Page 71 of Hit Me With Your Best Shot

Then.

I meet his gaze, steady and unflinching.

“I see a man who likes to be in control, but not because he’s controlling.”It’s because he has had to take care of his sister, provide for her, and be a grown-up sooner than anyone should have to.

His smirk fades entirely, replaced by something quieter, morevulnerable. He doesn’t say anything; when his jaw tenses, I’m worried I may have hit a nerve.

“You’re good at being the adult,” I choose my words carefully. “Stepping in when no one else would. But that doesn’t mean you don’t feel the weight of responsibility.”

For a moment, the playful banter is gone, replaced by a silence that feels heavier, more intimate. He leans back in his chair, his drink forgotten on the table, and just…

Looks at me.

“That’s quite the read,” he says finally, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful.

“Did I get it wrong?” I ask softly.

He shakes his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“No,” he says softly, resting his knife on the edge of his plate. “You didn’t get it wrong.”

I eat a few more bites, letting the silence stretch and marinate between us, comfortable and unspoken.

“Also,” I murmur, glancing up at him under my long lashes. “Youhatespreadsheets.”

That earns me a full laugh, rich and genuine, and I shiver, enjoying the sound of it. Me—I made him laugh like that. A laugh so loud several patrons in the restaurant turned to stare at us.

“I don’t hate spreadsheets. I just think there are more exciting things to look at.”

“Likewhat?”

“You.”

I totally knew he was going to say that.

He walked right into it.

Panties = 80% wet.

He sets his glass down, removing the napkin from his lap. Gio leans forward, resting his elbows on the table as if he were ready to leave. “I have a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?” I echo, my eyebrows lifting.

I don’t love surprises.

He nods, a small, mischievous smile playing on his lips. “But there’s a catch.”

“Of course there is.” I lean back in my chair. “Hmm, what’s the catch?”

“You’ll have to give up dessert,” he says, his tone light, but his eyes never leave mine.

I narrow my gaze at him, trying to gauge if he’s serious. “Give up dessert? Do you know how hard it was not to order the molten lava cake?”

“I promise,” he says, leaning closer, his voice dipping just enough to make my stomach flip. “This is better than cake.”

Better than cake.

Is it dick?I want to ask, but don’t have the nerve. Actually, I wonder what he would say if those were the words that came out of my mouth.

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