The Dating Proposal(56)

I drop all the teasing and the innuendo. “You look amazing, Sloane.”

She gestures to her casual gear. “I’m super fancy too.”

“You never needed fancy clothes to look great.”

“Thank you,” she whispers, then she runs a hand down my tie for a second before dropping it. “And you are rocking the hell out of that suit. How was your set?”

“I sang some songs, earned some claps. You should come see me sometime.” There I go again, leaving a morsel I shouldn’t be leaving.

“Should I?”

“You should.”

“Will you get me a backstage pass?”

“You hardly need one, but I’d be happy to go to the nearest FedEx and mock one up for you.”

“Will it say A Good Man Groupie?”

A devilish smirk takes over my face. “You know my stage name.” This delights me immeasurably.

A fierce blush speeds over her cheeks. “Fine. I looked you up,” she says softly under her breath, as if the admission costs her something.

I lean forward, and even though it’s been a while since I’ve checked her out online, I throw in my confession too. “Moment of truth: I look you up sometimes too.”

“Is that so?” Her voice is breathy with a hint of longing.

“It is very much so. I’m a visual guy. I enjoy the photos.”

“Any in particular?”

“All in particular.”

She bites her lip, lowers her face. “I wish you hadn’t said that.”

But she doesn’t seem like she wishes that. She doesn’t seem like she misses her dangling earring friend too much either. Nor do I.

Maybe it’s the moonlight.

Maybe it’s the sheer surprise of running into her tonight.

Or maybe it’s just that she’s as irresistible now as she was seven years ago.

I reach for her face, lift up her chin, and meet her gaze. “Sloane Elizabeth, you’re still the most alluring woman I’ve ever met.”

They’re only words. I don’t have to act on them. But saying them feels so fucking good. Hell, saying them is a massive turn-on.

Because of how she reacts.

How she trembles under my touch.

Her eyes darken as she stares at me. “Is that so? Am I like champagne?” It’s a challenge. A throwdown, it seems, as she sends me back in time to the evening we met.

“You’re a champagne kind of woman. A good glass of champagne delights all your senses. It tickles your nose, and it goes to your head, and it makes you just the right kind of buzzed,” I say, telling her what I told her that night, feeling nearly as buzzed on her now as I did then.

She swallows, looks away, then back to me, taking a deep breath as if she’s centering herself. “Malone, I can’t stand here on the street and flirt with you. You can’t just bump into me and make yourself irresistible again.”

My lips curve up. My skin sizzles. “Am I? Irresistible?”

“You know you were.”

“Were. Are. Which one?”

She sets a hand on my chest. “You were. You are. And nothing has technically changed.”

“I’m well aware of that. And yet I still like pancakes.”

“Same here.” It’s barely a whisper.

She rises on tiptoe and drops a searing, sugar-sweet kiss on my lips. She tastes like honey and fire, and the mere brush of her lips on mine is electric. My bones crackle and hum. For a few intense seconds, I deepen the kiss. As I capture her mouth, she melts against me like she used to.

But she breaks the kiss and curls a hand around my shoulder. “If I stand here any longer, the next thing we know, we’ll be having pancakes.” She lets go of me, shoves her bag up her shoulder, and turns the other way.

“Breakfast. I’m going to call you,” I say.

She waves without looking back.

I walk away too, because she’s right.

She’s not a woman I can call. She’s a woman I need to resist, even when she’s no longer my business partner’s daughter.

And that kiss was more of a goodbye than a hello.

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