Page 39 of Thorns of Deceit
He paused, the amber candlelight catching the angles of his face. “When I was sixteen, I tried to impress a girl by cooking dinner… and nearly burned my mother’s kitchen down.”
I laughed so hard I almost spilled my water. “You? Burn down a kitchen?”
“Yes,” he said, pretending to glare. “And it was humiliating.”
“So we have something in common,” I said, smiling. “We have both caused havoc in a kitchen somewhere along the way, although you seem to have learned to cook while I’m still… struggling.”
His gaze softened. “I can teach you.”
My heart fluttered in a way I hadn’t expected, but before I could commit to his cooking lessons, the waiter arrived with our dishes—seared salmon for him, roasted vegetable risotto for me. Steam curled from the plates, carrying the scent of thyme and garlic, making my mouth water. He offered me a bite of his salmon, and when our fingers brushed across the plate, a spark of warmth shot up my arm. He didn’t pull away, only let our hands linger for a fraction longer than necessary, and my stomach did a little flip.
As we ate, our conversation flowed with surprising ease. He laughed, his eyes crinkling, and I realized I hadn’t noticed that softness before. I found myself leaning closer without meaning to, drawn by it.
By the time dessert arrived—a shared chocolate tart with a drizzle of raspberry sauce—he gently fed me a bite. His thumb brushed my hand again, and I couldn’t stop the little shiver that traveled through me.
“You have a beautiful laugh,” he whispered, and I blinked in surprise.
“You… I do?”
“Yes,” he said, his eyes holding mine, and I felt a warmth settle deep in my chest with tender and unfamiliar feelings.
It was quiet, intimate, the kind of moment that made the world shrink until it was just the two of us—the flicker of candlelight, the soft jazz, the subtle brush of our hands, the rise and fall of our laughter.
He reached across the table, gently resting his hand over mine, and it never occurred to me—nor did I want it to—to pull away. Instead, I leaned a little closer to him, like he was my magnet.
It was evident that I was slowly but surely falling for him, but I didn’t care. It felt right.
The quiet hum of the engine filled the space between us as we headed for the movie theater, and somehow it felt… comforting.
The car smelled faintly of leather and the subtle cologne Aiden always wore. I could still feel the warmth from dinner lingering in my chest with a soft, persistent flutter I couldn’t ignore.
When we arrived at the theater, the neon lights outside cast a gentle glow over his face. He bought the tickets as the smell of popcorn hit me and I stared at it like a child. He chuckled, then proceeded to buy the biggest popcorn bowl along with drinks and junk food we both knew we couldn’t possibly get through.
The gesture was so ordinary, yet strangely perfect with him.
The theater was nearly empty. We found seats toward the back, the darkness wrapping around us like a private bubble.
He waited for me to settle, then gently placed his hand over mine, my fingers instinctively entwining with his as a small thrill shot up my arm.
“What are you doing?” I whispered, though I feared my heart would shatter if he pulled his hand away.
“I want to hold your hand,” he murmured, making my heart beat faster. “Is that okay?”
A heartbeat passed.
“Yes.”
It was more than okay, I thought, smiling and leaning further into his warmth. The lights dimmed and the movie began, but I barely noticed the screen. I was too aware of him—his hand on mine, the way his shoulder brushed mine when he shifted, the subtle scent of his cologne mixed with the faint lingering aroma of dinner.
Every now and then, he’d squeeze my fingers gently as if checking that I was okay. Or maybe still with him. And I was. Every single fiber of me was here.
At one point, during a particularly tender scene, I murmured, “I think this is a part where we’re supposed to make out.”
Almost on cue, the couple in the front row started kissing, and we both laughed softly.
His hand slipped around me and I felt his warm breath brush my earlobe as he whispered, “The kind of making out I’d do… would get us kicked out of the theater.”
I felt heat rising to my cheeks, but I didn’t comment. Instead, I leaned farther into him.
