Page 374 of Bad Prince
Because if I don’t, I’m going to say something I can’t take back.
A minute passes.
Maybe two.
The espresso machine hisses behind the counter.
Someone laughs near the door.
A chair scrapes across wood.
And all I can hear is the faint rustle every time she shifts in her seat.
“You’re staring,” she says quietly.
I shouldn’t answer honestly.
“I know.”
Her pen stills.
When I look back, her eyes are on me again, and this time there’s no sarcasm in them. No armor. Just that terrible, aching awareness that lives between us now because the truth is out and neither of us can hide behind pretending anymore.
The air changes.
It gets heavier.
Closer.
“What do you want me to do, Stella?” I ask, voice lower than I meant it to be.
Her throat moves.
“Everything,” she taunts.
“I already did that to you,” I respond huskily, “and then I woke up alone. Covered in sweat androck.. hard.”
Her fingers tighten around the pen. Her pupil dilate. The tiny pulse at the base of her throat is running a marathon.
“What?” I quirked a brow. “You sat at my table and dropped truth bombs. I’m just returning the courtesy.”
Her gaze flicks to my mouth and then away. Her breathing changes just enough for me to notice.
“Right.” She exhales and closes the notebook. “Are we going to finally do this then, Vale?”
“I don’t know.”
“Scared?”
“Terrified.” I deadpan. Because she is strong and beautiful—a female warrior and scary as fuck on the court.
She leans back in the chair, and the movement drags my attention lower before I can stop it—the graceful line of her waist, the curve of her crossed legs, the quiet confidence in the way she takes up space.
I grip my coffee harder.
Hard enough the lid dents.
“Maybe,” she says softly, “we should just take things slow so we don’t combust and end up hating each other for it.”
