He Loves Me Not (The Hawthornes of New York 1)

Her hair is blowing in the breeze, her body is wrapped in a dark green shift dress, and nude heels with impressive height are on her feet.

She has her nose buried in her phone as she takes one quick step after another. Her gaze only darts up to check the path in front of her.

We finally make eye contact when she’s ten feet away from me.

I hold back a grin. I sense she’s doing the same.

The fact that she showed up, albeit fifteen minutes late, is enough to plant a broad smile on my face for days.

“Roman,” she says my name in a breathless rush.

A mental image immediately forms of her whispering that in my ear when I’m inside of her.

We’ll get there. I have no doubt.

For now, I’m savoring the chase.

“I had a meeting that ran late,” she explains. “But I’m here now.”

Her gaze drops to my hand and the single daisy I’m holding.

“For you,” I say, handing it to her.

“Thank you.” She takes it with a smile before she glances around at the landscape of blooming trees and freshly cut grass. The lake is calm tonight, as is the breeze. “Why am I here?”

Running a finger over my chin, I bite back a laugh. “I’m not reason enough?”

Her eyes dart to mine. The color of them is mesmerizing. It’s darker than sky blue but lighter than a sapphire. “I haven’t decided yet.”

I can’t say I’ve ever experienced anything similar to the game we’re playing. I like it. It’s fuel for the undeniable desire I feel every fucking time I’m within a foot of her.

I step closer to her by half a step. “Do you recall that I mentioned that I hoped that we’d have a chance to celebrate your promotion in my favorite way?”

Her gaze drops to the front of the dress she’s wearing. “Yes.”

I follow her lead. Her body may be hidden from view, but the material of the dress hints at what’s underneath. I’ve imagined for days what she would look like in my bed.

I’m not surprised by her assumption that when the stars align and I have reason to celebrate, I do it with my dick.

I wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to do that with her. Hope springs eternal that’s on the near horizon, but tonight, the celebration is more deeply rooted in tradition than raw carnal need.

“Every time I’ve accomplished something memorable, I come here.” I wave my arm in a wide arc. “I’ve been doing that for a very long time.”

“Here?” She questions with a tap of her shoe against the bridge deck.

I nod. “I come to this spot and indulge in one of my favorite things.”

Her eyes widen. “What?”

She watches with rapt focus as I tug a gold foil-wrapped bar from the inner pocket of my suit jacket. “Chocolate.”

A sigh of relief escapes her. “Oh, candy. You like candy?”

“Chocolate,” I correct her gently. “I bought a chocolate bar with my very first paycheck when I was twelve. I rode my bike here and ate the entire thing.”

Her gaze drops to the bar in my hand. “You have excellent taste. Wolf Candy makes the best caramel chocolate bars in the city.”

“It’s much better than the first one I bought when I was a kid.” I tug on a corner to reveal the chocolate. “You’ll share it with me?”

She nods. “I won’t pass that up.”

I break off a piece and hand it to her, even though I want to slip it between her lips.

She takes it and nibbles on a corner. Her eyes close for a second. “Chocolate after a long day at work is never a bad thing.”

I pop a piece in my mouth, allowing the milk chocolate to melt on my tongue.

She keeps her gaze trained on my lips the entire time.

“I might have to take up this tradition as a way of celebrating my major life accomplishments.” She smiles. “When I was twelve, my way of celebrating didn’t involve chocolate.”

I’ll take any insight I can get into the mysterious Miss Marks. “How did you celebrate when you were twelve?”

“Pinball.”

Holding back a grin is impossible, so I don’t even attempt it. “Pinball?”

“We moved into a new apartment building around that time. It had a game room. The pinball machine was my favorite.” She smiles. “I loved playing that thing, so whenever I brought home a great report card, my mom would give me ten dollars. I’d trade it in for quarters at the bodega around the corner from our building and then play pinball for hours.”

“Hours?” My brow perks. “You must be a fucking wizard at pinball.”

“I am,” she states proudly as she reaches to grab another piece of chocolate. “I’d beat you.”

“Prove it,” I challenge.

That lures a hearty laugh from her. “How? I haven’t been inside that building in years.”

“I know where we can find a pinball machine,” I tell her.