Page 51 of A Little Tempting

“I think we’re all allowed to make mistakes,” I murmur.

“Me too.” His eyes soften, but whether it’s from relief or attraction, I’m not sure. Regardless, it’s dangerous. He’s dangerous. How easily I could fall for him. How easily I could open up to him. How much I want to open up to him.

This. Is. His. Job.

“So…are we good?” he prods.

I look down at my hands and play with the edge of my apron. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

“You’re a shitty liar, Dylan.”

“I’m not lying,” I argue, “and honestly? If I ever need your services, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

“My services?” he growls.

I pull back, surprised by the animosity in his voice. Apparently, hedoesn’thide all of his feelings, and I obviously pissed him off.

“You know. Like…” I gulp. “If I ever need to hire you for a date or something. You probably pieced together how I’m not great with the opposite sex, and since you’re evidently very good at what you do, maybe you could help me out or something, or I don’t know?—”

He scoffs like I personally offended him. “Not gonna offer you my services, Dylan.”

My brows tug in the center as I hold his steely gaze. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t date my clients.”

“Isn’t it exactly what you’re doing?” My focus shifts to the main area of the restaurant where I know his client is waiting.

Rolling his eyes, he mutters, “Okay, I date them, but I don’tdatethem.”

“Well, that’s about as clear as mud,” I note.

“Would you like me to make it more clear?” He steps closer again, and my back hits the wall behind us like we’re in a twisted version of deja vu.

“I don’t touch my clients, Dylan. I don’t wonder what they taste like. I don’t picture them naked, and I sure as shit don’t imagine them in my bed.”

The imagery makes my knees tremble as I stare at his lips. They’re so close I can almost taste them, and if I were a different girl, I would. I’d lift my chin and take what I want. I’d quench my curiosity. I’d?—

My phone rings, and I jerk at the foreign sound. Pulling it out of my apron, I check the name on the screen, then peek at Reeves.

Something flashes in his warm brown eyes when he sees my mom’s name. “Answer it,” he orders.

“I’m at work.”

“It’s your mom.”

“I’ll call her back.”

“Answer it, Dylan.”

“Seriously? You never ignored one of your mom’s calls?”

“My mom’s dead. Now, answer it.”

Like a punch to the gut, I exhale, too surprised by his revelation to do anything but follow his orders. As my thumb slides across the screen, I bring the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

My mom rushes out, “Tell me you’re okay!”

“What?”

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