Page 73 of Forged

She inclines her head and moves away.

Across the room, our waitress approaches him. She leans in, speaking close enough for him to hear over the music. I watch his reaction carefully. His eyes lift first—not to her, but to us. Then the corner of his mouth lifts into a grin.

He speaks to the bartender, picks up his glass and begins walking toward us.

Heat floodsmy veins as I rise from my stool at the bar. I adjust the cuffs of my shirt and begin to walk toward them. Lars shifts back in his chair, hand moving to Neomi’s thigh, but his gaze moves to his glass as if he refuses to give me the satisfaction of acknowledgment too soon.

Neomi is the one to surprise me. She’s watching me with amused eyes, not hiding the way they scan from my face to my loafers and slowly back up again. My skin grows hot under her concentration, and I’m acutely aware of every step I take.

I’ve planned and rehearsed my first interaction with them countless times in my mind, but I didn’t imagine it happening in such a charged environment. I’m already walking the dangerous line of obsession without the imagery of them playful and curious beneath low lighting and bass-heavy music. Seeing them like this—intimate, laughing, flushed from champagne—makes the line even thinner.

I’m treading into dangerous territory.

I curve around the tables between us, until I stop at theirtable. I can smell her perfume now, something warm and sweet beneath the sharper scent of champagne.

I keep my voice steady. “Good evening.”

Lars speaks first, gesturing to the chair beside him. “Good evening. Would you care to join us?”

My shoulders relax. “I’d love to.”

I slide into the chair, aware of the way Lars’ eyes track my movements. Neomi reaches her hand across the table without hesitation.

“I’m Neomi.”

Her hand feels small in mine, but there’s nothing fragile about her grip. Her fingers curl, and when our palms meet, the contact lingers just long enough to blur polite boundaries.

“Lovely to meet you, Neomi. I’m Gabriel.”

Lars is next. When his hand meets mine, the contact is different. Stronger. It hits like a current under the skin, a sharp rush from our joined hands straight through my chest and down to my cock. My pulse jumps, and I swear I see the same flicker cross his expression.

“Lars,” he says.

“Hello, Lars.”

He drops my hand a touch too quickly, as if the connection surprised him too. Neomi’s eyes dart between us, and this time I’m certain I heard the faintest hitch in her breath.

She settles into her chair, reaching for the bottle of champagne and one of the clean glasses on the table. “Do you like champagne, Gabriel?”

“I do.”

She pours, the bottle tilted carefully, the foam rising and settling before she slides the glass toward me. I push my whiskey aside and lift the flute instead, letting the bubbles hit my tongue while I study them both over the rim.

Lars leans back, arm curling around the back of Neomi’s chair. She leans into him, but her attention doesn’t leave me.

“Have you been to the Monarch before?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I haven’t. It’s a beautiful establishment, though. You?”

“I’ve been here a few times. One of my favorites in Chicago.”

He isn’t revealing who he is.

Neomi tilts her head at him. I allow the corner of my mouth to lift and shift the conversation.

Pointing toward her hand, I ask, “You’re married?”

She places her palm flat against his chest as if staking her claim. “We are. Newlyweds, actually. And yourself?”