Page 101 of Every Beautiful Mile

His eyes search mine and I want to tell him no. Desperately.

“Fine.” I lift my fork. “But I’m not staying here all night.”

Without another word, he stands up and walks to the kitchen, leaving me stunned.

Thirty-eight

Ethan is back at my table less than an hour later, somehow looking better than before, and I curse my stomach for the acrobatics it’s doing.

“How was everything?” he asks, taking a seat across from me like he owns it.

Which he technically does.

“Awful. Now tell me why I waited here. I don’t want to drag this out.” I look around impatiently. Like I have somewhere else to be.

“Where do you have to be?” he asks, making a face that says liar.

I roll my eyes, annoyed by the question—and his face—and refuse to answer.

He picks up a fork and reaches over the table to scoop a bite of tiramisu off my plate, moaning with pleasure.

I push the plate toward him with another roll of my eyes. “Please, help yourself.”

He smirks as he takes another bite.

“C’mon, Ethan. Just tell me what this is about.”

“Dance with me.”

His voice is so velvety smooth I hate him even more.

I scoff. “Oh no, not this again.”

He pouts out his bottom lip.

My teeth clench.

“Ethan, there are people still eating, and nobody else is dancing.” I gesture toward the other tables of the dining room. “Why can’t you just talk to me like a normal man over this bad espresso and mediocre tiramisu?”

“You know that tiramisu is good. Some people even say it’s better than sex.”

His lips curl sinfully.

“Don’t say sex to me,” I hiss. I throw my napkin on the table. “Fine.” I jerk to a stand. “Let’s get this over with.”

His smirk as he stands tells me he sees this as a victory, and it makes my blood boil.

He walks us over to a corner of the room with a small opening between the tables. The couple singing croons on about love lost, and it makes the taste in my mouth sour.

Ethan grips the small of my back and pulls me close to him. His scent envelopes me—woodsy aromas mixed with the smokey smells of the kitchen—and his rough hand grabs mine.

“Talk,” I snap. “You have a harem of women staring at us, and being so close to you is making me nauseous.”

I nod toward the hostess stand at the entrance where several of the female staff members are staring, no doubt wondering who I am and why I’m dancing like an idiot with their boss.

“You took your ring off.” His whispered voice combines with the scruff of his jaw rubbing against me to send chills down my neck like ripples on a pond. My body is a traitor.

“Irrelevant. What do you want?” I ask, clipped.

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