Page 73 of You Were Never Not Mine

“I know.”

“I’m making an exception for you.” He skims his thumb across my chin, drifting it upward until he’s pressing it into the corner of my mouth. His voice lowers to a deep rumble. “God, your mouth is the stuff of fantasies.”

I ignore the compliment—is it a compliment? Whatever, it doesn’t matter. “Why am I the exception?”

The elevator lands with a soft thud and the doors slide open. He doesn’t answer my question, which frustrates me. He takes my hand once more and leads me out of the elevator and across the expansive lobby of the building, heading for the front doors. I tip my head back to examine the light fixtures hanging above us, impressed with their beauty. Everything in this building is stunning. Perfect. A little too sterile for my tastes, but I can still appreciate it.

We walk outside into the brisk late October air and August ushers me into the back seat of a waiting car, climbing in after me, the driver shutting the door. Once we’re inside I glance over at August, dying to know his answer.

“You never acknowledged my question.”

He adjusts his shirt sleeve, toying with the cufflink. “What question?”

Oh that bored tone of his should make me mad but like the fool that I am, I find it sexy. “I asked you why I was the exception.”

“Exception to what?”

It’s my turn to growl. God, he’s frustrating. “You never datedanyone—until me. I am the exception. You just said that and I want to know why. What made you change your mind?”

His gaze sinks into mine, both of us quiet, the air in the car charged with that familiar energy that always seems to grow between us when we’re together. I lean into him, my body swaying as if I have no control, and his gaze finally drops, landing on my chest, sliding lower. My entire body reacts, gooseflesh rising as if he physically touched me and he leans back into his seat with a ragged exhale. The spell broken, just like that.

“That’s why,” he murmurs and he doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t need to explain it because I feel the same exact way.

Chapter Thirty-Three

AUGUST

Iris recommended a French restaurant. Address is on the Upper East Side and her friends have been raving about this place. Supposedly even our parents went there and loved it. Considering I don’t necessarily crave French food and was reluctant to make the reservation, Iris sent me a bunch of photos of the place and I liked the vibe.

The bar was massive, with floor-to-ceiling backlit shelves that were crowded with an endless array of liquor bottles. I knew if all else failed, I could get fucking drunk and that would make the evening easier to deal with. Not that I was filled with doubt. From the moment I set eyes on Sinclair in the dress that’s see-through yet somehow not, I can’t stop looking at her. My fingers tingle with the need to touch her and I’ve been sporting a semi since we climbed into the helicopter together.

Needless to say, I won’t need liquor to get through the night. If anything, I should refrain. What if I get too buzzed and try to touch her inappropriately in public? She’d probably slap me and I’d probably deserve it.

“It’s beautiful in here,” Sin whispers to me once we’re seated at our table. She’s looking around the restaurant with wide, all-seeing eyes, the glow from the lit candle sitting in the middle of our table lighting up her face, making her somehow even prettier than she already is.

It pains me to watch her for too long. I start thinking—romantic thoughts. How I want to whisk her away and lock her up in a massive house for the rest of our lives so no one else can see just how achingly beautiful she is.

I push the unhinged thought out of my brain because it’s pointless. I can’t lock her away and keep her to myself. No matter how much I want to.

“My sister recommended it,” I tell her, deciding to be truthful. I’m tired of lying to her. She always finds out anyway and luckily, she hasn’t told me to go to hell yet so I must be doing something right.

“Iris?” When I nod, she smiles. “I remember her. She was always so much fun.”

“That’s one way to describe her,” I say wryly.

“How is she? Is she still with Brooks?”

“Yes. They have a child.”

“Oh my God, really?” Her enthusiasm at the mention of the beast is shocking. “How old? Girl or boy?”

“Girl. And I don’t know how old she is. She can’t walk yet.”

“Aww! Oh, I’m sure she’s adorable. What’s her name?”

“Astrid. It’s a family name. Some great aunt from long ago,” I explain.

“I love it,” Sinclair breathes and I believe her. She sounds sincere and I’m slightly baffled. Why would she care? Though I suppose people are different than me and care about things that I think are trivial. Not that my sister or my niece don’t matter to me, they do, but why would they matter to Sin?

---