Even under artificial light, the streaks of gold near his irises became more pronounced and with such depth, giving the impression they held entire galaxies inside them—with no one ever being any the wiser. Also, he had a small, vertical scar between his left eye and temple, and I didn’t necessarily need to have him tell me about it. I could spend hours listing reasons for it to be there, quite content in trying to figure it out in my head. But what I noticed with the most detail, was how he had a tendency of looking at my lips and then my eyes, in that particular order, every time he turned his gaze on me. I’d noticed it before, of course. What I hadn’t quite computed was how his chest inflated with air just as he did it, making the space between his collarbone and neck deepen, and as he let out the air from his lungs, he did so slowly, and just as slowly, ran the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip.

“Here we are,” he said softly, shifting his gaze from my lips to my eyes and taking a deep, slow breath.

I didn’t turn around. I simply reached my open hand out until it found his chest, closed it, making a fist, and pulled him closer until my lips found his, and I was finally able to do what I’d wanted since opening the front door.

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen

Bloom

Hidden at the end of a long, intentionally poorly lit alleyway, Bloom was nestled in a small area entirely surrounded by tall buildings. A single white dogwood stood at the center of the courtyard, with no more than twenty tables arranged around it. Strung above the place, countless small, golf ball–sized white bulbs were matted, resembling a beehive. From it, strands of barely visible wires found their way to every corner of the courtyard, forming an intricate web of incandescence, setting a calm, inviting atmosphere. It was one of those gems only this city had to offer. A great, cozy, French restaurant that hadn’t been spoiled by being discovered and remained reasonably simple and focused solely on the food. Simplicity, as it were, was a key word there. There were only two versions of the same dish: Entrecôte (aka rib steak) with french fries that kept coming for the duration of the entire meal and a special sauce, which supposedly, no one except the chef knew how to make.

And it was fucking delicious.

We’d fallen into a comfortable silence that lasted a few minutes, halfway into dinner. It was then that I realized silence with Ethan Cooper did not equal awkwardness. We’d gone quiet, focused on our food and, even though we still managed the occasional exchange of looks and an eyebrow raise or two, for a good three minutes we simply didn’t speak—nor seemed bothered by it.