Page 50 of Dial B for Billionaire

“And you got my mom instead.”

He nods slowly. “Do you know what that did to me? Thinking you'd played me?”

“Bennett—”

“I convinced myself you knew exactly who I was. That the whole thing was calculated.” His eyes drop to my mouth. “It was easier than admitting I'd fallen for you in the span of a single conversation.”

“Bennett—”

The air between us crackles. I'm acutely aware of every point where we're almost touching—his knee against mine, our hands inches apart on the table, the heat radiating between us.

“I know.” He pulls back slightly, but his knee stays pressed against mine. “Not here. Not now.”

“Not ever,” I correct, but it sounds weak even to me.

“Is that what you want?” His thumb traces a pattern on the tablecloth, so close to my hand I can feel the movement. “For this to be never?”

I should say yes. Should establish firm boundaries. Should remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea.

Instead, I say, “I don't know what I want.”

“I do.” The certainty in his voice makes me shiver. “But you're not ready to hear it.”

“Try me.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it as the waiter returns with our boxed meals and the check. Bennett pays without looking at the total, his attention never leaving me.

“Let me drive you home,” he says as we stand.

“I have my car.”

“Then I'll follow you. Make sure you get there safely.”

“I don't need?—”

“Please.” The word is soft. Un-demanding. “For my peace of mind.”

I should refuse. Instead, I nod.

The valet brings our cars, and I spend the entire drive home hyperaware of his headlights in my rearview mirror. By the time I pull into my building's garage, my hands are shaking.

He parks next to me. We sit in our respective cars for a moment, neither moving. Then, as if pulled by invisible strings, we both get out.

Bennett walks me to my building's entrance and stops. Three feet of space between us might as well be the Atlantic Ocean for how carefully we're maintaining it.

“Thank you for dinner.” I sound like I'm reading from a corporate script. “And for trying with my dad.”

“Of course.” He's studying the concrete like it holds the secret to quantum physics. “About the prototype timeline?—”

“Can we not?” The words escape before I can stop them. “Just for tonight? Please?”

He looks up. Our eyes meet. The air between us gets so charged, I'm surprised we're not throwing off sparks.

“Right. I should…” He gestures vaguely toward his car.

“Right.”

Neither of us moves. We're like magnets fighting our own nature.

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