Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Blaire
“Welcome to Hillary’s House.” A woman smiles brightly as she closes the cash register drawer. “Grab a seat and I’ll be with you shortly.”
I grab the strap of my purse on my shoulder and take in the little restaurant pegged as a hidden gem in the touristy pamphlets in my hotel room.
It’s bright and filled with sunshine. Instrumental music plays so softly that if there were more than a handful of people inside, I doubt you could hear it at all.
The décor is much fancier than I imagined with dark woods and chairs upholstered with printed cloth instead of the pleather I envisioned when the description included the word diner.
I spot an empty table in the back corner. But before I can take a step in that direction, a low, gravelly voice rakes across my skin.
“Good afternoon, Miss Gibson.”
I hear his voice behind me before I hear the door chime or feel the warm breeze of outside air, which is unfortunate. A few seconds’ warning that I’m about to come face-to-face with Holt Mason would’ve been appreciated.
Instead, I pivot instinctively as if the cells of my body are magnetized to his in some invisible way. My gaze finds his as a slow smirk spreads across his lips.
“Hello,” I say.
He’s wearing a pair of dark denim jeans and a crisp white button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. A pair of sunglasses are tucked into the top of his shirt.
His dark hair looks fresh from a shower, and despite the fact that I know he didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, he appears rested and energized. It’s a look that’s both magazine-worthy and effortlessly sexy. It’s also slightly irritating.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Did you bring my card?”
He pulls his eyes away from mine and scans the room. “Of course. But lunch first.”
I open my mouth to object. In the two seconds it takes to do that, he’s already walking across the room to the little table in the corner that I had my eye on.
The purse strap bites into my shoulder as I follow him across the room.
My brain sounds an alarm that I need to ensure he knows he’s not calling the shots.
I have to manually override it and remind myself this isn’t a courtroom, and I’m not having lunch with a man who I’ll be going head-to-head with at any point in the future.
My inner monologue is still working that out when I reach the table and chair that Holt has pulled out for me.
He lifts a brow.
I sit.
He looks pleased, and I sigh at myself for giving in so easily.
“That went easier than I expected,” he says as he sits across from me.
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know, exactly. You’re confounding.”
It’s my turn to lift a brow as I set my purse on the seat next to me. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“I don’t know yet,” he says before narrowing his eyes.
“Let me know when you figure it out.”
The waitress slides up to the table. Her smile is bright until it lands on Holt. It wobbles as she takes in the whole of him—as if he physically knocked her sideways with nothing but a glance—before she mostly recovers.
“I’m Lola,” she says, placing two menus on the table. “What can I get you to drink?”
Holt looks at me expectantly.
“Water with lemon, please,” I say.
“Make that two. We’ll need a few minutes to decide on our meal,” Holt tells Lola.
She nods. “Sounds great. I’ll be right back.” Her gaze lingers on my dining partner for a moment too long before she scurries into the kitchen.
I look at Holt to catch his reaction. He simply places a menu in front of me before taking one for himself and not bothering to react to Lola’s subtle flirtation.
“That happens to you a lot, doesn’t it?” I say, looking over the menu items.
“What?”
“Waitresses barely able to keep themselves vertical when you walk in.”
His chuckle is warm and full. “She was polite.”
“That she was,” I say, deciding on the grilled chicken sandwich. I set my menu down and look up to see Holt watching me with an amused grin on his face. “What?”
“I’ve decided that your confounding qualities are a good thing.”
“Good to know.”
“Yes. Good to know,” he says as Lola appears again.
She places our drinks in front of us and takes our order. She lingers closer to Holt than is necessary. Her laughter at his not-really-even-a-joke is a little much. Still, he never looks her way. Only at me.
My skin heats under his stare. I can’t help but remember the way it felt to have him watching me as I came undone around him.
I shiver.
“Are you cold?” he asks, fighting a smile.
As if the thoughts running through my mind didn’t make me blush enough, his ridiculous smile amps up the heat in my cheeks another few levels. It’s like he knows what I’m thinking.
“Me? I’m fine,” I say as I move my drink to my right. “What are you up to today?”
He shrugs. “What about you?”
“I’m going to head back to the hotel and pull out my briefcase and get lost in paperwork. I go home late tomorrow, and it will feel really good to be all caught up.”
“You didn’t see any of Savannah at all, did you?”
“Nope. Not a thing. Besides Picante,” I add with a grin.
He grins too. “You know I’m a big fan of work myself, but you should really get out and see some of the city. There’s so much to do here.”
I sit back in my seat and study him. What does someone like him do on the weekends?
I can imagine him shirtless on a boat, drinking beer from a bottle.
It’s not hard to envision him walking down a cozy street at dusk after seeing a live band and having dinner al fresco.
But I can also see him sitting on a balcony overlooking a grassy field with a computer on his lap.
“What is your favorite thing to do on the weekends?” I ask, hoping he doesn’t say that he likes to pick up random women and take them to random hotel rooms.
That would suck.
“I don’t do a lot, but I’m from here,” he says, “so it’s different.”
“Sure, it is,” I tease.
“It is. I’ve done it all.”
“Well, what would you suggest someone do if they were only going to do one thing?”
He taps a finger against his bottom lip.
“There are the trolley tours downtown that are fun but kind of touristy. You could kayak or take a riverboat cruise, which would be perfect if you like outdoorsy kinds of things. And you have to see the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist. Forsyth Park. Bonaventure Cemetery.”
“A cemetery?” I laugh. “Not that I had kayaking in mind, but definitely not a cemetery.”
“And maybe that’s why you need to go.”
I lift a brow. “So I can tell people I saw a cemetery in Savannah?”
“So you can broaden your horizons.”
“Listen, Mr. Tour Guide—I’ve done more things on this vacation that are out of the ordinary for me than I’ve ever done. I think we can skip the cemetery.”
We exchange an easy grin as Lola walks by. She doesn’t stop to check on us, and I wonder if it’s because neither of us looks her way.
“You know what I would do if I was going to be here a while longer?” I ask.
“Not the cemetery.”
“No. Not the cemetery.” I lean forward and pull my glass in front of me. “I’d go see the Kelvin McCoy concert.”
His forehead mars as if he misheard me.
“What?” I ask. “You don’t like his music?”
“I … No. I like it just fine.”
“Then why are you looking at me like I just grew three heads?”
He sits back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. “Are you a fan of his?”
Something about the way he looks at me bothers me. It’s as if I’m wrong to like the country singer that Sienna turned me on to.
“Yes, I guess,” I say. “I don’t know his entire catalogue or anything, but I put a couple of his songs on my cleaning playlist.”
“You have a playlist for cleaning?”
“You don’t?”
“No, I don’t,” he deadpans.
“You don’t what? Listen to Kelvin McCoy or clean?” I narrow my eyes. “You don’t clean, do you? Your house is probably filthy. That’s why you took me to a hotel.”
His jaw falls open in faux-surprise, and it makes me laugh.
“First of all, my house is immaculate, thank you very much,” he says, a chuckle in his tone. “That might be because I pay a very nice woman to come do it, but it’s clean nonetheless.”
“I bet she listens to Kelvin McCoy,” I tease.
He scoots to the edge of his chair, his eyes sparkling. He rests his forearms on the table. I can’t help but notice the way the veins rope around his tanned skin and beneath the heavy watch sitting around one of his wrists.
I say a silent prayer in gratitude that he isn’t an attorney that I have to go up against because staying focused—even for me—would be extremely hard.
He makes a fist and twists his forearm. The muscles flex as he moves it side to side. He clears his throat. I look up.
“Your watch is nice,” I say, picking up my napkin and dabbing the corner of my mouth. It’s a total attempt at distraction … that does not work.
He grins. “It is, isn’t it?”
I nod, setting the napkin back on my lap.
“I bet Kelvin McCoy doesn’t have one like this,” he says.
“Probably not. His music makes me think he’d have something more … leathery.”
Holt’s laughter is loud. “Leather? That’s too badass for him.”
“So you aren’t a fan. I see the truth now.”
“Eh, he’s okay. Kind of a pussy but he’s all right.” He stretches his legs out in front of him. “Maybe Kelvin will come to Chicago, and you can check out his watch. See what you think in person.”
I frown. “I’ll never get to see him live.”
“Why not?”
“I spend all my days and most of my nights in the office.” I sigh. “It’s impossible to find time to do anything else. And it’s been so long since I did that it feels … overwhelming. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“Ticketmaster?” he offers.
I laugh. “That’s not what I mean. I mean finding people to hang out with. You don’t go to concerts and things alone.”
“You don’t have one friend to do things with?”
“I have an assistant …”
Holt laughs as Lola sets our plates in front of us. I thank her, and thankfully, she gets the hint and goes away.