She scoffs, shaking her head, and I'm in heaven. I love this back-and-forth hate fest we have going on. “I’m good, thanks.”
The waiter brings our wine out, opens the bottle, pours a glass, and waits for Reece to approve it. Wine approved, he pours for the table.
Looking up, azure blues burn into my soul. Her gaze freezes into mine, but it's probably only because she knows it would be obvious if she didn’t. It's the same charade as always. Cold as ice, hard as stone.
She’ll never be one to let buckling knees and outward reactions show amid a battle. Not even a facial reaction to me.
Wynter slipped earlier today and exposed what lies behind the mask, letting us on to the fact that she’s not always poised and polished. Some days she truly is just Wynter, not a third-generation Carlisle.
I’m sure the Carlisle family has bred out all the emotions by the time it got to her.
A slight twinkle in her eye leads me to believe otherwise. Does her heart flutter? Do these feelings feel as dangerous to her as they do to me? Dangerous because I could see myself getting attached. She’s ice just waiting for a flame to melt her.
My eyes meet her sparkling blues, daring me to do something… to make her feel. It’s as if we have sucked all the air around us from the room. We’re stuck surviving on our own oxygen supply.