Page 30 of The Arrogant's Redemption

I know some customers are watching, and I know how inappropriate it is to be standing here, dressed to leave, talking to Jasper. But I can’t help myself. I can’t walk away, no matter how much I know I should.

"If you're going to flirt with me, at least sit down."

This is the moment when I should tell him he’s misunderstood. A sensible girl would say goodnight and stick to her plan of gorging on sweet, melty delight, but I don’t feel like being sensible tonight. The man seems to have awakened a part of me I didn’t even know existed.

"Are you having dessert?" I ask, still standing.

His expression softens a bit, and just the corner of his mouth lifts. It’s not quite a smile—more like the ghost of one—and still, it makes my knees wobble.

The man is dangerously charming.

"If I say yes, will you sit and share it with me?"

I take a deep breath, risking a leap into the unknown and, worse, having no idea where I’ll land. "I was going to suggest I take you to try the best ice cream in town."

When I said “take you,” I could feel my pulse pounding in my ears and almost backed out, but that would’ve been more embarrassing than the offer itself.

Silence again.

I’m starting to realize I’m not the only one who analyzes everything, and that's not even the real issue—it’s the way Jasper looks at me. Like he’s torn between growling “beat it, kid” or pulling me in for a kiss.

A kiss? Oh no. If I went crazy enough to kiss this man, I wouldn’t stop at one. I’d need at least half a dozen—wet ones, with tongue and teeth clashing.

A shiver runs through me as my cheeks heat up, and I’ve never been so grateful thatThe Ugly Shrimpisn’t well lit.

I watch, in slow motion, as he stands and pulls out at least four hundred-dollar bills from his wallet—even though I know the dinner didn’t cost even half that, wine and tip included.

Without saying a word or caring who might be watching, he places a large hand on the small of my back, guiding me toward the exit.

I’ve always considered myself strong and immune to swoony reactions. I’ve read so many romances where the heroine says her knees went weak and she felt butterflies in her stomach, and I’d roll my eyes because I never imagined someone could actually make me feel that way.

Right now, though, it’s like my whole body is flooded with electricity—my brain completely disconnected, with no logical thoughts in sight.

The heat of his hand through the thin fabric of my dress is transforming me into a volatile cocktail of hormones and want.

The humid night air hits me as we step outside, making me even more lightheaded.

"My car is just—" he starts, but I cut him off with a wave of my hand.

"I’m not getting into a car with you, si?—"

"Withyou. No sir."

Yes, I have to admit it’s ridiculous to keep calling him “sir” when, in my head, I’ve already imagined us making out. "I’m not getting in a car withyou."

"Why not?"

"I don’t know you."

He looks at me like I’m joking, but I don’t even blink. "You’re serious."

"I am."

"How do you plan to get to your precious ice cream, then?"

"It’s only about a quarter of a mile from here. We’ll walk. Or you can go home and spend the rest of your life wondering how you missed out on the world’s best ice cream because of pure laziness."

"I could come back another day."

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