Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
Marie
Full bodied red wine that competes with the best of the best from Jean-Michel’s winery.
Crusty sourdough with salted, herbed butter.
A spring salad with a tart dressing, cranberries, walnuts, and goat cheese.
King crab legs and roasted asparagus.
And then?—
“Mmm,” I moan, eyes closing, tastebuds humming. The mushrooms are divine, earthy with just the perfect amount of chew, the rice is creamy but not mushy, and the slivers of steak positioned throughout the dish are so tender they literally melt in my mouth.
I don’t think I’ve ever had a better bite of food.
Seriously.
And I’m not—or I wasn’t—even that hungry when the plate came out, too enamored by the previous dishes to pace myself.
I’m not going to be able to eat daintily now either.
Because it’s just too good.
“Now that’s the face of a satisfied woman.”
My eyes fly open at the husky statement and then just as quickly, I narrow them at the man who caused all this trouble in the first place. It’s going to be a miracle if I fit into any of my clothing after tonight. “If I bust the zipper on this dress, it’s going to be your fault.”
His mouth kicks up and I notice he hasn’t started in on his steak—no risotto, just a hearty helping of mashed potatoes on the side. “If you bust your zipper on that dress I’ll be very happy.”
I snort.
He winks and picks up his fork and knife, cutting off a piece of steak and popping it into his mouth, the soft hum of his pleasure as he chews stroking me right between the thighs.
We’ve talked about the weather, about my TV show, about the Eagles—and the possibility of him bribing me with more of Molly’s confections in order to get free tickets to a playoff game. But we’ve been interrupted frequently too—by the wine and then the bread, by the salads and refills of our wine, then by the second and more wine. It’s not too much, the service polite and controlled (aside from Dean making a couple of appearances to gauge my reaction on the food), but it’s meant that we’ve haven’t really gotten going, conversation wise.
His teasing has mostly been kept under wraps by the staff.
And my snark has been tempered by bites of food as we chow down. And Dean.
Case in point?
His head pops through the swinging doors. “How’s that risotto, amore ?”
Jace sighs, but I don’t look at him, just smile at Dean. “It’s the best dish I’ve ever eaten—hands down.”
“Oh, you flatter me,” he prevaricates, though I don’t miss the way he preens like a peacock showing off his tail feathers.
“It’s not flattery.” I smile at him. “It’s delicious. Thank you,” I add softly. “For taking such good care of us.”
“I take care of your stomachs. You let him ”—a nod at Jace and my eyes flick toward him, see that he’s glowering at Dean—“take care of the rest of it.”
Jace’s face smooths out, and I open my mouth, ready to tell Dean that I can take care of myself, thank you very much, but I don’t get the chance to. Because by the time I look back toward the kitchen, he’s gone, the door swinging behind him.
“Saved by the escape,” Jace says dryly.
Humor slides through my belly. “He’s a sweet man.”
“He’s smitten.”
“You sound jealous.”
He doesn’t reply at first, just saws off another bite of steak, and shoves it into his mouth. So, I go back to my risotto. “You’re nice to him.”
It’s a grudging statement, as though he’s surprised he said it at all.
And I still, fork suspended with a hunk of mushroom on the tines. “Excuse me?”
He scowls, and I fucking hate that it’s cute, but even as I’m processing that, I’m processing something else, something that sands down the rough edges of my emotions, the ones that have gone spiky and hard ever since I first entered this man’s presence.
Though, not that first night on the couch, when he looked tired and young.
They were soft then—open and welcoming.
Same as they were when he was serving up ramen, when he was bringing me cookies, rolling down the bag so they remained fresh.
And…right now.
As I realize what I missed.
He cares. This night matters. He all but dragged me into agreeing to this date, has been a pesky presence down the hall from me, but…
He cares what I think.
And he put effort into tonight.
And…Dean has been flirting shamelessly, and aside from a few scowls, a couple of grunts, and one narrow-eyed glare when Dean lingered over my hand, he’s been letting me have this.
Letting me enjoy my food without judgment. Complimenting my dress. Asking about the things I like. Paying attention and…circling back to bringing me cookies.
Maybe this doesn’t have to be like all the other times.
Maybe he’s truly not like the other men.
Worry knots my insides for a moment, but I find it doesn’t last longer than that. Because my mind is shifting away from all the ways this is certainly going to go bad for me to…
What about what he likes?
And what does his work entail on a daily basis?
And besides hockey, what does he like to watch on TV?
And does he read? Definitely not spicy romance novels like me, considering the surprised and indulgent expression on his face in the gym.
And…
I realize I have a hundred questions. No, more .
But before I can ask any of them, he leans forward and nudges my plate a centimeter in my direction. “Eat your food, cookie.”
“And I’m not nice to you,” I murmur, my fork still suspended, those questions now mingling with the tiniest bit of guilt.
I don’t owe it to any man to be nice to them.
But…I also know that all of my prickliness isn’t because of Jace.
It’s because I’m scared.
And curious. And needy. And, despite my best efforts, I like him.
“I earned it, gorgeous,” he says. “There’s something about you that brings out the wicked in me.”
“Jace—”
He cuts off another piece of meat. “It’s my fault. Seriously. When you get fired up, your eyes spark and your cheeks go slightly pink, and all I can think about is getting between your legs again.”
Plink.
My fork hits my plate and I narrow my eyes at him, annoyance slicing through my middle. “Stop turning me on.”
“It’s the only time you seem to like me”—he smiles to soften the words—“so…no.”
Outrage bubbles up and my cheeks go hot.
Damn. The pesky man is right.
Something I know that he’s recognized that I know because he winks again, that smile growing. “Eat, cookie.”
I want to resist, purely on principle.
But the risotto is too good to waste.
“I’ll eat”—triumph in those gorgeous hazel eyes, but I know that my next words will make it short-lived?—
Take that, Jace Henderson.
“—but only if you tell me about your deepest darkest secret as I do.”