Page 69 of Butterfly Effect

She raises her hands like a white flag. “Okay, fine. I’ll be nice to you for the next couple of hours in front of your perfect girlfriend.”

Me? Perfect?

My acting must be a bittoowell done.

“She is, isn’t she?” He steps beside me, and I lose track of my pulse.

“You don’t believe that, do you?” I ask under my breath, not meaning for him to hear.

But he does.

He announces dinner to redirect the group and leads us toward the dining tables. Despite the music, muted noise in the kitchen, and low chatter, I hear him, too.

“Sure, I do.”

My heart. He’s melted it.

Why can’t he go back to being the intolerable jock?

Too occupied with irritation, I only reorient after I’ve sat down and the server places a bowl in front of me.

“Roasted butternut squash soup with a slice of baguette, toasted.”

I stare at it a moment too long. It’s my comfort soup. My dad used to make it for us.

Wade drapes an arm over the back of my chair. “You gonna try it, or you want me to feed you?”

He watches me take a sip, pupils blowing wide when the spoon leaves my mouth. And he’s definitely torturing me on purpose by using his tongue as a landing strip while trying the entree himself. As if he knows I’m wondering what he’s capable of doing with it.

Even more torturous is how our pinkies brush when our hands settle on the table. He doesn’t retreat as his conversation with Donovan and Jaeger continues, instead covering my hand and stroking an apology across the knuckles with his thumb. S-o-r-r-y. But he has nothing to be sorry about.

So I pull away.

Pretty Boy’s got his signals crossed because he takes the motion as permission to palm my bare thigh.

Indi whips her head to me and sucks her lips in, eyebrow raised at his hand’s position. “Ooooh. What’s going on there?”

I scoff out a tepid, breathy laugh. “You know these hockey boys. They get possessive over the silliest things.”

Wade’s fingers dig into my flesh, muscles tightening at the rough contact.

“Don’t I know it!” she agrees, looping her arm through Landon’s.

Her man is clueless and returns a dopey smile, his mouth full of bread.

The touch releases, but not entirely. His fingertips graze the surface in growing, concentric circles, which is somehow worse. I distract myself by quickly finishing my soup.

“I’m done!” I say to get the server’s attention, but everyone else’s comes along with it.

Way to play it cool, Finch.

They take away the bowls and replace them. I study the garnished slice.

“Quiche?”

“It’s a tomato and gruyere tart,” Wade answers.

Indi taps my elbow, and when I turn to see what she wants, she glows with the toothiest grin.

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