Chapter 24 #2
“Good evening,” she says smoothly. “My name is Sylvia, and I’ll be your server this evening. Would you like to start with something to drink?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
Arthur glances at me, the corners of his mouth thin in concern. My first date in more than a decade and I am blowing it. I want to sink under the tablecloth.
“Give us a moment, please,” he tells the server, his eyes never leaving my face. When Sylvia is gone, he asks, “Status report?”
My brow furrows. “What?”
“It’s what I ask my players during a game to determine if they’re okay or too hurt to play. You look like you’re being tortured. I know I’ve been out of the dating scene for a while, but I didn’t think I was fucking up this colossally. Do you want to call this?”
I swallow thickly. “No, it’s just…”
He waits patiently for me to collect my thoughts.
“It’s too much.”
“What is?”
“Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I can’t eat here. A meal here will cost more than I spend on groceries for a month for Sam and me.”
“Don’t worry—”
“Don’t worry about it. I know. But see, the more I hear those words, the more I will worry. I know that this kind of money is nothing to you. I know that it won’t make a dent. But I can’t let you buy me a meal here. I already feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.”
“You feel like a prostitute?” He says this loud enough that the couple in the next table turn their heads.
I can feel my face turn beet red. “Oh, look who finally got a pop culture reference,” I hiss, sinking down in my chair.
“No, I don’t feel like a prostitute. But I’m just not comfortable with this shift in our dynamic.
Last week you were paying me for physio sessions.
Now we’re on a date. And even though I know that you would never…
expect a return on your investment, I don’t feel comfortable being wined and dined like this.
Not when our relationship has changed. Not with sex on the table. ”
He goes very still. “Table sex? Really?”
Kill. Me. Now.
“Are we talking about that flimsy excuse for a physio table back at your place? Or this one right here?” He gives the table a little shake like he’s testing its sturdiness and I’m looking for the nearest exit. That’s when I see the glint of laughter in his normally serious eyes.
Arthur is being playful.
I bury my face in my hands. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For the ridiculous things that come out of my mouth.”
His hand closes around my arm and gently tugs my hand away from my face. Why did he have to be so perfect? Why do I have to be so awkward? So damaged. I’m about to thank him for a lovely evening…or eight minutes, when he tilts his head toward the door.
“Let’s get out of here.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“And go where?”
He pushes to stand. “I’ve got a place in mind.”
“What about our reservation?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll tell them we need to leave and apologize for the inconvenience.”
He pulls my chair back and offers me his hand. When I take it, I find that I can breathe again. I feel not only seen but heard.
“Thank you.”
He smirks. “Don’t thank me yet.”
“You’re not going to tell me where you’re taking me?”
“Nope.”
I try to frown at him, but it’s hopeless.
My feet are throbbing from the short walk from the restaurant to Arthur’s monster of a truck, but now I’m tucked into the warm cab, cocooned in the glow of the dashboard lights.
The city glides past my window in soft streaks of gold and white.
The heated seat is defrosting me and I can’t help but feel content despite not knowing where we’re going.
I let out a long sigh and sink deeper. “Okay.”
“Seriously? That’s it? You’re not even going to attempt to get it out of me?”
“Please.” I laugh. “I spend my evenings extracting microscopic details from a tight-lipped twelve-year-old. If I wanted to break you, I could.”
He huffs a low laugh. His hands move over the steering wheel in a slow, controlled rhythm, forearms flexing under the cuff of his jacket.
He looks unfairly good while driving. Jaw shadowed, mouth set in that calm, confident line he wears so well.
A man who knows where he’s going. A man who could toss me over his shoulder and take me with him without breaking a sweat.
“I think you’ll like this place better,” he says. “I know I do.”
“Really?”
“Mm-hmm.” He switches lanes with a smooth, practiced ease. “Less pretentious. More affordable. And much less crowded.”
I picture us pulling into the mall parking lot. Part of me actually hopes for it. I could destroy a food-court hot dog and fries right now.
But we keep going. Past the familiar districts. Into an area I don’t recognize, though everything still looks very…expensive.
Arthur parks and we step out into the cold again. The air bites at my skin and steals my breath. He falls into step beside me, close enough that the heat rolling off him feels like a small mercy. He leads me toward an upscale-looking building and there goes my dream of a hot dog.
A man in a perfectly pressed uniform appears out of thin air and opens the door for us.
“Good evening, Mr. Stetson.” He nods politely at me. “Ma’am.”
Ma’am. I’m a thirty-two-year-old woman with a hole in her pantyhose and shoes that clearly hate me. But sure. Ma’am.
“Hi,” I chirp as Arthur guides me through the glossy marble lobby and toward the elevator. My mind is still snagged on the doorman’s greeting.
The doorman knows his name?
“How often do you eat here?” I ask as the elevator doors slide shut.
Arthur glances down at me, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Most days.”
We step into the gleaming elevator and Arthur presses the top button. Nothing happens at first, but then he lifts his phone and holds it near a small black sensor. The elevator gives a soft beep and begins its smooth, silent ascent.
A penthouse restaurant that requires a pass key? So much for being less pretentious.
The enclosed space folds around us. Warm light.
Polished steel. The faint scent of him, all clean cedar and something darker underneath.
That low hum of tension flickers between us again.
I peek up at him through my bangs. God, he is beautiful in that quiet, break your heart and never apologize for it way.
The kind of beautiful that belongs to people who have survived things and learned how to stand taller because of them.
He must sense my stare. His gaze finds mine and holds.
And holds. And holds, until the need to climb him like a sycamore tree pulses through me in a hot, ridiculous wave.
I remind myself that when the elevator doors open, there will be people.
Witnesses. And I should not be clinging to him like a koala when that moment arrives.
The corner of his mouth lifts. Barely. As if he can hear every chaotic thought tumbling through my head.
Mercifully, the doors slide open.
I brace myself for a polished host or a velvet rope or at least a podium. Instead, Arthur steps into a quiet foyer. Plush dark carpet underfoot. A tall window framing the city in shimmering blues and silvers. No restaurant in sight.
The only light spills from the window, soft enough that everything feels dreamlike.
“Lights.” His voice is low and even.
Soft, warm illumination rises overhead. Not bright. Just enough to outline the edges of the space with a golden glow. I follow him farther inside, hesitant. Like I’m half expecting people to jump out and scream “surprise!”
Something clicks when he stops near a bench and begins removing his shoes. He places one large hand on the wall for balance and slips one shoe off with the other foot, then repeats the motion.
My pulse skips. “Is this…do you live here?”
He smirks, and the expression should be illegal on a face like his. “Last time I checked.”
I look around, finally understanding what I am standing in.
Not a restaurant. Not a hotel. A condo. A massive, impossibly expensive penthouse condo.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the far wall, offering a panorama of the city.
The living room is wide and open with sleek furniture in shades of charcoal and cream.
A long fireplace made of black stone flickers to life along one wall.
The kitchen, visible just beyond, is all stainless steel and white marble with backlit shelves that look like they belong in a design magazine.
Holy shit.
I clutch my purse closer, suddenly more aware of the hole in my pantyhose and the fact that my entire net worth could probably fit in one of his kitchen drawers.
Arthur shrugs out of his coat in my peripheral vision while I stand rooted to the spot, trying to decide if I should take off my coat or run.
“Hey.” His voice is gentle now as he steps closer, lowering his head to catch my eyes.
“I hope this is okay. I figured since I’ve been to your place, it was time you saw mine.
Also”—a spark of humour lights his eyes again—“I thought you might like to get out of those heels that are so obviously killing your feet.”
A laugh escapes me. I bite my bottom lip, trying to smother the smile spreading across my face. “You noticed?”
“I notice everything about you, Elliot. Especially when you’re limping worse than I am.”
I swat at his chest, which feels as solid as a brick wall, and he rewards me with a rare, full grin. It is devastating.
He watches me with quiet amusement as I slip off one shoe. Then the other.
The relief hits so hard and fast that a soft, involuntary moan escapes me before I can stop it.
His gaze drops. Heat flares in the inches that separate us. And God help me, I feel it everywhere.
Just when I feel like nothing on earth could break the thick, humming tension between us, my stomach makes a very enthusiastic protest.
Arthur’s eyes flick down to my midsection. “Let’s get some food into you.” He gestures for me to walk ahead of him toward the kitchen. “Ladies first.”
“Such a gentleman.”