With every centimeter his smile spreads, it tugs my lips right along with it.
“It’s extremely hard to find someone that wants to have dinner with me—the stripped down version. Women want the photographs, everyone to know they’re with me. And you . . . don’t.”
I try to pull my gaze from his, but it’s near impossible. He searches me—not my facial expressions or the angle of my posture, but me. Through my eyes and deep into my soul.
Shivering at the feeling of exposure, I finally look away. “You’re right. I don’t,” I whisper.
He considers this, rocking back on his heels like I saw his brother do earlier. “What if I promised you we could do it at a place no one would see us? Just you and I. No agenda. No media. No expectations. Just a dinner between two friends.”
“We’re friends now?”
“I just saved you from your boss! You owe me one. And if that display of heroism doesn’t get me . . . friended . . . what will?”
“You, Mr. Landry, are lucky you chose the word friended.”
“What did you think I was going to choose?” he asks wickedly.
“You’re impossible.”
My heart beats like crazy in my chest. I need to put space between us before the remnants of the wall I built around my heart break and I end up agreeing to dinner with this man. Pivoting on my heel, I head back up the path.
"Are you always a pain in the ass?"
"Mr. Landry, I think you just lost yourself a vote,” I say, feigning disbelief.
He stops in his tracks, pulling me to a stop alongside him. He turns me without me ever realizing it’s happening until we're face to face. "You could do the right thing and give me another chance to win it back.”
His voice is low, his eyes boring into mine. I feel my body temperature spike, my pulse throbbing. An ache builds in my core, the flames growing hotter by the second.
“I want a chance to win you over,” he breathes, peering at me. The way his eyes search mine make it seem like time stands still. “Will you let me try?”
He forces a swallow and the look of hesitation, the internal fight he’s having, isn’t lost on me. It’s there, right beneath the surface, and when I add my concerns to the mix, it’s enough to make me balk. Just a bit.
"I'll think about it," I whisper, holding on to the little strand of courage I have left.
“Say yes.”
Instead of responding, I ask, "Where'd you get that scar over your right eye?" I reach out and press gently on the raised skin. I expect him to pull back, but he doesn't.
My hand shakes as I touch his warmed skin. His forehead is silky and smooth. I'd like to run my hands over every inch of it, feel it ripple beneath my fingertips.
The corner of his lips twitch. "Lincoln hit me in the head with a baseball."
"Bad reflexes on your part?"
"Wicked curveball on his," he says, his face breaking out into a full smile.
“I thought he played center field?”
“He does. But he pitched some growing up.”
We stand inches apart, my hand gently brushing down the side of his face. Although I feel like he'd stand here all night and talk to me, it’s not possible.
"I really need to get back to work," I say, trying to unlock my eyes from his.
“Dinner? This week?”
I can barely resist the look in his eye, the one that implores me to say yes. The one that makes me believe he really does want to have dinner and spend a few hours with me.
I need to get away, put some space between us while I can.
“We ran into each other tonight,” I shrug. “If we’re supposed to see each other again, then I guess we will.” I start to turn away before I completely buckle under his gaze.
“How am I supposed to get ahold of you? I don’t have your number,” he calls after me.
Heading up the steps to the Savannah Room, I glance at him over my shoulder. “You’re the Mayor. Figure it out.”
Alison
IT’S LATE WHEN I MAKE it back to my little two-bedroom rental across town. The light in the kitchen is on as I pull into the driveway and cut the engine. I see the curtains pull back and my mother peering out at me.
I make my way up the walkway, nearly tripping over one of Huxley’s baseballs. My brain is scattered, still back on the path of the gardens with Barrett.
I’d forgotten what this feels like. The excitement of sparking someone’s interest, the feeling of being desired by a man. Maybe Hayden made me feel this way early on, but if so, it was quickly replaced with something more . . . mundane. Even the handful of dates I’ve gone on since never set this kind of energy into play. The way he looks at me, the fire from his touch lingers on my skin even now.
The door swings open as I reach the threshold.
“How was work?” my mother asks, closing the door behind me.
“Good. Long,” I reply, tossing my purse on the couch and heading into the kitchen. “How did things go here? How’s Hux?”