Page 17 of My Bloody Valentine

Delete.

Who are you?”

Delete.

The more I learn about you, the less I understand.

I hit send.

His response comes quickly.

Then stop trying to understand. Feel instead. See you tonight.

I hurry out of the coffee shop, leaving the half-empty cup behind. My heels click against the sidewalk as I speed-walk home, checking over my shoulder every few steps.

The memory of Adrian’s touch floods back—his fingers trailing across my lips during the tasting, the way he made me arch and gasp without even really touching me. Heat blooms in my core.

“This is crazy.” I fumble with my keys at my apartment door. “He’s obviously hiding something.”

Inside, I lean against the closed door, my pulse racing. The smart thing would be to cancel tonight, block his number, and never step foot in his boutique again.

Just thinking about those stunning gray eyes, the commanding tone in his voice... I slide down to sit on my floor, pressing my thighs together.

My phone is weighty in my grasp. One text could end this—or take it further. The sensible food critic in me screams danger. The woman who came undone from just his fingertips wants more.

My eyes drift closed, remembering how he knew exactly what I needed. No man has ever read me like that, known how to playmy body like a fine-tuned instrument. The chocolate was just a prelude to what he could do.

“Fuck.” I bang my head back against the door. The mystery surrounding him should terrify me. Instead, I want to peel back his layers and taste what’s underneath that controlled exterior.

My hand drifts to my neck where he marked me. The spot still tingles. All things about Adrian Vale signal that he’s a predator, but instead of running, I want to bare my throat.

The clock on my wall ticks toward evening. Hours until our date. Hours to change my mind and choose safety over whatever Adrian Vale offers.

But who am I kidding? I’ve already made my choice.

8

ADRIAN

Iwatch Maya step out of my car, her eyes wide as she takes in my home’s stark, modern lines. The setting sun casts long shadows across the reflecting pool, making the water appear like liquid obsidian.

“Your house is... unexpected.” Maya walks gracefully along the limestone path.

“What were you expecting? A gingerbread house?” I unlock the front door, breathing in the rich aroma of mole sauce that’s been simmering all afternoon.

“Maybe something more Gothic.” Her laugh echoes in the foyer. “This is almost minimalist.”

“I save the drama for my chocolates.” I guide her to the dining room, where I’ve set the table with stark white China and crystal stemware. “Please, sit.”

The candlelight catches the ruby depths of the wine as I pour. "A 2015 Château Léoville-Las Cases. The tannins complement the complexity of mole sauce perfectly.”

Maya lifts the glass, inhaling. “You made mole sauce from scratch?”

“Twenty-three ingredients, including three types of chilies and, of course, chocolate.” I disappear into the kitchen andreturn with two plates. “The chicken has been braising for hours.”

The sauce gleams and looks velvety over the tender meat. I’ve garnished each plate with a sprinkle of sesame seeds and fresh cilantro.

I watch Maya take her first bite, noting how her eyes close in concentration. Her fork hovers midway to her mouth as she processes the complex layers of flavor. A small moan escapes her lips.

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