Page 47 of His To Erase
My stomach twists.
Because—what the fuck?
I freeze, fingers tightening around the glass in my hand like that’s going to steady me. That’s the most unsettling thing anyone’s ever said to me.
How the hell would he know that?
I stare at him, blinking like an idiot, because now I’m replaying it in my head.
He’s still watching me with that maddening stillness like he’s not just in my head—he’s rearranging the fucking furniture.
He shrugs one shoulder, like he’s commenting on the weather.
“You did it at the library. You do it here, too. Three steps, sharp turn, back again. Always in threes.”
Always in threes.
My throat goes dry, and my blood goes cold.
I never even realized I did it that consistently until he said it out loud. And that’s what rattles me. Not the fact that he noticed—but how fast he picked up on it.
“Some people count sheep. I pace. Congrats,” I snap, tossing the rag on the counter and reaching for another glass, pretending like I’m not suddenly hyper aware of every move I make.
“Didn’t say it was a bad thing,” he murmurs. His voice sounds like dark velvet over broken glass. “Just interesting.”
Interesting.
I glare at him across the counter. “You always psychoanalyze your bartenders?”
His lips twitch into something that might be a smile—but not the kind that reaches his eyes. It’s darker than that. Sharper.
Then, in that low, deliberate voice that crawls under my skin like smoke through a cracked window, he says, “You’ve cleaned that glass for two minutes, clenching your jaw. You’ve got something to say. Spit it out.”
My spine straightens before I can stop it. Of course he’s clocking my every move.
I cross my arms, keeping my expression cool—detached—while my insides churn.
“What,” I shoot back, “you keeping a stopwatch on me now?”
He just leans forward, elbows resting on the bar like he’s getting comfortable, and ready to watch me come undone.
“You were ready to go for the throat over a blonde with too much perfume,” he says. “Don’t tell me you’ve run out of energy now.”
My mouth opens. Then shuts. Because I have nothing. Nothing that won’t sound like an admission.
He’s not wrong. And he fucking knows it.
The glass in my hand creaks like it might shatter. Which, honestly, would be preferable to letting him see how much he’s getting under my skin.
“You don’t know shit about me,” I mutter.
But it’s weak. Even I can hear it. And from the slight tilt of his mouth, he does too.
“I know how you look at me when you think I’m not watching.”
My pulse stutters.
And now I’m the one gripping the edge of the bar, hoping it holds me up while I figure out how to survive this conversation without either jumping him or throwing something.
