My eyes fly open at the husky statement and then just as quickly, I narrow them at the man who caused all this trouble in the first place. It’s going to be a miracle if I fit into any of my clothing after tonight. “If I bust the zipper on this dress, it’s going to be your fault.”
His mouth kicks up and I notice he hasn’t started in on his steak—no risotto, just a hearty helping of mashed potatoes on the side. “If you bust your zipper on that dress I’ll be very happy.”
I snort.
He winks and picks up his fork and knife, cutting off a piece of steak and popping it into his mouth, the soft hum of his pleasure as he chews stroking me right between the thighs.
We’ve talked about the weather, about my TV show, about the Eagles—and the possibility of him bribing me with more of Molly’s confections in order to get free tickets to a playoff game. But we’ve been interrupted frequently too—by the wine and then the bread, by the salads and refills of our wine, then by the second and more wine. It’s not too much, the service polite and controlled (aside from Dean making a couple of appearances to gauge my reaction on the food), but it’s meant that we’ve haven’t really gotten going, conversation wise.
His teasing has mostly been kept under wraps by the staff.
And my snark has been tempered by bites of food as we chow down. And Dean.
Case in point?
His head pops through the swinging doors. “How’s that risotto,amore?”
Jace sighs, but I don’t look at him, just smile at Dean. “It’s the best dish I’ve ever eaten—hands down.”
“Oh, you flatter me,” he prevaricates, though I don’t miss the way he preens like a peacock showing off his tail feathers.
“It’s not flattery.” I smile at him. “It’s delicious. Thank you,” I add softly. “For taking such good care of us.”
“I take care of your stomachs. You lethim”—a nod at Jace and my eyes flick toward him, see that he’s glowering at Dean—“take care of the rest of it.”
Jace’s face smooths out, and I open my mouth, ready to tell Dean that I can take care of myself, thank you very much, but I don’t get the chance to. Because by the time I look back toward the kitchen, he’s gone, the door swinging behind him.
“Saved by the escape,” Jace says dryly.
Humor slides through my belly. “He’s a sweet man.”
“He’s smitten.”
“You sound jealous.”
He doesn’t reply at first, just saws off another bite of steak, and shoves it into his mouth. So, I go back to my risotto. “You’re nice to him.”
It’s a grudging statement, as though he’s surprised he said it at all.
And I still, fork suspended with a hunk of mushroom on the tines. “Excuse me?”
He scowls, and I fucking hate that it’s cute, but even as I’m processing that, I’m processing something else, something that sands down the rough edges of my emotions, the ones that have gone spiky and hard ever since I first entered this man’s presence.
Though, not that first night on the couch, when he looked tired and young.
They were soft then—open and welcoming.
Same as they were when he was serving up ramen, when he was bringing me cookies, rolling down the bag so they remained fresh.
And…right now.
As I realize what I missed.
He cares.Thisnight matters. He all but dragged me into agreeing to this date, has been a pesky presence down the hall from me, but…
He cares what I think.
And he put effort into tonight.
