Page 147 of The Heart Breaker

Close enough to hear her breathing, close enough to see the way her eyes lift to mine, the way her lips part just a little, close enough to count the faint freckles across the bridge of her nose under her makeup, close enough that if I moved even a little, I could kiss her.

And God, I want to.

The memory of kissing her fills my brain. The first time. Every time after that. If I’d known the last time I kissed her would be the last, I would’ve never stopped.

My gaze drops to her lips, because they’re right there, and for one reckless second, I think about kissing her and forgetting every promise I made myself about taking this slow.

But that’s not what tonight is.

So I make myself pull back. I drag the belt the rest of the way across her and click it into place, my knuckles brushing the side of her hip in the process.

She draws in a tiny breath at the contact, and it goes straight through me.

I glance up without meaning to and notice that her eyes are on my mouth—only for a second—before they flick back to mine, and something passes over her face before she turns away. Her expression goes guarded again, but there’s a faint flush high on her cheeks that definitely wasn’t there a second ago.

A slow smile pulls at my mouth.

I like knowing she still wants me. Even after everything. Even after I made a complete mess of this and gave her every reason not to.

I shut the door and head back around the car with that smile still tugging at my mouth, and it’s still there when I start the engine and pull away from the curb.

I put music on as I drive us into the nicer part of town, where the streets are quieter and everything looks softer and warmer somehow. She doesn’t say anything, and neither do I, but every few seconds I still glance over at her because apparently I’ve lost the ability not to.

When I pull into a spot near the entrance and kill the engine, she glances out the window, her brows drawing together. “This isn’t a restaurant.”

The corner of my mouth lifts. “Great observation, Prescott.”

She rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean. I thought you were taking me to dinner or something.”

I glance at her and lift a brow. “I’m not wasting my one shot at a real date with you on the same basic crap every other guy would do.” I see the surprise flicker across her face, but I push myself to continue. “I’ve got the rest of my life to take you on a dinner date.”

Her lips part, and my gaze drops to them before I can stop it. Fuck. She’s so damn pretty it makes it hard to think straight.

I clear my throat, get out, and circle around to her side. When I open the door and hold my hand out, she looks at it for half a second before putting hers in mine and stepping onto the sidewalk in those heels that put her almost eye level with me.

We just stand there for a second, her hand still in mine and her face tipped up toward mine while we just stare at each other.

I wish I could stop the moment right there and frame it, because I’m so damn aware that this might be all I get. Becauseif she decides, when this night is over, that she’s done with me, then I will never get to look at her like this ever again. Will never have the best thing that ever happened to me in my arms again.

So I just look at her for a few seconds longer, wanting to soak it all in.

I finally take a step back and start walking down the riverfront strip. Every now and again, her hand brushes mine when we move around somebody, and each time it happens, I feel a zing up my arm.

I want to take her hand, but I don’t. Not yet. I have no idea if she’d let me, and I’m not stupid enough to push my luck when I’m still very much on thin ice.

When we stop outside the entrance, Aurora’s eyes flick up to the building, then back to me. “You brought me to a gallery?”

I let out a chuckle and pull the door open, jerking my chin toward the entrance. “Come on.”

I hold it open for her and follow her inside. The place is quiet, polished, full of people wearing clothes that probably cost more than my car. I should probably feel out of place, but I don’t really give a shit. Aurora’s here. With me. That’s all my brain seems interested in tonight.

She slows in front of the first painting and I hang back, watching her instead of what’s on the wall.

I know that look on her face—I’ve seen it before when she’s sketching, or painting. Her shoulders loosen, her mouth softens, and she tilts her head a little, studying the piece in front of her, and it’s like everything in her finally settles for a second. Like she can finally breathe.

It’s how I feel when I look at her.

She steps closer to the painting. “I used to love places like this when I was younger.”