His arrogant confidence stops Chance like a physical barrier, like a punch to the chest. I can see how Chance struggles with indecision, with anger, and I wonder what his issue is. Like this man just said—this Hawk Fleming or whatever—Chance broke up with me. Why isn’t he just walking away?
It’s as if he’s suddenly jealous at any man showing any token interest in me. Or maybe at this man, who’s so obviously rich and better-looking.
It’s disgusting, and I make a sound of distress before I can help it. I feel sick. Sick that Chance would throw me away, slander me publicly, and then think he has any claim on me.
“You look beautiful,” Hawk tells me, lifting my hand to his lips, and even if it’s just for show, I shiver at the brush of his soft lips
over my fingers.
And I’m also glad, because Chance’s face darkens so much he may well stroke out, and then he turns on his heel and leaves, the woman whose name I’ve yet to catch giving me a baleful glare before stalking after him.
Leaving me alone with this guy, and with the eyes of everyone in the restaurant still on us—curious, judging, pondering.
I hope it was fun for them, because honestly, I’m pretty shaken right now as the pieces of the evening fall around me like raindrops, revealing holes—in my life, in my plans for the future.
Because I’d somehow thought Chance and I would move in together soon. That I’d finally meet his parents. Build a life together.
I don’t know for him, but for me two years is a big deal.
Was. Was a big deal.
Oh my God, we’re done, and he was freaking awful, and that woman…
The air is stuck in my throat, and my vision is all blurry, so when Hawk grips my chin and turns my face toward him, I barely see him. He’s a hazy, beautiful outline of a man, until I blink and his bright gaze becomes clear once more.
“Okay?” he says. Only that, and waits for my reply.
I nod. I mean, what else can I do? He salvaged as much of my pride as possible, salvaged my night, and no matter how scattered and hollow I’m feeling, the thought of sitting close to this guy is making my face warm.
“Then this way, please,” he murmurs and leads me away to a table by one of the bay windows overlooking the harbor. His steps are heavy, his gait powerful, his grip on my hand just shy of painful. “I was about to order.”
And I was about to die of shame and anger and the shards of my life falling around me, and he saved me.
My heart trips over as he takes a seat across from me.
A waiter comes to bring me a leather-bound menu, and bows to Hawk with a murmured, “Mr. Fleming.”
That’s when it hits me and I know who he is, turning the evening from weird to surreal.
My head spinning, I open the menu blindly. “No way,” I whisper.
Jamie Hawk Fleming. Heir to the Fleming Empire.
Is this for real? Is he playing a prank? Am I dreaming? Oh my God, nobody pinch me, okay? If it’s a dream, I want it to last.
***
“So… you like artichokes?”
“What?” I’ve been staring at this hands. They’re resting on the table. Big, strong, with blunt fingernails.
“Artichokes.” He tilts his head to the side and one side of his mouth tips up. “That what you ordered, right? Spaghetti alla chitarra con carciofi e bottarga.” At my clearly confused look, his smile goes up a notch. “Pasta with artichokes and fish roe.”
Oh God. Of course he’d know Italian. I wonder how many languages he speaks. How many sports he excels at.
So I just nod frantically. “Yeah, that’s right.”
“That what you wanted?”