CHAPTER EIGHTEEN CLARKE
Chapter Eighteen
Clarke
So help me if she mentions that final turn, I’ll …
You’ll what?
He sighed.
You’ll do nothing and you know it.
He looked at the marquee above the restaurant. There was a large plastic cow standing on its roof.
Of course she would pick a place called The Ragin’ Rib.
Clarke groaned.
He wasn’t surprised he’d arrived first and was left to wait. He suspected that would be the case for all their appointments. He preferred to think of them as appointments rather than dates.
It was five minutes past. Maybe he should make a point of being late on the next one.
Even if I do, she’ll probably still show up after me.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket and was about to text her, when she brushed past him.
She didn’t stop to greet him. She headed right to the door. No mention of the race. Yet. But he caught that glint in her eye as he opened the door for her.
No fucking way this woman would pass up a chance to rub it in. The fact that Anker—correction, the fact that she had snatched his chance at the podium earlier today? She would never let go of the opportunity to twist that knife.
They were seated at a table.
She unbuttoned her coat, slipped her arms out of the sleeves, and shrugged it off. She was wearing a black blouse, which didn’t cling to her skin like that catsuit, but it was fitted and low cut enough so he could see her cleavage.
She did that on purpose.
Tilting her head, a sly smile crept slowly across her face.
Okay, let’s get it over with already. And then hopefully we can drop it, and I can enjoy my meal.
Although he didn’t hold out much hope for that as he watched a waiter walk past with plates piled high in glistening fatty ribs and not even a sprig of parsley.
Suddenly her cell phone rang. It was her aunt. That much he could tell.
After a moment of chitchat, her tone shifted. The bubbly tone was gone. So was the glint in her eye.
“Yeah, I know. It’s Timmy’s birthday. He asked me to ask Anker to stop by. I think he’s turning—what—five?”
Suddenly she smiled and laughed. “True, he’s also a brat.”
There was another pause.
“What makes you think I’m going?”
When her eyes met his, she quickly averted her gaze.
Get up and go to the men’s room. Give her some privacy.
He was about to do so when the waiter came up with glasses of water, blocking his way.
“I know I wasn’t invited. And I know about F2. I work in F1, remember? People talk.”
The waiter asked him if he’d like something to drink, but Clarke shook his head, waving him off.
She turned her head so he couldn’t see her face. She also lowered her voice, but not enough so that he couldn’t make out what she was saying.
“You think I’m naive enough to think if I tell him I’m interested, he’s going to offer me a spot?”
His brain kept telling him he should leave the table—not watch and listen the way he was doing. But his body wouldn’t cooperate.
“Think. Hope. What’s the difference? I’m curious to know how you found out, but I won’t bother asking because I know you won’t tell me.”
Suddenly her head snapped up, though she still avoided meeting his gaze. “You’re going? You weren’t invited either. And what do you plan on doing, getting on a red-eye and hightailing it back here once you hit the ground at JFK airport?”
She shifted in her seat. Now he could see her. Both her eyes and mouth blew open. “You’re still here?! Well, you might regret that. What if I don’t go tomorrow?” There was a pause. “I haven’t made up my mind yet.”
Shaking her head, she shifted the phone away from her mouth, mumbling so softly he almost didn’t catch it. “I’m not a little kid anymore, I don’t need you to protect me. I can handle rejection. Lord knows I’ve had enough practice.”
Jutting her jaw, she blinked, shifting the phone back. “You did not just hear that.”
This was followed by a long pause. She stopped a passing waiter and ordered a bourbon.
“What? Yes, I’m still here.”
Another pause.
“Yes, he’s here with me.”
He watched a blush bloom on her cheeks.
“No, I will not tell him that.”
So Aunt Delilah can make Ceci Rivers blush.
She looked up at the ceiling, whether to seek guidance or a means of escape, he couldn’t tell.
“Maybe. That’s all you get for now. I have to go.”
Her entire body seemed to heave up and down from the force of those words, and she ended the call.
“I’m sorry. It was my aunt. She was supposed to be flying back to New York tonight, so I thought maybe there was a problem. She says hi, by the way.”
The waiter came with a glass of bourbon and set it on the table. Before he could leave, she told him to bring her another. Clarke frowned. “You haven’t even taken a sip of that one.”
“I don’t sip,” she snapped. She took a large swallow and set the glass down. “There. Satisfied?”
“Maybe you should wait until you’ve had some food.”
Her eyes were blazing. “What are you? My fath—” She stopped abruptly.
Just then, another waiter approached with the menus, but when he tried to hand one to Ceci, she waved him off. “Thank you, we don’t need menus. I know what we want.”
Listening to her order, Clarke expected to see an entire cow on his plate.
“Do they serve any vegetables here?” Clarke asked after the waiter had left them.
“You’ll get some with your ribs. A baked potato and some creamed corn.”
“What about spinach? Do they have spinach?”
“Yes, but it’ll come creamed.”
“Why didn’t you let me look at the menu? There must be something reasonable on it.”
“My date. My choice.”
“Even what we eat?”
“That’s right.”
“And what if I was a vegetarian?”
“Are you?”
“No, but—”
“I already knew that because you ate that Krispy Kreme burger.” She held up a finger. “No, you ate two.”
“So you’re telling me, you choose not only where we go and what we do, but what we—or to be more exact, what I—eat. Tell me, do I have a choice in what I think or what I say?”
“Of course.”
He bit his lip.
Don’t do it. Don’t … fuck it.
“And what about where I look?” His eyes swept from hers down her throat and only stopped when they’d reached that bodacious cleavage. He could almost swear it was speaking to him.
Go ahead, slip your fingers in, right here. Let’s see if they fit.
“If you want to rattle a girl, you’ll have to find another one if that’s all you’ve got. You can look where you like or choose. But then so can I. I can’t see much sitting as we are. But if you were to stand up …”
He could feel that searing burn in his cheeks and hoped the lighting in here was too dark for her to notice.
He slammed both hands on the table, stood up, and her eyes went to that spot right between his thighs.
As he’d expected. He just hadn’t expected his cock to salute her.
Fuck, if she wasn’t its commanding officer.
Seeing her smirk, he hurriedly sat down. Why play this game? With this girl? He was bound to lose.
“You’ll get your turn,” she said. “You’ll be choosing on the next date. Also you got to choose the last one. And if you think about it, it should have been my choice. I paid for that date. I bought you.”
“So, I was at your service?”
Her lip curved as she shrugged one shoulder and spoke in a flippant tone, “Yes.”
He felt his dick twitch at that word service.
He wondered if he could choose what she wore on the next date. What he really wanted was to see her in that catsuit. Then again, if he got to choose what she wore on the next date, that would mean she would choose what he wore on the following one. And God only knows what that might be.
“Reasonable.” She chuckled. “What does that even mean when we’re talking food? Aunt Delilah said you reminded her of the Count of Monte Cristo when she watched you eat. You’re so measured. So restrictive. Why is that?”
“Well obviously, I do it for my health. But also I suppose to keep temptation under control.”
His eyes drifted to her lips. Recalling his dreams, he couldn’t decide which were sweeter, those lips or the ones down south.
She nodded. “The Krispy Kreme burgers and how many was it—three or four deep-fried s’mores?”
Exactly.
“Could it be that rather than Sir Stick having too little appetite, he has too much?”
She was playing with him. But something in her eyes told him she wanted to hear his answer. It was because of that, he remained silent.
After waiting a moment, she moved on. “Wait until you see where we’re going after dinner.”
“Let me guess. The Cathedral of Junk?”
She blinked, surprised, before shaking her head.
“The Museum of the Weird?”
“Uh-uh.”
“I know! Barney Smith’s Toilet Seat Art Museum.” He paused. “Oh, wait a minute. That’s just outside of Dallas.”
Her brow wrinkled. “How is it you know so much about Texas?”
“I don’t. I just looked up the most outrageous things to do here. And highlighted anything mortifying or embarrassing. I wanted to be prepared.”
She chuckled.
He narrowed his eyes. “I’ve never heard you giggle. Do you? Ever?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
He shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. I can’t see it.”
The waiter placed her second bourbon before her.
“I know what you’re trying to do,” he said.
“You do, do you?”
He nodded. “I do.”
“And that is …?”
“Wherever you’re going to take me, whatever you plan on doing, it’s meant to rattle me.” He paused, tapering his eyes. “If you couldn’t rattle me with deep-fried s’mores and Krispy Kreme burgers, I hardly think you’ll rattle me with anything here in Texas.”
“You seemed rattled when handling a rifle. And … today.”
There it is.
Clenching his jaw, he stiffened. He was thinking how to respond when the waiter arrived with their food.
Under normal circumstances, he would have welcomed the interruption, but he found it difficult when the waiter set a plate before him that nearly took up the entire width of the table and was piled high with ribs, glistening in fat and dripping in sauce.
He stopped the waiter before he left and asked what kind of scotch they had, preferably single malt.