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My stomach sizzles.Whyam I thinking about his words in this way?
I expect him to replace the chopstick on the plate, but he doesn’t. Instead, he brings the rest of the sushi closer, his eyes intent on me.
My mouth opens of its own volition. Then, his chopsticks are in my mouth, and I close my lips over them. The food tastes as good as it did the last time, but I can’t focus on that. I can’t focus on anything other than the waves of pleasure flooding me because he’s feeding me right here in public. I close my eyes, letting myself savor this moment.
When I open them, Bran is staring at me. And the desire in his eyes lights a fire in my belly.
I want him.
I’d known that for a long time. Since the time I met him at Andrea’s wedding, even. But it had been buried under layers of resentment for him and everything he stood for.
But right now, as I look at him, all those layers fall away. I contemplate ending the date to be alone with him.
The waiter comes back with the vegetable rolls. Bran thanks him and waits for him to leave before he looks around at me.
“Now, here’s something I can actually eat,” he says.
I’m barely listening. I can barely think.I want us to leave.
As he starts to eat, I pick up my chopsticks, hoping that they will distract me. We eat in silence for a few seconds until Bran looks up at me again.
“I need to ask you something,” he says.
Of course,I think instantly,here it comes.
I spent the last hour impressed that he didn’t say a word about my articles, despite the damage I was undoubtedly doing to his brother’s campaign.
I lean back against my chair, my appetite gone. I was a fool to think that allthis was because he found me attractive. Maybe he did, but then everything he’d been doing over the past couple of weeks was a buildup to the big question: to ask me to stop writing articles about him and his brother.
And maybe he thought taking me out on a few dates would soften my impression of him so much that I’d do as he asked.
A dark, lurking feeling spreads in my chest. For a moment, I let myself believe that he was a halfway decent person. That he’s as truthful and charming as he portrayed himself. And while I was ecstatic about him showing his ass only a few weeks ago, I am disappointed now.
I wanted him to be the person I thought he was.
“I need you to tell me why you hate me.”
My eyes widen. “What?” I hear myself say.
“I play it off and make it seem like it doesn’t matter,” he says. “But it doesmatter. I want to know why you hate me.”
I’m barely listening. Right now, all I can focus on is that thishad not been a sick game to get me to back off writing articles after all.
That he’s really, genuinely interested in me.
Relief floods me with a staggering velocity. A stupid smile forms on my face, but it dissipates quickly when I recall what he’s asking me to do.
I tried not to think about it over the past three weeks, and it would be the easiest thing in the world to tell him that I didn’t want to talk about it right away.
But I don’t want to. Not anymore.
For some reason, I want to let it out. The Brandon I thought I knew three weeks ago would not have deserved even a word from me.
This one, not so much.
I look up at him, feeling detached. “It was a couple of months after I moved to New York,” I say. “I’d just graduated from Georgetown and had always wanted a career in journalism. And so, I applied to work at Stawarski Media. I’d heard a lot of great things about you and your brother. You were my idols.”
I see the blue color of his eyes darken, almost in remembrance. I look away from him and back at the lovestruck girls, who have now turned their attention to a young Asian man at the table next to theirs.
