“Ivy seems nice,” she finally said.
“She is. And Clive seems…present.”
She snorted, an undignified sound that was at odds with her elegant appearance.
The corner of my mouth tilted up. I loved her reactions. They were so real, so her. No artifice, no ass-kissing. Pure Scarlett.
“I can’t believe they used to date,” she said. “What a plot twist.”
“Maybe it’s a sign.”
“Of what?”
“That we’re on dates with the wrong people.”
My words stole the last semblance of pretense between us. They hissed and crackled like a blaze in a hearth, warming my skin and bringing a tint of red to Scarlett’s cheeks.
“That’s not something you should say when we’re still on our dates.” She glanced in the direction of the toilets.
No Ivy or Clive yet.
“Perhaps, but am I wrong?” I challenged. “Don’t tell me you can endure Clive’s grandstanding about rugby. Rugby.” I made a noise of disgust. “It’s violence disguised as a sport. All brawn, no finesse.”
“You are such a snob. Other sports exist besides football, you know.”
“Not good ones.”
A hint of a smile crossed her face. “You’re insufferable.”
“But more sufferable than Clive Hart. Be honest.” My gaze burned into hers. “Are you enjoying your date with him, or do you simply want to win our bet?”
The smile disappeared. “Why wouldn’t I enjoy the date? He’s good-looking, successful, and funny. The total package.”
Funny? Sure, Clive was funny the way syphilis was funny, and his “total package” included a strong whiff of bullshit.
The same bullshit I heard in Scarlett’s response.
“That’s not what I asked,” I said softly.
Scarlett’s eyes flickered in the candlelight. They were the color of silver moonbeams, at times clear, at times obscured by wisps of clouds.
Sometimes, finding her true feelings amongst the mist was impossible. Tonight, I saw right through it.
“No.” The clouds parted, revealing a glimmer of vulnerability. “Not really.”
Her answer was as close to an admission as she would allow, in this moment where our dates were gone and we could spin an illusion of normality.
My heart pattered to an uneven beat.
“Are you enjoying your date with Ivy?” she asked.
“No.” I held her gaze. “Not really.”
The clatter of plates and silverware retreated into the background. Scarlett’s lips parted, and I felt it in my bones—a moment of perfect tension, stretched taut between our previous promises and our present desires.
Two weeks since our kiss.
Two weeks since we agreed to pretend it never happened.
And yet, beneath the surface of our otherwise innocent conversation, the rolling thunder of attraction drummed on.
Her reasons for disregarding the kiss were still valid. The consequences of not doing so were still threats.
But it was easier to choose logic during daylight, when work and distractions formed a barrier between the head and heart.
At night, that barrier dwindled, leaving us open to the possibility that consequences paled next to our wants.
“You called her darling.” Scarlett’s voice was smoke and velvet, threaded with a tinge of hurt. “You must be enjoying the date more than you admit unless you use that endearment with everyone. Does it always work for you?”
“I wouldn’t know.” The satisfaction of getting under her skin with that tactic was minute compared to my exhaustion. I was tired of our games. “I’ve only called one woman that and meant it.”
Scarlett’s soft inhale was nearly my undoing.
I didn’t want to be in a crowded restaurant, on a double date, surrounded by strangers and cosplaying indifference.
I wanted to be anywhere else, as long as I was alone with her.
“Hey. I’m sorry that took so long.” Ivy’s apology jarred us out of our trance.
