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Chapter Twenty-Six
Daphne
Mercifully, the waitress saves me from answering the question. She drops off our plates and three kinds of hot sauce and takes her leave.
I taste my curry, so I don't have to answer. It's not as good as the place where I normally order takeout, but it's good all the same. The subtle mix of flavors that comes with a traditional green curry. Lemongrass, ginger, Thai basil, makrut lime leaves, and the chili peppers that bring just enough spice.
Perfect. I scoop a piece of chicken, stir-fried eggplant, and bamboo shoots over my rice and cover them with the light green sauce.
Jackson waits as I take a bite, add a few chili flakes, taste the food again. It's better a little spicy. But I don't want to add too much. I don't want to overwhelm myself or the flavor.
He tries his food. Adds more chili. Finds it just right.
And he waits.
And waits.
And waits.
The perfectly fried eggplant and the crunchy bamboo shoots don't save me.
So I swallow my bite, then a sip of water, and I begin. "I think it started after you got that trench coat." This is what I want. Honest conversation where we explore our desires. It's a little awkward, yes, but I can do it. I'm capable. "I imagined this entire scenario straight out of a 1940s movie. Where I was the femme fatale and you were the detective investigating my husband's disappearances. Sometimes, you thought I was hiding something under my clothes, so you tried to undress me."
His eyes stay fixed on mine. They stay wide with interest. His whole body stays tuned to mine.
He's interested.
He's game.
The knowledge helps, but not enough. I have to look at my food to continue. "Other times, you were trying to win me over with your body. And sometimes, you were questioning me, and trying to keep it serious, and I was trying to distract you with my body." I stop fighting my blush. I let my cheeks turn red. My chest too.
I finally look him in the eyes.
His gaze is even more intense. As if he's about to jump across the table and take me here.
I want to soak it in forever. And I want to run from the intensity of it.
This is why people don't face their desires. Because it feels so fucking vulnerable. I'm fully dressed, but I feel like I'm standing on this table, naked, inviting everyone to look at the most sensitive parts of my body.
"Let's try it," he says. "After this."
I shake my head.
He raises a brow. "No?"
"No… We need to try one of yours next." My cheeks stay red, but I push through. "It's only fair."
"What if this is one of mine?"
"Is it?" I ask.
"It's close."
"Tell me how it's different. No. Tell me something totally different," I say. "Something we haven't said or done."
"Something that makes me blush," he offers.
I nod. Yes. Exactly. I know he'll never look as awkward as I do—he is far too cool, far too experienced—but I need something. Some of the same vulnerability.
