His eyes softened as they scanned my face, and then he inhaled sharply, glancing over my shoulder as if remembering where we were. “Come on then. Out with it.”

“I was . . .” I started, wondering who I’d have to kill to get the ground to just open up and swallow me whole. Seriously, this playing field was starting to feel a little uneven. “I was just . . .”

“You were . . .” His brows drew together and his gaze flickered to my hand at my throat as he seemed to understand. “In the ladies’ room? Just now?”

“Yes.”

“At work?”

Ugh.

“I’m sorry . . . After last night and then today . . .”

“Wait,” he said, swallowing thickly. “You were thinking of me in there?”

“Of course, I—” I began and then stopped, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath. How did he stay so quiet, so still? “You touch me, but then you turn aloof. The mixed signals make me feel crazy.”

And now I felt crazy with a side of humiliation.

I almost jumped when I felt the gentle prod of his finger under my chin. “Did you come, my darling?”

Fire slid into my veins, and when I looked up at him, I saw the same burning in his.

I licked my lips, nodding.

“Tell me specifically what were you thinking about.”

“Touching you,” I said, my mouth suddenly dry. “Kissing you.”

He nodded, eyes unfocused as he stared at my lips.

It was all the invitation I needed. I stood on my tiptoes, running my nose along the warm skin of his neck. He made a sound that was something between a whimper and a groan, and tried to put the smallest amount of space between us. Looking down at me, he seemed to struggle to work through a hundred different things. I could immediately tell he was torn. Maybe I was right, and post-divorce, he felt a little gun-shy. Maybe he was worried this was all moving too fast. Or maybe he simply wasn’t comfortable doing things my way: sprinting headlong into what was sure to be mind-blowing sex and staying in bed until our return flight left for London.

In that moment, I felt like I’d take whatever I could get, even if that meant ten years of flirtation leading up to a single, careful kiss.

“Are you okay?” I asked quietly.

“I just wonder if we should . . .” He swallowed, wincing slightly.

“Ship me back to London and never speak to me again?”

He laughed but shook his head. “Please, no.”

“Talk about what happened last night?”

He reached up, ran his thumb across my chin. “Yes.”

Relief and anxiety threaded together in my chest. “My mom always said if you can’t talk about it, you shouldn’t be doing it.”

His brow lifted at this, and he studied my face, lips curled up in the sweetest, hopeful smile. “Quiet dinner it is, then.”

Niall met me at my hotel room door, dressed again in my favorite charcoal suit and tie. It was cut perfectly for his long, muscular frame and the gray brought out the yellow in his honey-brown eyes. Those eyes would be focused on me all night. Just me.

I might combust.

We took a cab to Perry St, an upscale restaurant housed in a high-rise glass building just off—you guessed it—Perry Street. It was elegant and chic, with floor-to-ceiling windows and minimal décor. Tables and earth-toned booths packed with diners filled the large dining room, and I was suddenly worried we wouldn’t be able to get a table.

“Table for two,” he told the hostess. “Reservation under the name Stella.”

I tried to ignore the way my heart leapt at the idea of him making dinner reservations for the two of us.

We followed her to a small booth in the very corner of the room.

“Oh my God, this is gorgeous,” I said, taking in the breathtaking view of the Hudson River. “How did you know about this place?”

“Max, of course,” he said, taking his seat.

“Right. Max,” I said, praying that didn’t sound as breathless to his ears as it did to mine. He’d called his brother asking about dinner. If I couldn’t feel his foot pressed up against mine under the table, I might have floated away. “Has he lived here long?”

He nodded, taking a sip of his water. “A few years.”

“He seems so happy,” I said. “They all do.”

He smiled. “They are, it seems. Max and Sara just had a baby, you know?” I nodded, and he hesitated a moment before asking, “Would you like to see a picture?”

“I’d love to.” Love to might be too small an exclamation, dying to might be a bit more accurate.