Her gaze dropped to my lips and lingered before looking back up. “Will you—”
A loud knock on the door snatched us out of the moment, catapulting us back to reality.
I took a step back, inhaling deeply as if I hadn’t breathed the entire time I stood so close to her.
Disappointment flashed in her eyes, and I felt the same. The need to kiss her was bone-deep, and it hurt not to be able to.
“Miss Whitlock?”
“That’s probably security bringing us the pizza.” She pressed her lips in a thin line before slipping past me.
I stood frozen on the spot, wondering how the fuck I would be able to do the right thing when it seemed to go against everything my miserable existence demanded? It was fucking impossible to deny it, and it only seemed to grow stronger the more I tried to ignore it.
The distinctive aroma of garlic and the spicy scent of pepperoni wafted around me as Sienna walked past, placing the box on the kitchen counter.
She opened the box, and I grinned. “No extra pineapple?”
“Huh. Look at that.” She feigned a look of confusion. “I must really like you.”
“Seems like it.”
“Grab the napkins, Casanova. I’ll be pouring the wine.”
I smirked and called after her, “One word.”
“Don’t you dare say it.”
“Underaged.”
“You’ll be getting the cheap-ass wine now, grandpa.”
I snorted and reached for a few napkins. “We should eat on the patio. I prefer my food not to smell like wet paint.”
“Agreed.”
The sun had set, and it was one of those cliched nights you’d read about in romance novels where love hung in the air, and even the crickets chirped to the tune of some Ed Sheeran song. It would be what any romance author would describe as the perfect night for two broken people to fall in love and get lost in the magic.
Good thing this wasn’t a fucking romance novel, or I’d be fucked.
Sienna handed me a slice before taking one for herself, placing it in her mouth as she sat down on the patio chair. “I can’t remember the last time I ate pizza.” She chewed and swallowed, staring into space. “I think it was two years ago.”
“Two years?” I asked, shocked.
“Yeah. Silas came home one night, drunk. He woke me up and insisted I eat pizza with him.” She snickered. “He had an entire conversation with himself that night while I just sat there listening.”
“Okay, so,” I took a sip of my wine, “I have two questions about what you just said. Firstly, why the hell has it been two years since you ate pizza?”
She shrugged. “A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do to stay pretty.”
“Pretty for who? Yourself, or your Gucci-wearing boyfriend?”
It was hard to miss the color drain from her cheeks, the way her expression faltered. I was on the verge of asking what was wrong when she righted herself, trying to plaster a smile on her face. “Ex-boyfriend,” she corrected.
“Formalities been finalized?”
“Yup.” She picked a piece of pepperoni off the pizza. “What’s your other question?”
“What did Silas talk about with himself?”