Is it possible?

Chapter 9

Just a few hours before the party, our group opted to head to a diner together. We settled at the lone open table tucked away in a dim corner, a spot I quietly appreciated.

As those around me engaged in lively discussions or searched the menu, my attention differed—I found myself lost in thought, fixated on my phone's dormant screen. The party was constantly on my mind. I mean, can you blame me? 

What if something happened to one of us? What if the evening fell short of my expectations? What if it ends up being a bad experience?—a sudden interruption halted my thoughts.

A towering figure approached our table, clad in black jeans, a white t-shirt, and a leather jacket. Recognition dawned instantly. My eyes traveled upward, meeting the ever-present smirk on his face. Following the line of sight, our eyes locked, his already fixed on mine.

Choosing to avert my gaze to something, anything to halt the bright flush on my cheeks, I focused on the vacant chair beside me. Within moments, he settled into it.

Not helping, Vincent.

"About time, princess," Rory quipped, her eyes rolling as laughter rippled around the table.

"I was aiming for the dramatic entrance to build up the anticipation," he replied, still sporting that mischievous smirk.

"If you'd arrived on time, my stomach would've been giving a standing ovation to the chef by now. But alas, here we are, still in the pre-order phase," she remarked with a glare, before refocusing on the menu alongside the rest of us.

Amidst ongoing conversations and menu perusing, a waiter, seemingly close to our age, made his way to our table. He smoothly took everyone's orders one by one. When it finally came to my turn, he shot me a smirk and a wink before casually asking, "What can I get you, honey?"

In that very instant, a large hand wrapped around my waist, yanking me to my left, causing an abrupt collision with a solid chest. A gasp slipped past my lips. Thankfully, his grasp was firm enough to prevent me from tumbling off my chair, yet I clung to his shirt like my life depended on it.

As Vincent pulled me close, I couldn't help but shake my head, bewildered by the sudden move. Yet, I chalked it up to our 'fake relationship' and chose to brush it off. When I glanced up at the waiter once more, he avoided meeting my eyes, a palpable fear etching across his features.

Attempting to regain composure, I shifted my attention to the menu on the table, endeavoring to place an order despite feeling like my face had turned as hot as mercury and my hands trembled under the scrutiny of nearly everyone at the table.

"Umm, can I—can I plea—uhm," I stuttered, wishing the ground could open up and swallow me whole. I took a deep breath, ready to try again, but a warm breath near my ear halted my movements.

"Sweetheart, do you want me to order for you?"

Without a moment's hesitation, I simply pointed at what I wanted, letting Vincent speak on my behalf. Shortly after, the waiter left, and the attention shifted away from me. Despite still being pressed against Vincent's side, I found an odd sense of comfort in the proximity, his cologne somehow managing to ease my nerves.

In that moment, I realized Vincent's hand still lingered on my waist, his thumb tracing a gentle path along the fabric of my thin vest top beneath my sweatshirt. His touch was both soothing and searing, leaving me melting under his fingertips while a fiery sensation spread wherever his skin met mine.

Alicia, no.

I needed to remind myself that it was all just a facade. I tried to rein in the flutter of emotions his touch ignited, despite the rational knowledge that it was all pretend.