Page 17 of What We Broke

Exiting the club, my eyes automatically land on that man who’s watching me; waiting for me. I don’t know how he managed to leave without me noticing, but with his arms crossed, leaning on a street pole, he looks even more stunning in the light.

Holding his stare, I push through the few people who are milling around the exit and close the gap between us. He rakes his teeth over his bottom lip the closer I get, his blue-green eyes bright and focused on only me.

I could get used to being the center of his attention.

“Hey,” I say, extending my hand out to him. “I’m Jesse.”

He looks at my hand for a beat too long, and I worry he might not take it.

“Leo.” He slowly places his hand in mine. “What’s with the formality? You didn’t have a problem touching me without introducing yourself inside.”

He’s right. In the muted light of the club, I wanted nothing more than to touch him. I still want that. But under the bright street lights, I’m a long-game type of man.

And the game starts now.

Remembering he wears a watch, I tip my chin up at him. “What’s the time?”

Despite the raise in his eyebrow at my question, he looks down and then back up at me. “Ten thirty.”

“Are you hungry?” I ask.

Eyeing me curiously, he takes his hand out of mine and shoves both into the pockets of his chinos. His stance is casual and unbothered, but the words out of his mouth feel more like a test than a truth. “You don’t have to feed me to fuck me.”

Mirroring his own actions, I bury my hands in my own pockets and give him honesty. “Can’t I do both?”

The way he rocks on his heels and attempts to hide his smile and fails lets me know whatever it is he was testing me on, I passed. “I guess the night is still young.”

Moving us away from the club, I step away from him and point in the direction of a twenty-four-hour diner that’s only a few blocks up the road. “There’s a place not far from here, if you’re okay with me choosing.”

He waves his hand in front of him. “Lead the way.”

Together, we maneuver through the groups of clubgoers. When the crowd is finally behind us and it’s only me and him and a few other people also walking toward the diner, Leo asks, “Do you come here often?”

I don’t know if he means to the club or the diner, but either way, I don’t miss the curiosity in his voice. And because I’ve already worked out that every question Leo asks me has a reason beyond curiosity behind it, I decide to toy with him a little.

“I do,” I say with a straight face. “Every weekend. Troll the club, hit the diner, take home some ass, and come back next weekend and do it all again.”

He stops mid-step, and I school my face before looking over my shoulder at him. “What?”

Chuckling, he continues to walk. “You’ve never picked anyone up in a club before, have you?”

Now side by side, we continue on, every one of his steps matching every one of mine.

“Not even once,” I answer honestly. “Most nights you can’t even get me to stay up past nine o’clock.”

“And tonight?”

“Tonight I came out for my best friend’s birthday and hated every minute until my eyes landed on this guy and his horrible dancing.”

“I really am the worst dancer,” he agrees.

“So, so bad.” We both laugh, and it’s an easy laugh, easy conversation. “Entertaining to watch, though. I like a man who’s comfortable in his own skin.”

“You don’t have to compliment me, I’m already here with you.”

Something about the way he keeps saying that I don’t need to do or say anything “extra” because he’s already agreed to leave with me, makes me feel uncomfortable.

It’s obvious I’m missing something, but instead of addressing it, I ignore it.

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