He looks so sincere and shy that I suddenly feel ashamed.
“Shouldn’t have assumed. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I get it.” He shoves his hands into his pockets and watches me. “I’m a bit of a man whore. I know why you’d think that. But I think you’ve been on more dates than me.”
“Yeah, maybe I have.”
“Were any of them as nice as this?”
“No, not even close.”
His tongue pushes into his cheek. “So, dinner should be delivered in about ten minutes. You wanna have a seat while we wait?”
I look at the table and back at him.
“Yeah, all right. Will there be a string quartet, too?”
He smirks. “No, smartass, but I did bring a speaker so I could play music. Thanks for reminding me.”
He walks over to the table and pulls one from the chair, setting it to the side. I see him fumble with his phone, his hands slightly shaking as he pulls up a playlist. A moment later, smooth, soft music begins to play.
It makes me like him even more. All of this was so well planned. He really is romantic at heart.
I step toward the table, and he pulls a chair out for me, like a gentleman.
I feel like a fucking princess.
I say nothing as I take a seat. He follows me into the chair right across from me, his legs extending and wrapping around mine, his elbows on the table, his eyes meeting mine.
“Can I tell you a secret?”
I nod.
“I don’t know what I’m doing, and I’m so fucking nervous.”
“Don’t be. You’re doing just fine. I’m in the same boat. Never been on a date with a guy before.”
“No shit.”
We grin at one another, and I let out a small laugh, my hand falling gently onto the table, palm extended outward for him to touch.
And he does. He draws shapes on my skin, little hearts, the letters in his name.
I can’t look away, my skin tingling as he etches himself into my heart.
We only part when the food arrives. Once again, it’s the same driver I’ve met a few times. He’s wearing a suit and tie and carrying a plastic bag in each hand. He sets them on the table and gives a curt nod before moving away.
“I hope you pay him extra for this,” I murmur, and Colton grins.
“Oh, you know I do. And plus, Hamish is happy to help.”
“That’s his name?”
“Of course it is. He’s been with me for a few years now.”
He undoes one bag and pulls out a chilled bottle of champagne. The actual kind from France, not the kind that pretends to be French. He uncorks it and pours us each a glass before pulling out the rest of the food.
“Got this from a local Italian place just down the street. They have the best pasta. I didn’t know what you liked, so I got a few plates we could share.”
