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“I want a chance to win you over,” he breathes, peering at me. The way his eyes search mine make it seem like time stands still. “Will you let me try?”
He forces a swallow and the look of hesitation, the internal fight he’s having, isn’t lost on me. It’s there, right beneath the surface, and when I add my concerns to the mix, it’s enough to make me balk. Just a bit.
“I’ll think about it,” I whisper, holding on to the little strand of courage I have left.
Instead of responding, I ask, “Where’d you get that scar over your right eye?” I reach out and press gently on the raised skin. I expect him to pull back, but he doesn’t.
My hand shakes as I touch his warmed skin. His forehead is silky and smooth. I’d like to run my hands over every inch of it, feel it ripple beneath my fingertips.
The corner of his lips twitch. “Lincoln hit me in the head with a baseball.”
“Bad reflexes on your part?”
“Wicked curveball on his,” he says, his face breaking out into a full smile.
“I thought he played center field?”
“He does. But he pitched some growing up.”
We stand inches apart, my hand gently brushing down the side of his face. Although I feel like he’d stand here all night and talk to me, it’s not possible.
“I really need to get back to work,” I say, trying to unlock my eyes from his.
“Dinner? This week?”
I can barely resist the look in his eye, the one that implores me to say yes. The one that makes me believe he really does want to have dinner and spend a few hours with me.
I need to get away, put some space between us while I can.
“We ran into each other tonight,” I shrug. “If we’re supposed to see each other again, then I guess we will.” I start to turn away before I completely buckle under his gaze.
“How am I supposed to get ahold of you? I don’t have your number,” he calls after me.
Heading up the steps to the Savannah Room, I glance at him over my shoulder. “You’re the Mayor. Figure it out.”