Page 33 of Ruthless Dream

Soft ambient music plays, and there’s the tinkle of cutlery. A hostess shows in new guests. I don’t let the smile leave my face, and eventually, Yelena’s pointy shoes click against the floor as she walks away.

I sag into my chair.

“Uh, excuse me, miss.” Why does the waiter look so awkward? He’s fidgeting with the checkbook in his hand. “Um, the card. . .”

He doesn’t even have to say it. Ciaran’s card declined.

“Oh.”

Ciaran’s laugh is warm, echoing behind me.

Why do I feel bad? His nice laugh doesn’t erase the fact he stripped me naked the other night.

But I’m the one who ordered a four hundred dollar bottle of wine. Fuck.

“Charge it to my card,” I say quickly. I’ve met up with Nat here enough times that I know they still have it on file. “Adeline.” I clarify just to be sure he doesn’t accidentally charge another Akatov. “Don’t let him know.”

The waiter’s brows lift, judgment zinging between us. He bows his head, though, and scurries off.

Ciaran finishes networking. “Do you want to get some ice cream?”

What the actual fuck?

I frown. “I’m not some child. I don’t want sprinkles as a reward for being used.”

Ciaran shoves his hands in his pockets, his muscles tensing.

“Sir.” The waiter hands him the checkbook, and Ciaran slips his credit card back into his wallet without looking at the receipt.

My chair scrapes against the floor, and I grab my purse. “Thanks for lunch.”

I try to walk around Ciaran, once again noticing how fucking tall and muscular he is.

He grabs my elbow, but there’s no scowl on his face. His hand slips down my arm, his fingers threading through mine. What really takes me aback is how aware I am when his thumb strokes the back of my hand.

Whenever I look at Ciaran, things tend to blur around the edges. Like, all I can do is focus on him. On the man with the broad shoulders, who seems bigger than life.

At first I thought it was a reaction from Jack’s attack. Tunnel vision to go along with a panic attack. But my head’s been swimming throughout lunch as I chewed on my bottom lip, trying to understand this guy.

“Can I get you a coffee before you go study?” he asks.

I’ve never been the girl dreaming about a man with a cute accent sweeping me away, but sometimes when he talks, I stare at his lips.

“What?” I blink.

He doesn’t laugh, but a soft huff comes from him, something amusing him. I think it’s me. “You’re off to study, aren’t you?. That’s on your calendar next.”

“The calendar you hacked?”

He only smiles. A cheekier grin than the smirk he likes to give. “You want some coffee before you head off to the library. Or is wine your secret weapon?”

He angles us toward the door, still holding my hand.

“Are you buying me a coffee because you feel guilty for being a shitty boyfriend?”

His laugh vibrates, a deep, throaty noise. “Am I that shitty of a boyfriend?”

I shoot him a look, and he laughs again.