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"There sure is a lot of scowling going on over there."
If Hayden's deep tenor wasn't enough to redirect my thoughts back to him, then one look across the candle-lit table does the trick. As our eyes connect, my pulse flutters.
Even though it shouldn't, I remind myself.
This whole night, I've done nothing but wonder when the sensation would subside, when his appearance would lose its effect. But, just like this expensive menu, Hayden Kingston is a conundrum of two degrees. Not only is he the epitome of an upper-class heartthrob, with crystal-blue eyes, perfectly tousled hair, straight teeth, a jawline destined for the cover of GQ, and a wardrobe that certainly costs more than I'll make in my lifetime. But he's actually charming and makes great conversation, when he wants to.
He smirks, and I instantly realize I've been staring. Again.
My head snaps back down to the menu. A fire blazes along my cheeks as I recall the most dangerous of all his qualities.
I'm an open book to him.
His warm chuckle simmers across our space, leaving it crackling with tension. My thighs move of their own accord, pressing together tightly, causing a sensation that does little to help my case. And like the mind reader he is, Hayden teases, "Stare all you want, Jules. Take a picture, if you like."
Jules.
In an instant, I'm bombarded with a barrage of unwelcome images. Like the slide of an old film reel, yet more vivid and enchanting, each scene soaring by at warped speeds.
Anticipation, teenage angst, and Green Day's "21 Guns" float through the tiny room. His lips are on mine. One hand on the nape of my neck, the other drawing circles on my thigh. For a moment, I'm captured by the lust of it all, reveling beneath a touch so experienced, a touch that rarely lands on someone like me. Until reality dumps an ice-cold bucket over my head, washing all but my sizzling anger.
They always come, these images, at the sound of that nickname. Jules. His nickname for me. And his only. The name he once laid claim to, before he—
No, I stop myself, stuffing the memories right back where they belong, where they've remained for five years:
In the past.
Ignoring his taunt, I face the desserts once more, lips curling in disapproval. "Who in their right mind would pay fifty-nine dollars for tiramisu?" Despite my words, saliva coats my tongue as I picture the delicate layers of chocolatey goodness.
"Is that what's got you dissin' the desserts, the cost? Well, choose whatever you like. I thought it'd be obvious, but I don't believe in fifty-fifty."
I quirk an eyebrow. "What on earth does that mean?"
"I don't believe in splitting the bill. Ever."
I blink, letting his words sink in.
If I'm being honest, I assumed he was paying for the meal, seeing as I sure as hell couldn't. Not at a place like this. I'd have to roll up my sleeves for the dishes in the back—for weeks—and cough up rent money I can't spare. Hayden's on a level of wealth I can't fathom, even having grown up beside him. So, accepting the notion is easy. But... it's the way he said it.
He doesn't believe in splitting the bill. He doesn't believe in letting me pay for myself, as if the idea itself offends him.
Reading my reaction, Hayden shoots me a cocky grin, adjusting his long sleeves and flashing the band of his gold Rolex. I stare at the watch, which probably costs more than what I make in a year, and his smile only widens.
My toes curl in my heels. Curse my fleeting feminism.
"Come on." He winks. "I know tiramisu is your favorite."
Gosh, does he really have to know everything?
"No need. I'm pretty full, anyway."
"Take one bite, then."
"One bite?"
He nods. Plain and simple.
"Yeah, right. Like you'd pay sixty dollars for me to take a single bite of my dessert."
