Dinner was a show.
He held my hand the entire evening like it was second nature. His thumb traced slow, lazy circles against my palm, sending tiny shocks up my arm every time he moved. The couple at our table believed the lie completely. The charming husband. The devoted wife. Perfect. Untouchable.
We laughed when they laughed. We leaned closer when they leaned closer. When the waiter poured champagne into tall glasses, his hand slid up my thigh beneath the crisp white tablecloth.
I stiffened, biting down on the inside of my cheek.
“Relax,” he murmured against my ear, low and smooth, like he was talking about the food instead of the way his fingers brushed the inside of my leg.
I whispered through clenched teeth, “Someone could see us.”
“They won’t.”
His hand crept higher. Slow. Unh
