Page 51

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“I know,” he murmurs as his intense eyes drop to my lips. His mouth twitches into a wicked curve that sets my skin on fire. “I took it as one anyway.”

I shake my head and roll my eyes, struggling to contain the smile that breaks through my lips.

He reaches over for another fry, his muscled forearm crossing into my personal space as it grazes my knee. I take a breath that I hope to God sounds normal, though it is anything but.

He leans back against the leg of the piano and eats the freshly dipped fry, gazing out toward the Manhattan skyline beyond the glass windows.

I can’t seem to take my eyes off him. He looks so entirely at ease—casually sitting on the floor, eating a greasy pizza on a Thursday evening with his music rival, as if this were the most ordinary thing in the world.

“You should eat more than that,” he murmurs softly, looking at the last slice of pepperoni pizza in the box rather than directly at me.

For once, I don’t argue. He is right. My body is desperate for real food.

But there’s always been something about the vulnerability of eating in front of people that has made me super anxious. I don’t entirely know what it is or why, but the moment someone is watching me consume food, I feel completely exposed. On my worst anxiety days, it gets so bad that I can barely manage half a meal if I am sitting in front of someone, if I’m not completely comfortable with them.

I’ve developed some exhausting rituals to help manage the stress of it all—wipe my mouth between bites, chew slowly, ensure my posture remains upright. It’s ridiculous, I know. Just another quirk of trying to maintain the image of the untouchable perfectionist while internally drowning.

“Carmela would be so pissed if she knew I was eating this,” he states, shaking his head slightly. “She always is when I get takeout. I bet she has a whole dish prepared back at home.”

“Who’s Carmela?” I ask, glad for the distraction.

“Oh, she’s my nanny. Well housemaid…” He pauses. “She was my nanny when I was younger, but then she stayed. So I guess that makes her my housemaid now.”

“That’s…”

I trail off, my mind stumbling over how to respond to him casually dropping into conversation that he has a personal housemaid waiting on him. Entitled? Completely out of touch?

“I know what it sounds like,” he says, catching the subtle shift in my face, “but we’ve become quite the team.”

Then, I feel it before my brain can process what is happening.

The rough, calloused warmth of his thumb is suddenly at the corner of my mouth. His movements are slow and deliberate as he gently wipes away a stray smudge of sauce from my lower lip.

“There,” he murmurs. He brings his thumb to his own lips and licks it clean, his eyes never leave mine. They are heavy, unblinking, and dark pools of absolute intent. “That’s better.”

I almost choke on my food.

I can’t move.

I am physically unable to allow oxygen into my lungs. My entire nervous system goes into lockdown.

The absolute audacity of him.

He doesn’t look flustered in the slightest. As though this were a completely normal thing to do, he simply picks up another slice of pizza and continues eating, like he didn’t just shatter my mind into a million pieces.

I’m not Nancy. I remind myself, looking at him as my body continues to short-circuit.

I’m the girl with the rigid posture, the hypermobile joints and the bow in her hair.

I’m not someone Julian Thorne touches like that.

He glances up, catching me staring at him with wide, wanting eyes.

Stop looking at him, Ellise.

“Again, from bar forty-two.”