Caught out, I just snorted and snapped my book open again. “More like dumbfounded. I don’t know how anyone could listen to you and not collapse under the weight of your bullshit. Unless they’re young and stupid, I suppose.”
“You liked my bullshit all right, once upon a time.”
I swallowed, focusing a bit too hard on my book, despite the fact that Austen’s words had completely blurred together. “Young,” I repeated through my teeth. “And very stupid.”
Xavier sighed and stabbed again at his salad. “So, you were telling me about your postgrad…”
I dropped my book and eyed him. Suddenly, the willingness to make small talk had left me. I wasn’t the only one who had explaining to do. “No, I don’t think so.”
His black brow rose. “Don’t think what?”
“I don’t think we’re going to talk about that. You owe me some answers, Xavi.”
The familiar name fell out before I could help it. He’d been alternating between Francesca and Ces all evening, each of them stopping my heart a little in their own small ways. But I’d carefully maintained his given name, unwilling to use the endearment that he had asked me for once, long ago, when we were locked in post-coital bliss.
Call me Xavi, he had whispered between warm, deep kisses. My mother called me Xavi.
At the sound of it now, he froze, then carefully placed his fork on his plate. When he looked up, his blue eyes had deepened, slightly warmed, yet mirrors of the same longing I knew had to be in my own.
“So I do,” he admitted.
My heart thrilled.