"Well it was nice chatting with you, Mr. Stevenson, but myboyfriendjust pulled up," I say proudly.
"He's not going to even come back inside and escort you to the car? A car he apparently is using to overcompensate for something," he chuckles.
Boy he's gorgeous when he laughs.
Walk away, Sabrina.
"Believe it or not, this isn't the turn of the century. I'm a grown woman, and I don't need a guardian to escort me five feet to a car."
"You've got me there, Miss White. You are very much a grown woman in all the places that matter." His eyes rake over my body with slow deliberation.
"Let me give you a piece of advice,sir,and believe me when I say that I'm using that term rather loosely. You walked in here tonight with your oversized bodyguards and your darkly tinted sunglasses at eight o'clock at night as if you're someone important, but trust me when I say, that I know what important men look like, and you aren't it. You're tryingwaytoo hard. Not to mention that it whiffs of desperation that you're approaching a woman who is currently involved with another man. So have a nice life, all right?"
After my fantastically delivered admonishment, I stand up forgetting that I had placed my clutch handbag on my lap, and it drops to the floor with a thud. The entire contents inside splattering across the floor and underneath the table. Totally embarrassing.
"Would it be too turn of the century of me to help you pick up the mess you've made before mydesperate assgoes on to have a nice life?" the stranger asks in a manner that's dripping with sarcasm.
I don't particularly want to, but I nod reluctantly in acceptance of his offer, because my very tapered pencil skirt fits way too snugly for me to comfortably bend and maneuver myself underneath the table in any sort of graceful way.
"Thanks," I try saying with as much sincerity as I can muster.
As he squats down to retrieve my things (super tampon included), I can't help but take a closer look at him in a most obvious way that almost makes me redden in embarrassment.
This close up there's no denying that he's a giant wall of muscle and masculinity. Larger than any other man I've ever known. But it's his swagger, his personality, his energy–which fills the restaurant in a much larger way than even the circumference of his body. It's no wonder why all eyes are on him.
I wasn't ever the type to attract the big, beautiful, confident types like him. I tend to attract the intellectual ones who are vertically impaired and riddled with insecurities. Neither type being a reliable pick for a girl like me. I like predictable. A safe bet.
I think that may be why I've liked Jason for so long. Jason is safe. Not a giant, but definitely taller than me. Intellectual but not nerdy. Confident but not cocky. And most importantly, certifiably single. There's no ex-wife or a baby momma. Which means no mess and very little risk. All statistics that a math geek like me can buy into.
I don't even have to talk to this Stevenson guy for more than three minutes to already know that he is the complete opposite of safe. He is probably everything my parents were always afraid would come knocking on their door looking to ravage their only daughter.
First of all, look at him.
I'm looking for someone to snuggle at night, not smother me. In fact he's so huge that there's no real way he's even going to be able to fit under the table to pick up my things. Although now I see that he doesn't even have to. His arms are so long that he can maneuver them easily under the table and reach for whatever's under there without too much awkward bending. It's actually kind of impressive.
And speaking of his arms.
Holy hell.
His arms are huge. The wingspan of his hands alone makes them look like they could easily smack someone into next week. His biceps are thick and muscular. Chiseled and strong. And my favorite part of a man's upper body, especially this man's body, are his forearms. Both are roped and strong and adorned with what looks like many sessions worth of intricate tribal ink. I've always liked tattoos from afar. They're not something I'd ever have the nerve to do, but I think they are beautiful. Especially when they adorn a man who's built like a tank.
"Here you go, Miss White."
He scoops up all of my things with one of his hands, while toying with me carefully using those two titanium saucers of his. Eyes that are confusing the hell out of my poor ovaries.
I've never been good at keeping a poker face, but there's no way this man needs to know how hot I think he is. I'm sure he already knows. So I bend my head slightly down in an attempt to avoid direct eye contact, as I accept the contents of my handbag and place everything back inside. He holds onto one thing though. One of my business cards.
"Sabrina White." He reads the card aloud while casually playing with it between two fingers. "That's a beautiful name for an equally beautiful woman."
I hate that the first thing that I do is start smiling after that lame line. Not a big smile, but a smile nonetheless.
His words are cliché.
His glare is obvious.
And I'm still grinning like a simpleton when I notice Jason sitting in his car, watching the two of us with a blank look across his face.
"Umm, my date is here. I have to go."
