Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
Jace
“Right this way,” the hostess murmurs, and I don’t miss the hungry look she tosses my way before she turns and starts leading us to the private table I’d arranged for in the back of Dean’s.
The steakhouse is a city classic—fifty-plus years in the business and reservations are still nearly impossible to get.
Luckily, I know Dean himself.
And he did me a solid, arranging for the table.
I know it’s because he’s a nosy fuck, same as I know that Brooks will likely text me later because I made the mistake of telling him I couldn’t meet up tonight.
And then when he asked why I couldn’t, I’d made a second mistake in telling him the real reason why.
So, now I have two nosy fucks on my case.
And a woman who doesn’t want to be here.
I step forward and take her coat, passing it to the hostess before I tug out her chair.
Flowers and woman, lush curves and silken skin.
She sits and I push it in, unable to resist trailing my fingertips down the bared flesh of her spine revealed by her dress.
I don’t miss her shiver, but I rein myself in before I stroke again, rounding the table, passing off my coat as well, and settling into my own chair.
She’s beautiful, so fucking beautiful it takes my breath away.
And that’s why I don’t realize I’m staring at her, not speaking.
At least until she whispers, “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You know why,” I say softly, but the genuine confusion on her face has me adding, “You knew exactly what that dress was going to do to me, cookie.”
Confusion slides away, replaced by mischief.
Fucking beautiful, that.
“See, gorgeous?” I tease, leaning forward and running the backs of my knuckles along the bare skin of her arm, watching the goose bumps appear, seeing the way my touch has her melting.
She may not want anything serious—or cough, anything more than a quick fuck before I walk my ass out the door—but she likes my touch and hasn’t had her fill and so…I’m going to take advantage of that, going to bind her to me, going to make her mine.
And then what happens?
The question is quiet, silky smooth, but with a hidden barbed edge.
Because… then what?
Because what if?—
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her chin lifts, but the mischief doesn’t disappear. A good fucking thing too because it snaps me out of the bullshit in my head.
“You don’t?” I let my hand continue trailing down, brushing our fingers together, loving the way she shivers.
And I’m not enough of a gentleman to miss that the hard peaks of her nipples are pressing against the fabric of her dress.
“Are you cold?” I ask pointedly.
Her eyes narrow, and she jerks her hand back, mouth opening, but before whatever razor-sharp response she’s come up with can shoot off the tip of her tongue, I hear,
“Jace!”
I glance to the side and hop to my feet. “Dean,” I grin, shaking his hand when he extends it toward me and then dropping my voice to murmur for his ears only, “Thanks for this.”
He leans back, winks. “You owe me one.” Then he’s rotating toward Marie, turning on the Italian charm. “And who is this beautiful creature?”
Creature?
Shit.
I brace for explosion—or at least for Marie’s trademark sass. I already owe Dean one for literally creating a table for us tonight in his already full restaurant. I don’t really want to have to come up with another form of repayment—or a dozen because when Marie gets going, she really gets going.
But my bracing and the potential interjections that fill my brain in the split second after Dean’s question aren’t needed.
Marie blushes.
Actually blushes, pink spreading prettily on her cheeks.
“I’m Marie,” she murmurs, lifting her hand and then—what the actual fuck?— not socking Dean in the face when he lifts it to his lips and presses a kiss to the back of it.
“Lovely to meet you,” he says, “and may I just say that your perfume is intoxicating?”
The fucker, especially the way he lingers close to her, inhaling.
I jerk forward, just barely stopping myself from ripping his arm away from her.
I don’t care that Dean is sixty if he’s a day. If he doesn’t stop touching her, I swear to fuck I’ll?—
He drops his arm and, thankfully, my blood pressure follows suit, head and temper clearing enough so I don’t have to be the one at fault for repaying Dean those dozen favors. “This man”—a jerk of his head toward me—“never brings women here?—”
Yeah, because I’ve never been this obsessed with one.
“—so you must be really special.”
Fuck. She is. But also, I basically goaded her into the date because she’s so gun shy. I don’t need Dean running her off.
“Oh,” Marie says, her gaze flicking to mine, but only for a heartbeat. Then it goes back to Dean’s, and I’m left wondering if the flicker of softness I saw in those emerald depths was real…or if I’m so pathetic that I imagined it.
I don’t get the chance to sit in that.
Because Dean’s still talking.
“What do you like to eat, amore ?”
She nibbles at the corner of her mouth, expression turning shy. “Anything.”
“Tsk, tsk,” he says. “There has to be a favorite.”
“Really, anything is fine,” she tells him. “I’ve never had the chance to eat here, but I’ve heard the entire menu is delicious.”
“Amore,” he warns. “What is your favorite dish?”
Another nibble. Then she gives in to Dean’s overbearingness. “Mushroom risotto.”
“Done,” he says, snatching up the menus and turning toward the swinging door that leads to the kitchen.
“I—” I begin.
He doesn’t acknowledge me, and he sure as shit doesn’t take my order. He just tells Marie, “Wine will be out soon,” and then disappears into the kitchen, the door swinging closed behind him.
Marie’s gaze stays on that swaying metal panel for a long moment.
Then she turns back to me and whispers, “I didn’t think that risotto was on the menu.”
“It’s not,” I tell her. “As far as I know?—”
But I barely get the words out before a waiter is bustling back in, a bottle of wine in hand. He pours generously then disappears just as quickly, not giving me a chance to order my food—and it’s not going to be mushroom risotto.
For one, I can’t stand risotto.
For another, mushrooms only make the already cloying dish more disgusting.
Which is a thought that’s going to remain inside my head.
I don’t want my Dean’s privileges revoked…or another dozen favors tacked onto my list.
Plus, I need to behave.
Because I have the feeling that not even Molly’s peanut butter chocolate chip cookies are going to compare with what Dean whips up.