If I was looking for confidence, this outfit gives it to me. Although maybe that approach has backfired because the appreciation in Colton’s eyes is clear.
“Let me get my purse, and we can go,” I say, needing to break the escalating tension before it reaches a flashpoint.
“Sounds good.”
I give myself a silent pep talk as I grab the black bag off the dining room table and return to the entryway.
Nothing is going to happen that I don’t want.
That knowledge doesn’t provide nearly enough comfort given the fact that I fold like a cheap house of cards every time he lays his hands on me. Fortunately, we’ll probably head out to a party. Colton will get swarmed by groupies, and I’ll be on my own for the duration of the evening. Then I can tell him he had his chance and blew it. I remember all too well what it was like to go out with him in public. He has an overzealous fan club, and from what I’ve witnessed since my return, they’re as enthusiastic as ever. It’s a reassuring thought.
He steps aside as I stride into the hallway and close the door behind me.
A couple of hours, and this will be over.
As I move toward the elevator, he says, “We’re not heading that way.”
Huh? I grind to a halt before swinging around to face him. “I don’t understand.”
One side of his mouth hitches at the confusion that must be written across my face. “I made dinner for us at my apartment.”
My mouth dries at the idea of spending time alone with him. “Oh.” Well, shit. This isn’t good. “Um...I thought we were going to hit a party.”
Heat fills his eyes, and his voice drops. “I didn’t want there to be any distractions.”
I gulp down my growing unease.
Yeah, that’s exactly what I’d been counting on. Distractions, and plenty of them.
I shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other before blurting, “I’m not going to have sex with you again.”
“It’s just dinner, Lys.” A chuckle escapes from him. “That’s all this is.”
It won’t ever be just dinner.
Not with Colton.
Not with the way my heart is hammering under my chest.
And Beck won’t be there to run interference either. His parents are having an anniversary celebration this weekend. Both he and Mia returned home, albeit separately. Like they would ever travel together? Ha! Not likely. My bestie wasn’t looking forward to it.
Colton holds out his hand for me to take. “Are you ready?”
Nope! Not at all.
Instead of admitting the truth, I jerk my head into a tight nod, tentatively placing my fingers in his. A sizzle of awareness shoots down my spine as his larger ones close around them. Why does it have to be like this between us? After everything that happened, how is he still able to affect me like this?
A horde of butterflies erupts in my belly with every step that brings me closer to his apartment. Any moment, they’re going to find an escape hatch and break loose. Once the door is opened, he ushers me inside. I pause in the entryway and glance around. The place is dimly lit, but it smells—I cautiously sniff the air—really good.
Familiar.
When I realize what it is, I spin toward him. “You ordered chicken parmigiana?”
His smile widens. “Nope, I made it with my own two hands.”
“What?” Since when does Colton cook?
He chuckles at my surprise. “Trust me, it wasn’t easy. I had Jenna on the phone for an hour, walking me through the steps.”
I...have no words.
“Why would you do that?” I whisper, trying to wrap my head around this information.
“Because it’s your favorite.” He shrugs. “At least it used to be.” The question is there, lurking in his eyes.
“It still is,” I begrudgingly admit. I love Italian to begin with, but chicken parm is my absolute favorite. I’ve had it at every Italian restaurant I’ve ever visited. Some have been amazing, while others have just been good.
When I continue to stare in bewilderment, he places his hand on the small of my back and propels me gently inside the apartment. Ten steps bring me into the dining room. The setup is exactly the same as ours. Two bedrooms to the left with a bathroom in the middle and a small living room straight ahead. Outside there’s a balcony big enough for a cafe-style table and two chairs. The kitchen is to the right with all the essentials, minus a dishwasher, crammed into the tight space. A breakfast bar surveys the living room/dining room combination. While my apartment is decorated and homey with artwork and photographs, the guy’s apartment is bare. More utilitarian in nature. It’s a place to drop their bags at the end of the night and crash.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” he asks, interrupting my perusal.
Holy crap. Is he offering me an adult beverage?