Chapter Twelve
“I’m going to have to get a thesaurus,” I whisper.
“Why?” Blake asks with a smile.
“Because I need new words to describe everything you’re showing me. Amazing, incredible, awesome … I’m getting tired of hearing myself say the same thing over and over.”
But I can’t help it.
The restaurant is located in the basement of an old hotel, where it used to function as a speakeasy back in the days of Al Capone.
“This was a favorite hangout of his,” Blake explains when we pull up in front of the grand, old building with its wrought iron railings and elaborate plasterwork decorating the front.
Rather than go in through the double doors, we take a narrow flight of stairs down to the basement and are greeted by a beaming young man introduced as the restaurant’s executive chef.
He gives us what he promises is the best table, situated in the back corner of the room.
It’s intimate for sure, a high-backed booth that leaves us semi-removed from the rest of the diners.
“Does this seem commonplace to you?” I ask once the wine is poured and we’re alone again. A nice, full-bodied red to complement the steaks we haven’t ordered yet but probably will. The aroma of seared beef is just about enough to knock me sideways.
“Not even a little bit,” Blake assures me, raising his glass. “Especially when I get to show it all to you. I guess even the coolest, most exciting things would get boring without somebody like you to share them with.”
There I go, blushing again. “By all means, show me whatever you want.”
“Oh, I will.” He grins with a wicked gleam in his eye.
For Pete’s sake, will I ever stop walking into the double entendres? At least I manage not to choke on my wine. Barely.
I turn to the menu, looking for an escape or at least a change in subject. “Blake?” I whisper, glancing up at him.
“Yeah?”
“There aren’t prices next to anything.” Craning my neck to peek at his menu tells me I didn’t get a misprint—unless we both did.
“I know.”
“So, how do you know how much you’re going to pay for things?”
He’s such a sweetheart, trying so hard not to laugh out loud at how ignorant I am. “Here’s a secret about restaurants like this one: if you have to ask, you probably can’t afford it.”
“Oh.” I feel roughly two inches tall now.
“Not to brag or anything like that,” he continues. “You know how I hate it. But that’s the way it is. And if you think this is something, wait until I take you to a chef’s tasting. There’s a restaurant back in Philly that I absolutely adore. Thirteen courses, beautifully plated, just exquisite.”
“Thirteen? I feel full, just thinking about it. How long does it take?”
“Three or four hours, typically. You sit at the chef’s table inside the kitchen and watch each course as it’s prepared. It’s an experience from beginning to end. I think you’d love it.”
“I bet I would.”
What I really love is knowing he’s planning future dates. Sure, we started this from a sort of professional angle. He’s scratching my back, and he knows it.
But he’s interested in me and interested in going out again. I can’t pretend not to be flattered.
“Tell me a little more about you,” he urges, leaning in ever so slightly.
We’re in a rounded booth instead of one that leaves us facing each other, and there are only a few inches between us.
Is it the champagne from the jet that has my head spinning a little?
Or maybe it’s the sense of so many new, exciting things happening at once.
There’s a definite energy in this underground space with its exposed brick walls and crystal chandeliers.
I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if the ghost of Al Capone himself walked by, a cigar hanging from his mouth and a moll on one arm.
More likely, the spinning head has to do with the man sitting next to me.
He looks good enough to eat, and I’m not only thinking that because I’m starved.
Tonight, he’s wearing a well-fitted black button-down, snug against the muscles of his biceps and chest. I have to remind myself not to lick my lips as my gaze travels over him.
“What’s there to say?” I ask, shrugging a little.
“You already told me why you started writing romance,” he muses in a soft voice. “Where do you come from? What’s your best friend’s name? What do you like to do on a rainy day?”
“I grew up in New York,” I explain. “I can’t imagine living anywhere else in the world. It’s messy, yeah, and noisy and crowded. But I’d probably lose my mind if I lived someplace quiet. No traffic, no voices.” It’s enough to make me shudder.
“I completely agree.” He nods.
“My grandmother’s family is old money,” I admit.
Why does it make me uncomfortable to talk about this?
“She sort of disowned my mom when she and Dad eloped. He was working-class, and my grandma hated that. We lived in a two-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn until I was ten. Dad got a promotion, and we moved into our own house. It was great. I think Grandma Cecile got over it after a while once she saw how hard he was willing to work to provide a good life for us. Plus, it helped that Mom had named me after my great-grandmother, who was the family matriarch.”
“Her name was Kitty?”
“Kathryn,” I correct. “Kathryn Antoinette.”
His mouth twitches. “That’s quite a name.”
“I’ve never gone by it, except in Grandma’s presence. Mom always called me Kitty. Anyway, Grandma was generous enough to set me up with a fund for college. I know how lucky I am. Between that and the book deal I got straight after graduation, it’s practically a fairy tale.”
“You’re remarkably well-adjusted, and you have a good head on your shoulders when it comes to your work,” he says, swirling the wine in his glass. “You didn’t let it get to you, being such a smash hit.”
“I know success can disappear”—I snap my fingers—“just like that. Especially in this industry. But more than that, the economy can take a turn, or a person can get sick. Life changes in ways we can’t predict. I won’t let today’s success go to my head.”
“I knew you were something special as soon as we met.”
I know he means it in the nicest way possible, but that doesn’t stop me from snorting. “When I was on my hands and knees in the hallway? Wanting to cry but wanting to save myself from looking like even more of a mess?”
“You know what I mean.” His hand finds mine just before he lifts it, pressing his lips to the backs of my fingers and basically turning me into a puddle of melted Kitty. “I knew you were the real deal.”
This probably isn’t the best time to remind him that he also thought I was only using him, so I keep that fun fact to myself and choose to revel in his sweetness. “I didn’t know they made men like you anymore,” I admit. It sounds corny as Kansas in springtime, but it’s true.
“Like me? What’s that mean?” he asks with a note of humor in his voice.
“Chivalrous and kind and thoughtful. You know what I’m trying to say. You’re pretty special too.”
“Even without the billions to my name?” He winks.
If he sounded even a tiny bit serious, it would turn my stomach. The fact that he’s obviously making fun of himself and of what people typically think of him is the saving grace.
“Let’s face it.” I shrug with a smirk. “If you weren’t who you are, there wouldn’t have been any reason for us to meet each other. So, I guess I’ll have to accept that you’re fabulously wealthy and move on.”
Our meals arrive and just in the nick of time. My stomach hasn’t stopped rumbling since we walked through the door. Thick cuts of prime rib cooked medium-rare, creamed spinach, scalloped potatoes, roasted onions and mushrooms. Another bottle of wine, too, and a basket of steaming rolls.
“This looks fabulous, but what do you plan on eating?” I ask, and his laughter rings out in the otherwise quiet room.
“Another thing I like about you,” he observes after a few minutes of gorging ourselves.
“What’s that?”
“You don’t shy away from eating on a date.”
Well, why not tell me I’m acting like a pig?
I put my fork and knife down for the first time since I picked them up and touch my napkin to my mouth. “Sorry. I was so hungry.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, eat,” he urges. “I was being sincere. Enjoy the food. I’m sure they worked hard on it, and I brought you here because it’s one of my favorites. I hate few things more than watching a woman wish she could enjoy something but stopping herself anyway.”
“How can you tell she’s only wishing she could enjoy it?” I ask before spearing my steak again. To hell with it. I’m going to enjoy it, just like he thinks I should.
His mouth screws up in a smirk. “There’s a longing in the eyes that’s hard to miss.
I see it a lot in people who hold themselves back from what they really want in life.
It’s a hunger that goes beyond the physical.
I decided a long time ago that I didn’t want to be that person.
I don’t want to wander through my life with that sort of hunger always gnawing at me, you know? ”
“I admire that. I could learn something from you.”
“I bet there are a lot of things you could learn from me,” he murmurs.
And I suddenly get the feeling we’re not talking about steak dinners and champagne lessons. The tingling sensation in my core tells me so along with the warmth spreading through me. Warmth that has nothing to do with wine.
It’s a miracle I can even walk out of the restaurant by the time we’re finished.
“Oof,” I groan, laughing at myself. “My eyes were bigger than my stomach.”
He must think I’m a total pig at this point, but I couldn’t help it. Every forkful was better than the one before.
And let’s face it; I had no idea if or when I’d ever be able to enjoy such an incredible meal again. A girl needs to take advantage of these opportunities.
“That’s a shame since I was about to suggest we head to a jazz club I’m part-owner of.” He sighs, clicking his tongue and shaking his head in mock dismay. “If you’re too stuffed to go and do a little dancing and drinking …”
“I think I can manage that,” I blurt out, making him laugh as we reach the sidewalk.
“I thought you’d feel that way.” He chuckles, turning to me.
His hands find my waist, and I don’t shy away, not even when he pulls me a little closer. If anything, I’ve been dying for the opportunity to be this close to him, face-to-face, and my heart pounds hard enough that I have to wonder if he can hear it.
His eyes dart across my face. “Where did you come from, Kitty Valentine?” he whispers.
“Brooklyn, remember?”
“No, no. You must’ve come from another planet. They don’t make women like you anymore.”
“Funny. I was thinking the same thing about you earlier. Not that I think you’re a woman or anything.”
He laughs softly before lowering his head, hesitating for one soul-searing second before catching my mouth with his.
He tastes like wine and the glass of scotch he finished the meal with—something my consciousness registers along with the strength of the arms he winds around my waist and the firmness of his chest. He crushes me against that chest when his arms tighten, and that’s good since I need something to lean against when my legs go weak.
His mouth moves slowly over mine, nibbling and tasting, almost playful. Teasing me, tantalizing, making me stretch upward to reach him. What can I say? There are certain hungers that a steak dinner can’t sate.
The only thing that could stop us at this moment would be the ringing of his cell, which is why the buzzing coming from his breast pocket comes as no surprise. Because of course, the phone would ring while I’m in the middle of being kissed like I’ve never been kissed before.
“Damn it,” he growls, sliding a hand between us to reach for the device. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I breathe, dizzy and painfully aroused. This is the moment when I’m supposed to be the cool girl, right? The one who doesn’t get flustered when her first kiss with somebody shaping up to be her dream man gets interrupted.
He’s scowling when he answers the call. “Yes? Yes, I know. No. I’m in Chicago.
I told you, I had plans,” he says, looking at the ground.
“What do you mean, the board wants to meet? On a Sunday? Since when? You’re kidding.
” He turns away, muttering a colorful array of curses as whoever is on the other end of the call explains the situation.
I might as well not be standing here, still in front of the hotel, still a little off-kilter after our kiss. Maybe even more so now that I know our plans for the rest of the evening have been ruined. Nobody has to tell me so. I’m a pretty smart girl.
He shoves the phone into his pocket before turning back to me, apology written all over his face. “I’m so sorry. Does it make me too much of a jerk to ask for a rain check on our trip to the club?”
“Of course not. You have important things to do.” I’m trying to smile, but my heart’s not in it. Not that I had my sights set on jazz and dancing—though the dancing could’ve been nice, come to think of it.
It’s just that I can’t help but wonder, as we make our way back to the hangar, how much of Blake’s life is available to the woman in it, whoever she happens to be.
And whether that woman could ever be me.