LAYLA’S POV
His eyes drop briefly to the empty glass in my hands before lifting back to my face.
“Are you hungry?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“You sure?”
“I’m fine.”
He doesn't look convinced, not even a little.
Then he lifts his own glass and takes a slow sip, still watching me.
Honestly, it's a little annoying and distracting. Very distracting.
Because while he's busy studying me, my own gaze keeps drifting somewhere it shouldn't.
Down from his jaw to his throat, to the line of his collarbone and then, because I have learned absolutely nothing tonight, to his chest again.
Mother Goddess.
This is entirely his fault. If he wore a shirt like a normal person, none of this would be happening. The tattoos don’t help either.
They're harder to ignore up close and under the bright ligh
