Chapter 34: Too Young

ELIZA’S POV

For a moment after his question, the hallway went completely still.

“And what exactly were you hoping to find instead, Eliza?”

His voice had dropped lower.

Softer.

But somehow more dangerous.

I swallowed.

The alcohol still swirled lazily in my bloodstream, dulling the part of my brain that usually stopped me from saying reckless things.

Which meant the truth slipped out before I could think better of it.

“I don’t know.”

His gaze didn’t leave mine.

I hated how close he was standing.

Or maybe I hated how aware I suddenly was of the warmth of his body, the faint scent of his cologne, the way those velvet-dark eyes studied my face like I was a puzzle he meant to solve.

“You don’t know,” he repeated.

“No.”

My voice sounded defensive even to my own ears.

I folded my arms across my chest, mostly to keep from swaying.

“They were just… not interesting.”

“Not interesting.”

“Yes.”

He studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

Then his eyes flicked briefly to the hem of my dress again before returning to my face.

“You went to a club dressed like that,” he said slowly, “and every man there was somehow beneath your interest.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Believe it or not, that happens.”

He didn’t respond immediately.

Instead, he seemed to be thinking about something.

When he finally spoke again, his voice carried a different tone.

Quieter.

More deliberate.

“You said they were too young.”

My stomach tightened.

I hadn’t meant to say that part out loud.

“Yes,” I admitted reluctantly.

“And that was a problem because…?”

I hesitated.

Because the answer sounded ridiculous even inside my own head.

“Because they were boys,” I muttered.

His brows lifted slightly.

“Boys.”

“Yes.”

The hallway felt warmer suddenly.

Or maybe that was just the tequila working its way through my system.

“They looked like they still ask their mothers how to cook rice,” I continued before I could stop myself.

For a brief moment, Vinton just stared at me.

Then something strange happened.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

Not a full smile.

But close.

“You’re drunk,” he said.

“I already told you that.”

“You’re also extremely judgmental.”

“I have standards.”

The words slipped out easily.

Too easily.

Because the moment they left my mouth, his expression shifted.

His eyes darkened again.

“Standards,” he repeated slowly.

I instantly regretted saying it.

Because now he looked… interested.

And that was somehow worse than angry.

He took another small step forward.

Now the space between us was almost nonexistent.

My back bumped lightly against the wall behind me.

I hadn’t even realized I’d been retreating.

“What kind of standards?” he asked.

The question made my stomach flip.

Why did that sound like a trap?

“I don’t see why that matters to you.”

“It matters,” he said calmly, “because apparently every man in that club failed to meet them.”

I frowned at him.

“You’re the one who followed me there.”

“I made sure you were safe.”

“You watched me drink tequila.”

“You drank six shots.”

“That’s not the point.”

His gaze didn’t soften.

“If you were looking for someone tonight,” he said slowly, “I’m curious what kind of man would actually qualify.”

I let out a short laugh.

“Why?”

His answer came immediately.

“Because I’d like to know what you consider acceptable.”

There was something in his voice now.

Something sharp.

Possessive.

The realization made my heart stutter in the most irritating way.

“You really want to know?” I asked.

“Yes.”

I studied him for a moment.

Tall.

Broad shoulders.

Sharp jaw.

Those ridiculous velvet-dark eyes that had been haunting my thoughts all evening.

And then, because tequila makes terrible decisions seem brilliant, I said the worst possible thing.

“Someone older.”

His eyes flickered.

“Older.”

“Yes.”

“Define older.”

I shrugged lazily.

“Not twenty-two.”

He was quiet for a moment.

Then he asked another question.

“And what else?”

I should have stopped.

I really should have.

But instead, the alcohol loosened my tongue again.

“Confident.”

He didn’t react.

“Someone who doesn’t act like a nervous puppy just because a woman is wearing a short dress.”

Still nothing.

“Someone who actually looks like he knows what he’s doing.”

That got a reaction.

His jaw tightened slightly.

“And what exactly,” he asked carefully, “would that be?”

I met his gaze directly.

“You know.”

Silence filled the hallway again.

This time it felt heavier.

Charged.

Vinton stared at me for several seconds without speaking.

Then he leaned slightly closer.

So close that I could feel the heat of his body.

His voice dropped lower.

“Are you describing a hypothetical man,” he asked quietly, “or are you describing someone specific?”

My breath caught.

I hated the way my heart suddenly started beating faster.

The alcohol wasn’t helping.

Neither was the fact that he was standing so close.

“I told you,” I muttered. “I was just talking.”

“Were you?”

His eyes searched mine again.

Like he was trying to pull something out of me.

Something I had absolutely no intention of admitting.

So I did the only thing that seemed reasonable.

I tried to move past him.

“I’m tired,” I said. “I’m going to bed.”

I had barely taken two steps before his hand closed around my wrist.

Not painfully.

But firmly enough to stop me.

My breath hitched.

Slowly, I turned back toward him.

His expression had changed again.

The anger was still there.

But now it was mixed with something else.

Something darker.

More dangerous.

“You went out tonight looking for a man like that,” he said quietly.

I pulled my wrist slightly.

“You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?”

His grip didn’t loosen.

My pulse hammered loudly in my ears.

“Vinton.”

His eyes held mine.

Unrelenting.

“Tell me something honestly,” he said.

My stomach twisted.

“What?”

His voice dropped to a near whisper.

“If you had found someone like that tonight… would you have gone home with him?”