The silence between us was oppressive.
Like that moment right before the dentist drills your tooth. Or a movie villain says, "I’ve been expecting you."
I stared at my fork. Ethan Reynolds sat across from me, looking exactly like the kind of man who’d build a private bunker for fun. Or file a restraining order because someone breathed too loud.
And now, I was stuck here. Again.
My phone vibrated against the table. Once. Twice. Then it wouldn't stop.
DING. DING. DING.
Ethan raised a brow. “You seem to be receiving a lot of messages. Feel free to respond.”
His tone was neutral, but I heard it. That subtle, clipped sharpness like he was two seconds from tossing my phone into a vat of lava.
“I-I’m fine,” I said, clutching it like a lifeline. Which, ironically, it wasn’t.
Another ping.
