Page 127 of Make Me Dream of You

“Not at all.” Wood looks up to the server with a smile. “Well, I am a mojito girl, and that blueberry mojito sounds wonderful.”

The server returns his smile and writes it down then looks at me. My cheeks heat. Surely everyone can tell I want to melt into a puddle and slither away.

His eyes are still on me. Burrowing deeper.

Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him.

“I’ll just have water, thanks.”

She goes around the table. Noah gets a gin and tonic. Bex orders a vodka soda. Jake gets a beer, but one of those fancy ones that’s supposed to have undertone of caramel and hickory or whatever the fuck.

Our eyes meet. Fuck.

He doesn’t say anything, but those eyes say everything. Those eyes that have haunted my dreams since I was a teenager and my nightmares the last week we’ve been apart. Dark blue, in shadow under heavy brows, sunken and ghostly. He hasn’t been sleeping.

I look away, even though the heat from his stare burns on my skin.

“So nice of you, Noah, to join us for our seven o’clock reservation at”—Spencer pulls back the crisply ironed cuff of his shirt to glance at his shiny watch—“twelve past the hour.”

“Actually, it was my fault we were late,” Wood chimes in, with even more volume and enthusiasm than normal.

“Of course, it was. You’ve always liked being the center of attention without regard to anyone else around you.”

Wood smiles at him in response. “I guess there’s more than one way to be a self-centered asshole.”

Macy sits with her hands in her lap, staring blankly at the tablecloth.

“I didn’t realize you were even invited, Woodall.”

“Oh, I invited myself. Isn’t this fun?”

No one says anything for a beat. Jake takes a drink of water, the ice in his glass clinking around piercing the silence.

Noah’s still cutting me with his eyes.

The drinks arrive at that moment, thank god. I’m regretting not getting alcohol. She starts taking our dinner orders and while Spencer is ordering Macy and himself the salmon—but cooked to no more than one hundred and forty-five degrees and with the white wine butter sauce on the side—Noah leans across the table.

“Liv,” he whispers.

I pretend not to hear him.

He knows I did. My pulse is racing. But I keep my head turned and my eyes trained on the server who comes around for my order next.

My voice comes out all weird, and I clear my throat and smile. Smile so you don’t cry. I order and hand her the menu, all the while never looking back at Noah.

His tattooed fingers drum on the white tablecloth in my peripheral vision.

Ignore him.

“How was your day, Mace? Did you work today?” Wood asks.

Macy, mid-sip of wine, coughs and puts her drink down to answer. “Um, yes. I assisted with two vaginal births and one of our NICU babies got to go home today. It was a good shift.”

“That’s amazing. I couldn’t do anything like that. I’m not good with blood and needles and stuff.” Wood shivers.

“What are you good at these days, Woodall? Partying?” Spencer asks flatly.

“Among other things.” Wood smirks.

---