Page 154 of Catfish

“I’m not that much older than you,” he retorts.

“You act like you’re eighty,” I convey. “Do you even know what fun is?”

“How do you know I don’t have fun after office hours?” A sentence with so much hidden meaning gets my mind ramping all over the place again.

What does he do outside of office hours? I wonder if he has his own little mistress hidden away somewhere or if he goes to secret establishments to fulfill his manly needs.

Which makes me unable to help but ask my next question.

“What do you do after business hours, Governor?”

“Same as you, I’m sure.”

“Which would be?” He leans over the table, resting his suited forearms down on it, and hits me with the full stare of his steel blues.

I swear a woman could get lost in those irises, it's hard not to do it myself. Not to allow my full-on gawking at the stubble on his face or the way he appears like something straight off an Instagram post.

He’s a beautiful sadness, however. Or maybe a calamity of anguish and pain. Someone who may have seen other things in his lifetime that he can’t forget. It may be what draws me to him in a way. Two souls who have suffered but continue to push through because there is no other way.

“Do you lay awake at night, Miss Shelton, and wonder about that?” he asks me, his tone delicious and deep and, holy shit...I don’t want my food anymore.

My breathing becomes shaky at best under his intense consideration. He knows that I've thought about him—several times.

Just how I'm aware he lets himself get an eyeful of me when I'm in the office, and it's my turn to wear what I want.

I want him.

That much has been obvious to myself as the weeks have gone by. When he speaks sometimes, I completely space out on what he's saying because I'm too busy gawking at his lips, studying his wide shoulders and how much room I would have if I were to wrap my legs around his waist and plant my hands there.

His lips, I crave to taste the bitter, cheap coffee off of them right now in this decrepit café while his fingertips dig slightly into my hips. His tongue goading me to take it a step further, to let myself trail his body and learn him for myself and at my own pace.

Wade Lockwood is what wet dreams are made of.

Every inch of him demands my attention, and he gets it—all the time. I know on the outside he has a stuffy, tedious facade, but the longer I'm around him, the more I realize I'm peeling it back.

And he liked our kiss.

He just won’t initiate another one.

“Are you implying, Governor, that I lay awake with you in my thoughts?”

He clasps his hands together. “I am.” In those two words spills all the confidence in the world. And there he is, fearless, sexy and, dare I say it, flirting with me.

“Only ways to assassinate you sometimes,” I admit, bouncing my fork between my fingers. “You’re a handful.”

His mouth twists, and he leans back in the booth. "I've been called something along those lines before." I perk a brow to which he follows with, "From Em a few times with more colorful words."

“I’m sure you have.”

“Keeps her on her toes.”

“And what keeps you on yours?” I glance up at him from under my lashes. “What do you think about at night?”

“Votes.”

Right, so much for that...

I push my plate away, shoving back frustration and disappointment that starts to creep through my thoughts. “Why am I not surprised?”

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