A few guests were seated in plush chairs around intricately carved wooden coffee tables. One of them saw me, bent his head, and whispered something to his companion. Both heads turned my way. Great. I was obviously overdressed. I cringed as I made my way down. More heads turned.
Damn it. Couldn’t they have put this staircase somewhere else? Anywhere but smack dab in the middle of the lobby? I stood barefoot on the bottom step, wanting to run back upstairs, when the elevator dinged. As the door opened, I caught my breath. It was Jack, but in a dazzling white shirt and a tailored charcoal jacket that accentuated the frame of his shoulders. His pants were molded to the cut of his thighs and he wore . . . the same pair of worn, dusty work boots.
I smiled and met his eyes, but he stood there, dumbstruck. The lift door shut, swallowing him up again. A second later, it opened, and he stepped out.
“That was . . .” He cleared his throat and pointed to the lift. “That was me, so floored by the sight of you, I forgot to get out.” His gaze roved over me again. “You look . . .” He shook his head and tried again. “Wow. You’re spectacular.”
“You look pretty hot yourself,” I replied. His hair was still wild and unruly, but he’d made concessions. He’d trimmed his beard. I could almost make out the outline of his jaw.
He was the kind of handsome that made your heart twist.
“Do I pass?” His eyes sparkled at my unabashed perusal.
“Not sure if the boots go with that fine ensemble, but you’ll do.”
“Hey, at least I wore shoes. My date showed up barefoot.” He crossed the floor and took the heels from my hands. “May I?” He knelt before me and slipped on one shoe, and then the other. My heart took a perilous leap as he brushed his fingers over my ankle before he straightened.
“Ready?” He offered his arm.
I linked my arm through his, and we turned to find every eye in the lobby on us. We’d forgotten there were people around, people who were watching us.
“I feel so overdressed,” I whispered.
“They’re not staring because you’re overdressed. They’re staring because they can’t help it. Because you’re breathtaking. I booked us a table at the restaurant, but now I’m not so sure I want all these people ogling you.” He led me across the lobby to the entrance of the restaurant.
“Deal with it,” I teased over my shoulder, as the maître d’ led us to our table. It was a beautiful dining room—safari-themed, with splashes of crimson and warm wood. Local art adorned the walls. Starched, white cloths covered candlelit tables. “I didn’t spend all that time getting ready, for room service.” I yelped as Jack gave me a sharp, discreet smack on my bum.
“Everything okay?” asked the maître d’. He was an older gentleman, with a thick, groomed mustache and deep lines on his forehead.
“Everything’s fine, Njoroge. Thank you.” Jack slid the chair out for me before seating himself.
“Good to see you, Mr. Warden. It’s been a while,” Njoroge replied, handing us the menus. “I’ll send someone over to take your order right away.”
We sat in silence after he left. I flipped the pages back and forth, not really reading the choices.
“What’s wrong?” Jack lowered my menu so he could see my face.
“Nothing, just . . .” I shook my head. I was being petty, and I didn’t want to spoil our evening. “It’s nothing.”
Jack took my menu away and pinned me down with his steely blues.
“Could we not . . .” I crossed my legs under the table. “Could we just . . .”
His expression didn’t waver.
“Fine.” I sighed. “You used to bring Sarah here.” I had forgotten all about it until Jack had addressed the maître d’ by name.
“I did.” His face was set in watchful dignity. “The last time I came here with my ex was six years ago. We sat at that table.” He tilted his head toward the window. “When we left, we both knew it was over. I haven’t been back since. It doesn’t exactly bring back good memories. But you know what, Rodel?” He reached across the table for my hand. “Everything is new when I’m with you. Food tastes better. Colors look brighter. Music is sweeter. I feel hungry for the world again. I want to go to the places I’ve skipped, I want to share them with you—show you who I am, who I was, who I can be.
“I’m here, Rodel, not because I like the sugar cookies they leave on my pillow, or the Steak freakin’ Diane on the menu. I’m here, in a restaurant full of people, with you, because I can’t afford to fall apart, because the thought of you leaving is killing me, so I’m focusing on creating as many beautiful, grand moments as I can for you. I can’t give you much else, but I can give you that. And I can’t fathom—not for an instant—why you’d be sitting across from me and thinking of my ex, because I sure as hell wasn’t. When I’m with you, Rodel, I’mallwith you.”
He’d done it again—sent that ticker tape of emotions all over the place. I felt big and small all at once, like I was holding stars in one hand but sifting through gunk with the other.
“I’m sorry,” I said in a low, tormented voice. “I’m sorry I’m ruining our evening.” A stab of guilt lay buried in my breast, but there was something more, something I was stifling underneath it all. I wanted him to tell me he loved me. I wanted to hear the words. Thatwas the real reason I was acting like a jerk, and I didn’t like the way it made me feel. “And just so we’re clear,” I teased him with my eyes, “I really like those sugar cookies. They’re shaped like tulips, and they taste like heaven.”
Jack seemed caught off guard by the quick turnaround, but he threw me an amused glance. His smile had the feeling of indefinable rightness.
“We’d like two dozen of your sugar cookies,” he said, when the waiter came to get our order. “To go.”
