Kaden:
The waiter dropped off our plates—hers a mountain of pasta drowning in cream sauce, mine a perfectly seared steak. Emma’s eyes went wide.
“You weren’t kidding,” she said, pointing her fork at me. “You really do eat like a man who could chop wood for twelve hours.”
“I can chop wood for twelve hours.”
“That’s not the point,” she muttered, twirling her pasta with exaggerated delicacy. “The point is that you’re a walking stereotype with a good jawline.”
My brows lifted. “A good jawline?”
Color rose fast in her cheeks. “I said nothing.”
“You said everything.”
She hid behind her water glass, which only made her more obvious. I watched her for a moment—her cheeks flushed from warmth and embarrassment, her shoulders softening, her guard lowering ounce by ounce. Every version of her
