She wanted me but acted like I could easily be replaced.

I thought about her when we were apart, and I wanted to know that she thought about me too.

“So why do you do it?” I pressed.

She shook her head, shrugging slightly. “It’s soothing, I guess,” she placated.

“Have you talked to anyone about it?”

She met my eyes, holding the glass in her hand as she leaned on the table. “I have. Sporadically,” she added. “Most people like me function just fine, and when I’m busy, I forget about it. But at certain times” – she paused, watching me – “I regress.”

Certain times? Did I make her nervous?

“It just makes me feel better,” she explained. “And sometimes, it’s just a habit.”

I nodded, understanding. “So you count things. What’s your favorite number?”

“Eight.”

I laughed a little. “Didn’t have to think about that, huh?”

She blushed, giving me a timid smile.

Licking her lips, she reached for the container of sweeteners and pulled some out, setting them side by side on the table.

“Can’t have two,” she told me, looking at me with amusement as she explained, “because if they separate, then they’re alone.” She slid the packets apart, proving her point.

Then she grabbed two more, lining them up with the others. “Can’t have four, because even if there’s two in each group, it’s still only one couple in each group.”

Her voice turned playful, and she seemed to relax as she got caught up in explaining her secret obsession.

She took out more packets, making two groups of three. “And you can’t have six, because if you separate them into two groups of three like this, then there’s three in each group, and that’s an odd number.”

Her eyes widened, looking like that would be the worst thing ever, and I laughed.

She took out two more packets, making two groups of four each. Eight packets total.

“Eight is perfect.” She grinned, fingering the packets to make sure they were straight. “Two groups. Four in each group making two couples in each group.”

And she looked up, nodding once as if everything were perfect with the world.

I couldn’t help it. My lips curled into a smile because she was the fucking epitome of intriguing. So sexy, but if you blinked too long, she was transformed and you realized everything you thought you knew about her barely touched the surface.

She hooded her eyes and looked away, smiling to herself. “I’m crazy,” she admitted. “That’s what you’re thinking.”

I let my eyes rake down her bare neck to where her shirt fell off her shoulder. The hardened point of her nipple poked through the thin fabric, and I knew she wasn’t wearing a bra.

The shirt was the only barrier, and that turned me on more than the idea of her naked did.

I raised my eyes to her. “I’m thinking you’re beautiful,” I said in a low voice. “And if you need everything in eights, it could be a long night.”

She held my eyes, not moving, but I could see the excitement trying to break out across her face. Her hitched breathing, her stillness… I loved that I’d shut her up for once. She was fun, and I enjoyed peeling away her layers.

The waiter came over, setting down the crawfish étouffée for Easton and my blackened catfish and left to get us another round of drinks.

She took her spoon and pushed it through her stew of rice and peeled crawfish tails. I grabbed my fork and knife, ready to cut into a meal I wasn’t the least bit hungry for, but I stopped, seeing her take a small piece of bread and dip it into the stew. She brought the bread up, dripping with creole sauce, and caught it with her mouth, sucking the tip of her thumb before starting to chew.

Glancing up, she caught me staring. “What?” she asked more as an accusation.

I cut into my food. “You’re only allowed finger foods when we go out to eat,” I deemed.

I heard her snort. “If we go out again,” she corrected.

She picked up her spoon and we both started eating. I ate the fish with the sauce and all of the rice, quickly realizing I was hungrier than I’d thought. I rarely just sat and ate, unless it was with Christian, and more often than not, we were both interrupted by phone calls or texts at the dinner table.

Business dinners were a lot of talking and drinking, so Mrs. Giroux’s home-cooked meals were much appreciated. It was my fault I chose to eat them at my desk as I worked.

I raised my eyes, watching her eat and loving the sight of her sitting there: her dark hair spilling over her shoulder, her skin glowing in the light of the ostentatious chandelier hanging above her, her downcast eyes as she licked her lips after taking a drink.

I wasn’t thinking about work or home. At the moment I wondered only what she was thinking.

“Why do you want to go into politics?”

I stopped, looking up. She watched me silently, waiting.

I shrugged slightly, setting down my silverware and relaxing into my seat.

“I have money,” I pointed out, picking up my drink. “Now I’m bored, and I want power.”

She set her spoon down, sitting back and crossing her arms over her chest. She cocked her head, unamused.

My chest shook with a laugh before I took a sip and set down my drink. She didn’t take any bullshit, did she?

“I’ve been on top of the world my whole life,” I told her, fingering the glass. “I grew up attending private schools, and my father made sure I had everything I could ever want. College was a blast. Being on my own, money I didn’t earn or question where it came from sitting in my pocket…” I trailed off, staring at the table and narrowing my eyes.