The first course is served before I can press the issue. Instead, I stew in this new volatility between us, seething over my inability to quit staring at her while she surveys her beef carpaccio and truffle shavings, a soft smile faintly playing at her lips.
I tell myself I’m observing, cataloging tells like I do in negotiations.
But it’s a fucking lie.
I’m watching her because I don’t know how to stop.
“Something funny?” I ask.
“Not at all.” She delicately forks a sliver of meat. “The carpaccio is a nice choice… I’m just surprised it’s not one of my favorites.”
The failure stings, even though I’d deliberately relinquished the menu to the chef tonight. “Would you have preferred oysters on ice with mignonette?”
Her smile falters.
Shit. I shouldn’t have said that. I need to lay off the liquor.
“I’m surprised you’ve paid attention.” She lowers her gaze, taking a slow, graceful bite, the exquisite return of her poise only making matters worse. The dainty way she mouths the fork. The delicate chew. The faint groan of approval that slips past her lips like she’s oblivious I’m sitting here enraptured.
“Details matter.” I spear a piece of beef. “They’re how I get CEOs to sign away their prized companies when I’m up against competitors with deeper pockets.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it.” Her tone softens, but the torment continues—another languid forkful, another unhurried press of crimson flesh against her tongue. It’s so fucking maddening my cock stirs.
“I’m just surprised, that’s all.” She pauses and meets my gaze with a polite smile that chafes. “So tell me, what’s my father’s favorite meal?”
I stiffen, vowing to ease off the liquor.
It’s obvious her question is filler—harmless chatter meant to take the sting out of my hinted infatuation. But my inability to respond has color rising in her cheeks.
Surprise parts her lips, as if she can’t quite believe I’d lie about something so trivial. As if she’s only now realizing I’ve tracked every breath she’s taken for years.
She clears her throat, recovering faster than I do.
“Your chef is amazing…” She attempts to force the conversation back into menial territory despite the damage done.
The undertone has shifted.
Now the space between us thrums with my infatuation.
She rambles about the “insanely good” shower pressure. Praises the buttery finish of the wine. And gushes over the main course once it arrives—the braised short rib “melting” in her mouth.
I reply with the bare minimum requirement to keep the conversation churning while the sun disappears, the horizon swallowing the daylight.
By the end of dessert, she’s abandoned her conversational efforts and is measuring her liquor intake as closely as I am, neither of us seeming to want to risk an intoxicated mistake.
Elena and her team clear the table with quiet efficiency. Once they disappear inside, Isla pushes to her feet.
It should be a relief. A blessing. Yet instinct has my body coiled tight at the thought of her retiring to her cabin.
Only she doesn’t leave. She drifts to the nearest railing, her hair catching in the breeze.
Relief consumes me, ugly and unwanted. I’ve been counting the seconds until dinner ended, yet the moment she stays, I’m grateful. Pathetic. Trapped in the contradiction of needing her close when all I’ve sworn to want is space.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” she murmurs.
“The ocean at night?” I ask.
“The stars. There are so many.”