5

ALYSSA

It’s official: dinner was a bad idea.

Watching Uri chew his food is strangely sensual. Even the way he picks up his wine glass and gives the ruby red liquid a confident whirl is sexy somehow.

The guys I’ve dated drank lukewarm Coors Light and burped between every sip. They ate Cheetos and frozen dinners, not foie gras and seared salmon.

It all puts one thing into glaring focus—I am way, way out of my depth here.

I have no idea how to talk to or deal with a man like Uri. He’s just such a… grownup. And he’s confident. And scary, although I can’t exactly put my finger on how. Maybe it’s all those rumors about his reputation swirling around in my head.

Mob ties and bad men striking corrupt deals in smoky backrooms.

Bodies stacked on bodies, gangland-style executions, bloody bones dissolving in vats of acid.

And money. Money coming out of every pore, every nook and cranny.

But the man just cleaned up my wound after I trespassed on his property. He can’t be all that bad, right?

… Right?

The problem is mostly with me. I’m too hyper-aware of his nearness, the way he looks at me like I'm the only person that exists. I wonder if he’s even aware of what that stare of his does to people. Something tells me he knows very, very well.

"Well this is…” I fumble for words. "… not how I expected my night to go."

Uri's mouth twitches in that barely-there smile. "I could say the same."

"You must meet a lot of interesting people, living in a place like this. Not too many girls like me dropping in unannounced." I give a self-deprecating laugh.

"No one like you," he underscores simply. Something about his voice makes me meet his eyes. There's more sincerity there than I expect. It throws me off-balance.

The earnest moment stretches, neither of us looking away. Finally, Uri clears his throat. “Would you like some wine?”

“No thanks. I’m not really a wine drinker.”

“What do you drink then?”

“Water, mostly.”

He grimaces. “I’ll give you a chance to think of a better answer.”

I shrug. “Splurging a ton of money on expensive alcohol never really made sense to me. I prefer to spend my money on experiences.”

His grimace remains as he pours me a glass of the same wine he’s drinking. Once the bottle has been returned to its ice bucket, he hands me the glass.

“Drinking wine like this is an experience. Small sip first.”

I take the glass and swirl the contents like I’d just seen him do. Except that my swirl is not nearly as confident or as graceful. In fact, I nearly paint the table in a wayward slosh of wine. I expect him to mock me or maybe simply throw me out on my ass, but he just keeps watching without saying a word.

“Right, okay. Um…” It’s very distracting how intently he’s observing me. “So I take a sip and then I… Wine drinkers sometimes spit out their wine, right?”

Is he smiling? He is. Good Lord. That’s a deadly weapon. Between that and the stare, this man needs to be on an FBI watchlist somewhere.

“You strike me as the kind of girl who swallows.”

I promptly choke on nothing but air. The blush is spreading like wildfire now, so I bury my cough and the heat in my cheeks behind a sip. It’s silky on my tongue. Fruity, dry, delicious.

“Good?” he asks, amused.

“Delicious.” But that might have more to do with him than the wine. “It’s really nice. Tastes expensive.”

He smirks and licks his lips. “I don’t put just anything into my mouth.”

He has to be doing this on purpose, right? The way his eyes glide over my face has my body tingling. I’ve never been so conscious of my own limbs before now.

I keep squirming in my seat, recognizing a sudden and undeniable throbbing between my legs. Is this what it means to be turned on? And just like that, I’m blushing all over again with the realization that I have somehow managed to go twenty-five freaking years thinking I was being turned on when I clearly wasn’t anywhere in the same realm as this.

What’s even more alarming is the stark change in demeanor. He’s gone from low-key threatening to aggressively flirty in a matter of moments. There has to be a catch somewhere. If only I could see past those very kissable lips to figure out what that catch might be.

“You’re good at this, aren’t you?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Good at what?”

“Making women feel uncomfortable.”

He smiles. “I’m good at making women feel all sorts of things.”

“Oh, I’m sure. You’ve got tons of experience, so far as I can tell. That revolving door never stops.”

He looks amused now. One eyebrow is arched and his grin has turned lopsided. “You’ve been watching me.”

I suppress another blush and roll my eyes instead. “I mean, we’re neighbors. I’ve noticed Mrs. Heidegger’s routines, too, so don’t flatter yourself. And I like to read in the nights by my window while you’re walking your… ahem… ‘dates’ to their cabs.”

It’s unnerving how focused he is on me. I don’t think he’s looked away in the last few minutes. “More wine?” he says instead of responding to what I said.

I glance down only to discover that I’m almost done with my first glass. How the hell did that happen?

“Sure, why not?”

Why not? Why not?! I have so many reasons jumping around in my head that I’m not sure which one to focus on.

How about the fact that getting drunk on this man’s property is far from my best idea ever? How about the fact that, the more I drink, the more relaxed and more uninhibited I become? How about the fact that I’ve always been a lightweight when it comes to alcohol and that this is the worst time possible to be encouraging all the other dangerous temptations swirling around in my thoughts?

But when he fills my glass back up, I don’t stop him. We just clink our glasses together and I take another sip.

This is it, scolds the little nagging voice in my head. Last glass and then you’re taking your Garfield-wearing ass home.