Chapter 6
Chapter Six
A urora
“Enjoy,” Sean says before departing from our table.
Our appetizers sit beautifully before us. Each dish is more elegant than the previous one, starting with colorful charcuterie and ending with a spectacular elevated oyster display. It’s fancier than anything I’ve eaten, and my stomach tenses in fear that I won’t like it, and it’ll go to waste.
“What do you think?” Tate asks, watching me. “Do you think I ordered enough?”
I grin, shaking my head. “I don’t know. Maybe you could’ve ordered two more appetizers, and we could’ve fed a small country.”
He laughs. The sound envelops me with its smooth warmth.
“No, seriously, this is beautiful,” I say, surveying the spread again. “But it is a lot of food. We could’ve gotten away with just one of these.”
“What kind of date would that have been?”
I fight a grin at his choice of words. “This isn’t a date.”
“It isn’t?” He bites his lip to keep from smiling. “What is it, then?”
“Two random people who met on a plane and happened to run into each other again.”
“Is that what you’re telling yourself?”
I nod, holding his gaze. “I am.”
“We’ll see.” He pulls his attention to the plates before us. “This does look good.”
“I don’t even know where to start.”
“Always start with oysters.” He lifts one from the bed of salt. “You’ve never had one before?”
“No.”
He smiles as if this makes him happy. “Let me introduce you to the world of oysters. You usually eat them with a little lemon or mignonette sauce, but oysters Rockefeller already have a topping on them. You can add a little lemon, but I usually don’t.”
“What’s in the topping?” I ask, peering at the shell in his hand.
“Honestly? I have no fucking idea.”
I giggle as he picks up a spoon.
“You can either scoop out the meat and sauce and eat it with a spoon or slip it straight into your mouth.” He slides a spoon along the shell. “But either way, you have to loosen the oyster first.”
I nod, watching him guide me through the process.
He’s deliberate, not rushed or shaky. It’s as if he has all the time in the world to sit with me and teach me about shellfish.
His hands are huge compared to the tiny utensil, and his adeptness at handling the oyster makes me wonder what other things he can manipulate as effortlessly. My thoughts instantly switch to his fingers grabbing my thighs and pulling them apart, his face nestled between them, and his tongue licking me instead of his lips.
Who knew watching this could be foreplay?
“Now you eat it,” he says, holding my gaze.
A quick breath flows between my lips as my heart pounds, and his eyes darken.
He brings the shell to his lips and tips it up, sliding the meat into his mouth. His eyes never leave mine. He chews slowly, watching my reaction, before swallowing.
Fuck.
“Want to try one?” he asks, returning the empty shell to the salt bed.
“Absolutely.”
He reaches for a new oyster and loosens the insides. “You don’t want to swallow right away.”
“Says every man I’ve ever met.”
He laughs. “If you chew a few times, it’ll help you savor the flavor.” He leans toward me, holding the shell across the tabletop. “Come here.”
I hitch a breath as chills race across my skin. He’s going to feed me?
The candlelight casts shadows across Tate’s face, making him look even sexier. But now, with his proximity and attention squarely on me, his attractiveness is potent.
There are no distractions and no secondary storylines. His phone is out of sight. He hasn’t looked at his watch once. He’s here with me in every way, and that’s intoxicating.
I part my lips as his eyes blaze. My mouth waters, but it’s not for the food.
Tate slides the oyster onto my tongue.
The hit of flavors and textures is powerful and unexpected, as is the warmth of the dish. A rich, creamy sauce mixes with a soft brininess, adding layers of flavor to the buttery topping. But the biggest sensation, the one that steals my breath, comes from Tate’s fingers brushing across my bottom lip.
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, his eyes glued to my mouth as I chew. Other diners and staff surround us, but they all fade into the background. The moment is wildly intimate. I’m stripped of everything—my clothes, walls, and excuses. And instead of being uncomfortable, self-conscious, or overthinking like usual, I feel powerful.
Tate is reacting like this to me. Wow.
“How did it taste?” he asks, a smirk playing against his lips.
“Warmer than I anticipated and not as salty.”
He sits back, amused.
I laugh. “It was good. Very interesting flavor, but I like it.”
“Did you know that the flavor of oysters is predetermined by where it’s harvested?” he asks.
“No. How do you know that?”
“One of my brothers worked in Australia for a while. I visited him, and we learned a lot of things late one night at an oyster bar.”
“Did any of those things require an antibiotic?”
He laughs, his eyes twinkling. “Fortunately, no.”
“Excellent. So aside from sketchy interactions with shellfish, what else do you do for fun?”
Tate places some carpaccio on his plate. I take a few options from the charcuterie instead.
“What do I do for fun?” he asks, repeating my question. “Honestly, when I’m not working, I like to be home. Most of my friends are married or getting married, so I’m kind of the lone ranger of the group.” He takes a bite of his food. “I’m learning to be the fun uncle instead of the fun friend. It’s a process.”
I spread some honey on a piece of cheese. “I like being at home, too. I love decorating, so I start at one end of my house and work through each room. Once I’m done, I return to the beginning and do it all over again. It can be an expensive hobby.”
“I’m terrible at decorating. I just put out a bunch of candles and call it quits.”
My eyes narrow suspiciously. There’s no way this guy has a closet full of candles, but I’ll give him credit for, once again, listening to what I said on the plane and using it to his advantage.
“What about you?” he asks, shifting in his chair. One sleeve pulls back just enough for me to glimpse his thick forearm. “What else do you do for fun?”
You, preferably.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say, picking up a berry. “I like to cook, I guess. Nothing fancy. I’ll see a dish on television, grab the ingredients, and see if I can recreate it—usually with substitutions that ruin it.”
He smiles. “My girl Mimi likes to cook.”
Mimi? I nod as if a streak of jealousy didn’t just rip through me.
“Mimi is my brother’s wife’s grandmother,” he says, winking.
I chuckle, knowing damn good and well that he just noticed my reaction. Again. I wish that hadn’t happened, but it’s too late now.
Sean appears again with our entrées. I side-eye the appetizers that we’ve barely touched.
“You’re on it tonight, Sean,” Tate says as his steak is placed before him. “This looks great.”
“The kitchen is on it tonight,” Sean says, setting my chicken before me. “I’m just the deliveryman.”
“Well, you’re an excellent one,” I say. “This looks amazing. Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome. Can I get you anything else?”
Tate looks at me for approval.
“I’m good,” I say. “Tate?”
He smiles and turns to Sean. “Thank you. I think we have everything we need.”
“Perfect. I’ll swing back by in a few and check in with you. Enjoy.”
I sit back and study Tate as he takes a drink. He’s such a peculiar man. Attractive, of course, but also equally kind. His manners and genuine respect for Sean, as well as for me, are surprising.
I have so many questions. I can’t help but wonder how old he is and what he does for work. He seems to have access to a lot of money and carries himself with a certain confidence that piques my curiosity.
But those questions aren’t getting answered, namely because I’m not going to ask. I’m going to keep this light and not dig in too deep. I’m going home tomorrow and leaving him and whatever transpires between us behind.
This is getting me back into the game, not the game itself.
“So this Mimi,” I say, slicing into my chicken. “Tell me about her.”
“She’s the coolest grandma of all time.”
“Sounds like you two have a thing.”
“Oh, we do.” He lifts a piece of steak to his mouth. “And I’m afraid of what that thing would look like if our age gap wasn’t a solid fifty years.”
I laugh. “Does Mimi have a thing for you?”
“I’ll put it to you like this—I see her almost every Wednesday for our date night. That usually consists of dinner that I pick up somewhere and a cookie or cake she makes for me. Then we get into her golf cart, and I drive her, usually shirtless, around the neighborhood so she can make the old man at the end of the street jealous.”
My giggles are instantaneous. “You’re serious?”
“You’ve never tasted her lemon meringue pie.” He smiles from ear to ear. “She’s really … I wouldn’t say sweet because she can be hell on wheels, but we love her. Two of my other brothers and I have adopted her as our pseudo-grandma. She likes me best, of course.”
“Naturally.”
“I’m going to pretend that I didn’t hear the sarcasm in your voice.”
“You do that.”
We exchange a look that sucks any remaining nervousness out of me.
I can’t explain why I feel so at ease with Tate, a man I met only a few hours ago. But I do. He feels oddly safe. He’s a breath of fresh, amber-scented air.
The thought makes me chuckle.
We sit quietly and enjoy our meal. We occasionally comment on the taste of our food or the songs playing faintly overhead. Otherwise, we simply share space.
I reach for my drink when a stunning couple stops at our table. The man is older and dazzling with thick, dark hair and intense eyes. The woman on his arm is breathtakingly beautiful in a sleek red dress.
“Fenton,” Tate says, standing. “It’s good to see you.”
Fenton extends a hand toward Tate. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”
The woman looks down at me and smiles warmly. I instantly like her.
“What brings you to Columbus?” Fenton asks.
“I have a conference in the morning. What about you?”
He slides an arm around the woman’s waist. “Brynne wanted to see an art exhibit at the museum here this weekend. Tate, have you met my wife?”
Tate looks at her and nods. “I have not. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Brynne.”
“Likewise,” she says.
“Fenton, Brynne, this is my date, Kelly,” Tate says. “Kelly, this is Fenton and Brynne Abbott.”
My heart leaps at being put on the spot. I have no idea what to do. Do I stand, too? Shake their hands? Am I supposed to do that double-cheek kiss thing some women do?
Neither Brynne nor Fenton extends a hand, so I stay seated. Fenton gives me a subtle nod. Brynne, however, turns toward me with a bright smile.
“Are you having a nice time tonight?” Brynne asks as her husband engages Tate in conversation.
“Yes. I’ve never been here before, and the food is divine. I’m highly impressed.”
“Have you chosen dessert yet?” She smirks and glances at Tate. “Aside from the obvious.”
I exhale, relieved to be in the presence of a girl’s girl. “Not yet.”
“Let me suggest the blueberry pie, which, I know, is an odd choice. But Fenton insists that every restaurant he opens in the Ruma chain comes with one dessert unique to that location. The head chef here chose blueberry pie as an ode to the Midwest.”
“My boss knows the man who owns this hotel chain. So we stay in his hotels when we travel, if possible.”
“I just realized that you own the hotel,” I say, with a small laugh. “Please pardon what I fear is a look of disbelief on my face.”
“How would you possibly know?”
Fenton turns to his wife. “Are you ready, Rudo?”
Rudo? What does that mean?
“Yes,” she says. “It was nice to meet you, Kelly. Maybe we’ll see each other again soon.”
“It was nice to meet you, too,” I say, withholding my internal commentary that not only will I not see her again, but I won’t see Tate, either.
Tate and Fenton exchange goodbyes.
“I’m sorry about that,” Tate says, sitting across from me.
“No, it’s fine. What an interesting couple …”
“You have no idea. My brother—I mean, my boss—has been friends with Fenton for a long time. I guess he and his wife have quite the story.”
“I got that vibe.”
“From meeting them for five minutes?”
I nod.
“How?” he asks.
“You can tell by how they interact with one another. The way they touched so familiarly, and how they spoke so respectfully. There’s trust there. Respect.” I smile softly. “It was pretty obvious.”
I reach for my drink and take a quick sip, my cheeks ablaze.
“Is that the kind of relationship you’re after?” Tate asks.
My glass returns to the table as my chest tightens. “Me? No. It probably was at one point.”
“Maybe I’m wrong, but being in a respectful, trusting relationship feels aligned with your cozy-girl thing.”
I grin at him. “True. But I’m not after a relationship.”
“At all?”
“At all.” Not right now, at least.
He takes his glass and sits back in his chair, sipping his old-fashioned while watching me over the brim. I’m sure he’s perplexed by my admission. I’m somewhat surprised by it, too. And the longer we stare at one another, the thicker the tension grows between us.
His question, although unspoken, hangs in the air. My answer, also silent, is on the tip of my tongue. Finally, he leans forward and gives in to his curiosity.
“What are you after then, Miss Kapowski?”
He rests his elbows on the table and peers into my eyes. The playfulness on his lips almost kills me. The intensity of his stare nearly melts me into a puddle on the floor.
My brain comes to a war zone, a clash of what I want and need—two very different things. I need an easy introduction to dating with a sweet and patient guy. But what I want—hell, maybe even what I need at this point—is fucked.
My body temperature rises, a sheen of sweat coats my skin, and a desperate ache grows between my legs. The knot that’s been pulling tighter and tighter all afternoon cinches so hard that I nearly grimace. The war zone comes to a screeching halt.
There is a victor.
After all, Tate is the perfect candidate. He’s attractive and into me, and I’ll never have to see him again. I can be wild and enjoy myself without worrying he’ll call me the next day.
Go for it.
“I’m looking for one thing,” I say, dragging my fingertip around the rim of my glass. “But it would only last one night.”
“It’s never a one-night stand,” he says.
“It would be with me.”
“You say that now.”
“And I assure you that I’ll say that after.”
The air grows hotter, tension building rapidly as each second ticks by. He doesn’t reply to my statement, and I don’t follow up with an explanation. He’ll either go into this knowing exactly what my conditions are or return to his room alone.
Please make the right choice.
Sean returns, causing me to jump. “Excuse me, please. How are you doing? Can I get you anything else?”
My heart pounds so hard that I can’t speak.
Tate drags his eyes away from me as if it pains him. “We’re great.”
“Mr. Abbott has paid your bill this evening, and I have been asked to serve you our famous blueberry pie for dessert. Would you like that now?”
Tate looks at me again with a fire so hot in his eyes that I nearly whimper.
What can this hurt? It’s just one night because he doesn’t even know my name. I lick my lips. It’ll be one hell of an adventure.
I hold Tate’s gaze. “Sean, can we get that pie to go?”
Tate’s eyes darken, and he stills.
“Absolutely,” Sean says. “Let me grab that, and I’ll be right back.”
“Thank you,” I say sweetly.
Tate removes his wallet and pulls out a few hundred-dollar bills. He tosses them unceremoniously onto the table.
“So you’re just looking for tonight, huh?” he asks.
“That’s it.”
“What should I do when you call me in the morning?”
I grin. “I don’t have your number and won’t ask for it. So that won’t be a problem.” I study him closely, and he almost looks … disappointed. Surely, he’s used to this type of arrangement . I don’t want to ask the question rolling around my head, but the words slip past my lips before I can stop them. “What are you after, Tate?”
He holds my gaze unabashedly.
“The mother of my children,” he says without apology.
The words, the idea , burst through my veins and pool in my core. I’m not one to be turned on by the thought of having a child, but it’s insanely hot coming from him. Instead of looking for the next warm body or a good time, he’s looking for a family.
He’s too good to be true.
“I’m not her,” I say. “But I can provide you with a distraction.”
He licks his lips. Before he can reply, Sean is back like a bad habit.
“The note said to bring you an entire pie,” he says. “I put it in a box for you.”
Tate hands Sean the cash he had tossed on the table. “Thank you for your service this evening. You were great.”
“Yes, thank you,” I say.
“I appreciate that.” He dips his chin. “Can I get you anything else?”
Tate shakes his head. “I think we’re calling it a night. Thanks again.”
“Have an enjoyable rest of your night,” Sean says.
Tate stands, stalking around the corner of the table like a predator on the loose.
I hitch a breath, holding it as his fingertips slide across the top of my exposed back. A chill races down my spine at the contact, and I struggle not to moan. He pulls out my chair, and I get to my feet, bringing my rose and purse with me as I rise.
He’s a wall of muscle behind me as his lips lower to my ear.
“Are you ready to get fucked, Miss Kapowski?” he whispers just loud enough for me to hear.
“My room is across the hotel.”
“Mine is directly above us.”
“Yours, it is.”
His laugh is low as he takes my hand, laces our fingers together—grabs the pie—and guides me out of the restaurant.