eyes search the restaurant, scanning the other diners, and I feel overdressed.
The maître d’ approaches. “Miss Mitchell?”
I nod. How does he know who I am?
“Please, follow me.”
We weave between tables until we reach a wood door with divided and beveled glass panes that distort all the corners as I look through. I don't have any trouble making out Jared.
Mick.
He stands when he sees me through the glass, and I have the sudden and overwhelming urge to cry. It's such an unexpected, old-fashioned gesture that I halt, momentarily stunned. He smiles, and it lights up my core like a match. I feel my insides sear with fire.
With want. It's like spontaneous combustion.
The maître d’ pushes through the door and leads me to a sequestered table. After a moment, I trail after him.
“Watch your step, Miss Mitchell,” he cautions.
I look down. The floor moves ever so slowly. The seam at the rim of where the table sits moves, but the center remains stationary. Vertigo slides over me, and I want to sit down. I think of the doctor's words—vertigo, loss of balance—and I reach out blindly. My hand is taken by McKenna, and my face swivels to his.
The maître d’ melts away, and McKenna draws me closer, his eyes running over me ravenously.
I've seen that expression in hundreds of eyes.
But never one I care about.
One who matters.
~ 9 ~
I think his eyes will go to my breasts or the unseen v between my legs, but they don't. That deep gaze travels to the edge of a bruise that my makeup can't completely hide.
He'd have to be looking for it to notice.
Mick does.
He holds my hand, his eyes pegging the proof of what happened. I try to take my hand out of his and he grips it, those dark eyes moving to mine.
“Don't, Miss Mitchell.”
“You don't have to do this, Mr. McKenna.”
A dark auburn brow rises. “Do what?” He corrects me, “Mick.”
I watch his eyes narrow with an intensity that changes how I breathe, and my palm grow warm in his. He waits for my answer while our flesh melds.
“Feel guilty,” I answer. “I mean...” I indicate our surroundings by sweeping my free hand around the view. The floor moves underneath our feet as the cityscape minutely changes while we stare at each other.
His eyes move to the chair behind me, and he releases my hand as he pulls out my chair. I'll look like an ass if I bolt. I don't think I've ever felt as contrary as I do in that moment.
Mick looks at me as if he's sure I'll sit. What makes him that sure? Is it the money? Does everyone say yes to Jared McKenna? Did he just get flung into money right out of the cradle or is he self-made.
Why does he own strip clubs? It doesn't seem to fit him somehow.
He slides the chair in as I sit as if he's done it a thousand times before. I barely keep from sulking, thinking about the hundreds of women who have stared at those eyes, dreamed about what it could be like with him. That's the difference between them and me—I don't dream. I live it. Right now. Right here.
Mick sits across from me and puts his elbows on the table. He knots his fingers and rests that full mouth against them. We say nothing as we look at each other.
He startles me with, “I don't feel guilty. Just so you know.”
My face must show my surprise because he grins. I realize I kind of want him to feel guilty.
I want someone to feel guilty.
He says, “I know you weren't paying attention before you walked into the street. I couldn't have stopped. There was nothing I could have done differently.”
I feel my brows furrow. “Then... why?” I stare at him, thinking he'll rush in with a good explanation, throw me a life raft. Instead, he lets me fumble around. “Then why take me out like this?”
“I want to,” he says simply.
Those brown eyes stare into mine, and I shift in my seat. What does he want from me? I don't reply but allow myself to stare back. I stare because I want to. My life sentence has given
Similar Books
