Page 50 of Gilded Princess

“Those girls that audibly enjoy their food.” He spoons another bite of his ice cream in his mouth, a smile still playing around the edges of his lips.

I shake my head a few times to the side. “I don’t know what you mean . . .”

His tongue peeks out to lick the back of his spoon, and I lose my train of thought. I sweep my hair off the back of my neck in a futile attempt to cool my neck off. It’s suddenly warm in here, which doesn’t make any sense, all things considered.

“If you say so.” He smirks this dirty little smile, and I feel like something inside snaps. Suddenly, I’m looking at all six-foot-three of him casually leaning against the couch, legs spread in that way that sounds so stupid but looks hot on the right guy. And Dante? He’s definitely the right guy.

His tattoos are dark in the dimly lit room, a sharp contrast to his crisp-white tee. Slim-fit black athletic pants mold over his legs, and I feel like I might have to reevaluate my stance on the classic gray sweatpants look. Because, damn, these pants are really working for me.

He must’ve changed while I was napping, and I can’t decide if I like him better in lounge wear or suits. Honestly, I’d take him in either.

His dark hair is pushed back over his face in that haphazard way that makes even the smartest girls do stupid things.

Not that I’m the smartest girl, because I’m not. But even I know enough to read the trouble written all over him.

I don’t know what the hell is going on with me, but it’s like fate decided to place all these men in front of me lately. It’s like she’s daring me to do something about it.

“To answer your question: I’m not sure.”

It takes me a moment to remember that I asked him what he thinks happens when you die, but that was four spoonfuls of my favorite froyo and black athletic pants ago, so I’m going easy on myself.

“I like to think there’s something after our time here on Earth. But there’s no way of knowing. What if this is all we have? Would you do anything differently? Would you live your life with no regrets?”

“No regrets,” I murmur, my gaze distracted and thoughts far away. I’m sure I’ve said these words before, but I’m not sure that I’ve ever said them—or thought of them—quite like I am now. Something about the way Dante explained it resonates with me.

Do I live my life with regrets?

“It’s such a funny thing. Regret. By the time you regret something, the moment has already passed. There’s no time machine to go back and make a different decision.” I turn to face him again, watching the way he sits with such ease and confidence.

“Ahh, she gets it.” He smiles, his eyes nearly sparkling with interest.

I tap the back of the cold metal spoon against my lips as I think. “So, you have to have the capability to recognize a potential regret while you’re making a decision or make peace with the ones you have,” I muse with a raised brow.

“You live your life with no regrets.”

I set my spoon down and look at him. “Is that what you do? Live freely?”

His gaze roams over my face for a moment. “It’s a luxury not everyone has. And in my line of work, it’s easy to lose sight of what matters. Easy to get tangled up in the messiness of greed.”

“Line of work? What’re you—forty? Who even says that?” I tease him around a mouthful of frozen heaven.

He places his spoon in his ice cream carton with deliberate slowness, settling it on the couch next to him. Tipping his head back against the back of the couch, he looks at me with a raised brow. “Do I look forty to you?”

I shrug one shoulder and squint one eye like I’m trying to see him clearer. “I’m not very good with ages.”

He smirks, his eyes darkening even further beneath his long, sooty lashes. “I bet you could figure it out.”

I let the froyo melt on my tongue as I give him a very obvious once-over, twisting my lips to ward off the smile threatening to bloom.

Is he flirting with me?

I hope so, because I’m here for it.

Flirting is the lost art form. Too many people want to skip over all the good stuff—the thick tension and crackling energy in the air. The longing glances and subtle touches.

So many of the assholes my friends associate with are short-sided and only concerned with one thing. And listen, I’m not a prude. I like orgasms just as much as the next girl, but I also like my men to be respectful and not complete slimeball douchebags.

And givers. I like ‘em generous.

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