Page 68 of His To Erase
“We could. But I think we both know I’m not the dancing type.”
No. He’s the watch-you-from-the-corner-until-you-crack type. And right now, he’s looking at me like I’m not just his date, and it’s starting to make me uncomfortable.
I pull back, shaking my head. “This place is too loud. I feel like I’m yelling.”
Frank doesn’t argue. Just downs the rest of his drink in one practiced motion and stands, holding out a hand.
“Come on.”
I hesitate.
His gaze flicks to mine.
“Just a quieter booth. Promise.”
It’s stupid that I even consider it. Stupider that I take his hand and follow him down the hallway.
The VIP section is quieter—but somehow worse. The music is a low, pulsing throb in the walls, and everything else is velvet curtains, dim lighting, and money that doesn’t need to prove itself.
He leads me to a booth in the farthest corner, and I slide into the leather seat across from him, my fingers skim the edge of the table like I need something to ground me.
It’s not lost on me that I’m here in combat boots, sheer black tights with one rip across the thigh that definitely wasn’t there this morning, and a slip dress that walks the line between effort and accident.
My eyeliner’s smudged, I don’t have any lip gloss on, and I look exactly like someone who didn’t know she was being taken somewhere with velvet ropes and VIP tags.
Everyone else in this room looks like a curated ad campaign.
Frank, of course, fits right in.
I glance down at my chipped nail polish and fight the urge to sink lower in the booth.
“Didn’t know I was supposed to dress for the Met Gala,” I mutter.
Frank grins, stretching one arm along the back of the booth. “You’re perfect.”
I snort. “You don’t even know what I’m wearing under this sweater.”
“I thought this was dinner and drinks,” I say, sitting straighter. “Not amateur hour at the strip club.”
He tilts his head with that same infuriating calm in his expression.
“It can be both.”
I open my mouth, just to shut it again. Why the hell did I agree to this? Because I felt bad. Because he was bleeding in a fucking alley and I kept him from dying. Because brushing him off for months started to feel like more effort than just going to dinner.
I’m not the girl who waits around for a man to show up. Not even if he left me gasping in a library aisle.
“I didn’t realize velvet booths were your thing,” I say, waving a hand at the lush, shadowed corner we’re tucked into.
He shrugs. “I like privacy.” Then he smiles with that lazy grin of his. “Don’t you?”
That earns a raised brow. “Privacy? From what, your fan club?”
Frank’s eyes glint in the low light. “Jealousy looks good on you.”
I laugh. But it’s sharp and hollow. “That wasn’t jealousy. That was secondhand embarrassment.”
He chuckles, and for a second, I almost forget the weirdness. Almost forget the knot curling tighter in my stomach.
