Rebate King: Every Beauty I Spoil Makes Me a Billionaire

For several seconds, Amelia simply stared at him.

The question kept replaying in her head, the way certain sentences do when a person is not entirely sure they have really been said.

’Do you like me.’

Her heart was pounding hard enough she could almost hear it.

She had imagined this moment before. More times than she would ever admit. But never like this. In every version she had rehearsed, she had been the one gathering the courage. Every version had involved her carefully choosing a time, a place, a form of words, and then, depending on the day, either confessing, or being rejected, or watching him smile and change the subject, or, on the coward days, saying nothing at all.

She had never once, in any of those versions, imagined him asking first.

Her fingers tightened, slightly, around her glass.

’Is this really happening.’

She looked at him again, Stan was not laughing. He was not teasing. His expression was calm, but his eyes were serious.

He was actually waiting for an answer.

She looked down at her drink. Her face was beginning, unmistakably, to warm.

’He asked me.’ The realization felt almost unreal. ’He actually asked me.’

For what felt like an eternity since he saved her, she had wondered whether the feeling she had been quietly carrying was entirely one-sided. He had been kind to her. He had trusted her. He had sought her out. He had listened. None of those things necessarily meant what she wanted them to mean.

And now, without warning, he had asked her directly.

A small, almost disbelieving smile threatened at the corner of her mouth.

’It’s happening. I didn’t even have to ask him.’ Her rational side, ever punctual, intervened. ’Don’t get ahead of yourself.’

Because, and she made herself sit with the thought properly, asking whether she liked him was not the same as saying he liked her. He might simply have noticed her behavior. He might simply be curious. He might, in his own way, be trying to understand what he was looking at.

There were countless explanations. She quietly scolded herself. ’Don’t be stupid, Amelia. He hasn’t said anything yet.’

Stan watched her, quietly. He could see the small conflict crossing her face. The way her eyes moved. The way her fingers had shifted, twice, on the stem of her glass. The way the pale warmth along her cheeks had gone from a shade to a full soft flush.

For once, the woman who could hold perfect composure through a briefing on international criminal syndicates was, at his corner table in an Inksea restaurant, entirely unsure what to do with her own hands.

His expression softened. He did not press. He simply waited.

After several long seconds, Amelia drew a small careful breath.

Her voice, when it came, was quieter than usual.

”Yes.”

Stan remained silent, he smiled as she still did not look at him, probably too shy confessing her feelings...

”Yes,” she said again, almost as though saying it a second time made the confession more real.

”I do.”

There was a small held silence between them.

Then, softly: ”I like you.”

A tiny pause.

”More than I probably should.”

She gave a small nervous laugh, the kind of laugh a person produced when they had, in the last four seconds, done something they had spent months not doing, and were now trying to acclimate to the sudden strange fact of the world having not ended.

”I’ve known for a while.”

Then, finally, she looked at him. Her eyes were a mixture of embarrassment and relief and a small unguarded happiness she was not entirely successful at hiding.

”I just didn’t know if I should say anything.”

Something loosened in her chest. For so long she had carried the feeling quietly. She had found small ordinary excuses to see him. She had looked forward to his messages. She had worried when he had disappeared. She had flown to Inksea almost the moment she had learned he was back, and had told herself, every time, that there had been a practical reason. Work. Information. Business. The Vanguard. Streak. Anything other than the obvious.

Now she had said it. And, strangely, she felt lighter.

’I actually said it.’

She almost wanted to laugh. She almost wanted to cry. Not from sadness. From relief.

She had spent so many small quiet nights wondering what would happen if he ever found out.

Now he knew. And she was still sitting there. He had not walked away. The world had not ended.

Then, unbidden, the next thought arrived.

She glanced up at him. Cautiously.

’But what does this mean.’

Her heart sank, one small unwelcome inch.

’He asked if I liked him. He never said that he liked me.’

She realized, with the small quick embarrassment of a woman who had permitted herself to hope, that she may have unconsciously read his question as an admission. And it was not necessarily one. Perhaps he had only wanted confirmation. Perhaps he had noticed her behavior and wanted to settle his curiosity. Perhaps he did not feel the same way, and had simply, kindly, in his careful Stan way, wanted to give her space to say it before things drifted any further.

Her fingers tightened, again, around the stem of her glass.

She looked away. The warmth along her cheeks remained, but there was, now, a small uncertain edge beneath it.

Stan noticed the shift immediately. A moment ago, she had looked relieved.

Now she was pulling small careful walls back up around herself.

He understood why. She had answered his question. He had not answered hers.

He smiled, faintly. ”Amelia.”

She looked up. ”Yes?”

”You’re thinking too much.”

Her eyes widened, slightly. ”How do you know.”

”Because I’ve been watching you.”

That did not help her small unsteady composure at all. She looked back down at her drink.

Stan let out a quiet laugh.

...

A/N:

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