Page 48 of A Little Tempting

“Excuse me?” the woman interrupts.

“It’s a line from an old Carrie Underwood song,” I mumble, stealing the courage to look back at her instead of the jumbled words on my notepad. She’s gorgeous. Older. Like, my mom’s age or something, but gorgeous, nonetheless. “Nevermind. I’ll have the bartender deliver a…whiskey? Wait. Do you want a glass or a shot or…?”

“Two shots, please. Jameson.” The woman looks at Reeves. “And what would you like?”

He’s staring at me. I can feel him. His gaze. The way it brands the side of my face makes my cheeks heat with frustration and embarrassment and jealousy. I can’t actually look at him again. Not when my stupidity threatens to burn me up from the inside out.

Did I seriously misread everything that happened at the rink?

“Reeves?” the woman prods.

“Water’s fine,” Reeves says.

I don’t bother looking at him as I scribblewateron the notepad, heading to the bar to place the woman’s order. I’m still under twenty-one, so I can’t technically serve alcohol. I can, however, pass along the order so someone legal can deliver it to the table. It feels a bit like a loophole, but if it keeps me away from their table for a little while, I won’t complain. I need a minute. To collect myself. To remind myself exactly who I am and what type of relationship I have with the man at table four. A non-existent relationship, or at best, a friendly one. Which is fine and completely normal, so I need to stop making it weird and awkward.

Stop. Making. It. Awkward.

My hands shake. It’s stupid, but it’s true. I throttle the pad and pen when a firm grasp encompasses my arm and yanks me down the hall.

“Shit,” I screech.

“Hey, Dylan.”

Recognizing the culprit, I yank out of Reeves’ grasp. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

“I work here. What’s your excuse?”

“Also working.”

My brows shoot up. “Working? Is that what the guys call it these days?”

The bastard simply smirks and steps closer, crowding me. “You’re cute when you’re jealous.”

Not realizing how close I am to the wall, I step back and run into it with a soft thump. The air whooshes from my lungs, but Reeves doesn’t stop his pursuit as he corners me against it.

Staring at his chest, I murmur, “I’m not jealous.”

“And I’m not on a date.”

“It looks like you’re on a date.”

“And it looks like you’re jealous,” he volleys back. I can hear the amusement in his voice. It pisses me off. How nonchalant he is. Like I have no right to feel affected. Then again, I guess I don't. He owes me nothing. Absolutely nothing.

“Whatever you say, Reeves.” I force a smile, trying to slip past him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back?—”

He mirrors my steps, keeping me exactly where he wants me. “She hired me, Dylan.”

My breath stalls. “H-hired you for what?”

“To take her out.”

I blink. Twice. Hating the fact Everett was right all along. I pretended he wasn’t, but he did warn me about Reeves being an escort. After the costume party. Beforeandafter my photo shoot with Reeves. I pushed aside all of the warnings simply because of how nice it felt to be…silly and fun with someone. To see the curiosity in Reeves’ eyes. The attraction. And I swear it was there, even if it only lasted a few minutes. I don’t know. I liked it, though. How thoughtful he was to bring a puppy simply to see me smile. How genuine he seemed. How interested—even if I didn’t admit it aloud to Finley or Ophelia. And now…now, I have front-row seats to the guy who made me feel capable of attraction and flirting, along with confirmation he’s literally paid to give exactly that to anyone willing to cough up a chunk of change to be in his presence.

Of course, he’s an escort. And a good one, too. I can attest to it firsthand.

So why am I blindsided?

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