Page 14 of Cupid's Shot

“Nicholas and I had a little competition going for last night,” he says, picking up on me staring at his plate.

“Oh?”

“Sorry to disappoint. I'm not usually that leaned out. I barely touched carbs the past month. We were both cutting.”

“You two definitely took the competition seriously,” I manage, trying everything I can to not think about him shirtless.

“I take everything I do seriously,” he says, fucking dangerously.

Our server drops the check on the table, and he grabs it. I’m still reeling from all of this flirtation.

“Cash?” I say, surprised he didn’t plop down a credit card and instead counts out the perfect amount with a generous tip.

“For small businesses, I always pay in cash. You should get that.”

“Losing three percent on each transaction definitely adds up.” I smile at how he’s thoughtful and considerate. “Thanks for brunch.”

“You’re a great date.” He smiles. “Let me walk you back.”

“Such a gentleman,” I quip while standing from the booth.

He grabs my hand, this time interlacing his fingers with mine. He’s holding my hand with more confidence than before. As we walk, we look at each other, exchanging little smiles.Am I going to invite him up?I want to, but I also don’t want to rush this.

“I really enjoyed that,” Aaron says as we approach my studio.

“Me too.” I smile, staring up at him.

We stand there, holding hands, our eyes glued to each other. My lips signal exactly what I’m thinking as they part, begging for him to kiss me.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, gently pulling me toward him.

I’m going to do it—kiss Aaron Olson.

His full lips press into mine at that perfect pressure, the one that makes you want to slide your tongue right in, the one that makes you want to keep going and never stop. It’s been too long since I’ve kissed anyone, longer still since I’ve felt this way from a kiss. It’s perfect, until he pulls away.

“Aaron Olson,” I breathe, nearly commanding him to come back.

“Sarah Anderson,” he growls. “Let me take you out for dinner.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Sunday and Monday are my weekends,” he shares.

“Where are we going?” I ask, smiling and wanting to kiss him again.

“La Nonna.”

“Fancy.”

“You’re fancy.”

“You’re right.” I smile

“7:00 p.m.,” he breathes, leaning back into me.

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