Page 23 of When Hearts Surrender

I bark out a laugh as she struggles to maintain an angry face. Her lips twitch and she gnaws on her plump bottom lip again. She’s nervous, but in a good way.

Heat unfurls in my gut and travels south as my eyes zero in on her luscious lips.

So plump and red. I’d give anything for a taste.

My nostrils flare and I find myself leaning toward her despite the warning bells blaring in the back of my mind, a desperate reminder I’m going to be engaged next month to a woman I’ve never met. But my heart races, every muscle in my body rioting with the need to touch her and taste her.

Fuck it. I’m Silas tonight, not Maxwell. I’m free.

She sucks in a breath, a pretty pink flush creeping up her slender neck to her pale face. Her eyes flutter shut.

“We have a winner!” the announcer yells behind us.

I flinch, backing into my seat. Her eyes open and travel to my face and the shade of pink deepens on her smooth cheeks.

What am I doing? This can’t happen. The curse. The arrangement. This is wrong.

Seeing the crowd closing in on us, I can feel the beginnings of suffocating anxiety seeping into the cracks of my psyche, polluting the glorious high I’m on right now. The prickle of nausea curls in my stomach.

She furrows her brows and rolls her lips inward, her movements drawing my attention away from the crowd.

I’ve hurt her feelings.

Somehow, that thought is unbearable to me.

Cocking my brow, I ask. “Ready for your next adventure?”

Her eyes bug out. “W-What? Where?”

I shift the car into gear again and drive off, leaving the fans behind in a cloud of dust.

It’s then I realize I didn’t have an anxiety attack next to this stranger. There’s only the righteous pounding of my heart in my chest.

Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

Chapter 8

Fifteen minutes later, Ipark the car in front of Nellie’s, the hole in the wall, twenty-four-hour diner a walking distance from Hudson River Park. Before my photo from the press conference was plastered everywhere, I’d enjoy occasional sojourns here, where they had the best pastrami and rye I’d ever tasted.

As I step out of the car, a cool breeze sifts through the air, carrying the scent of the briny waters of the Hudson and motor oil from the slick pavement. A dense moisture clings to the air, but the rain seems to give us a break. I look up at the oppressive dark clouds lit up by the city lights, a sight, which, mere hours ago, felt heavy and dreary, but now doesn’t bother me.

Because of her. A bright ray of sunlight cutting through the darkness.

I swing to her side to open the door. She steps out gracefully, her slender, model-esque legs sliding out of the car first, her hands pressed over the hem of her dress.

My eyes rove over her face—something about her is familiar, but I can’t place it. I’ve never seen her at The Orchid before, but she comes from money and manners. I’d bet my fortune on it. Perhaps she’s a new member?

“Where are we?”

“My favorite sandwich shop in the city.”

I usher her in and take a seat at my usual spot, a corner booth with a view of Hudson Yards. She looks around and eyes the classic Americandiner decor of reds and whites washed in stark florescent lights, gleaming chrome interiors with white signs detailing the specials of the day.

A few tables are occupied by teenagers who are busy looking at their cell phones, but the diner is otherwise empty. The smell of freshly brewed coffee mixes with the mouthwatering aroma of sizzling bacon on the griddle.

Nellie, the owner, steps toward us, her hand retrieving a pad from the pocket of her white apron. She has her usual toothpick in her mouth, her graying hair a disheveled mess. She used to tell me people were here for her food, not to look at her.

Nellie smiles brightly as she spots me with Anna and she waggles her brows.

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