“It’s nothing. Really.” I slip off his bike, avoiding his eyes. “Let’s see if we can get a table.”
I try to move past him toward the door, but he catches my hand, lacing his fingers through mine. My head goes up. “It’s fine that you don’t want to tell me, babe.”
My shoulders relax and I nod. “Okay.”
“Okay.” He touches his mouth to mine and moves us towards the door.
The simple gesture sends my heart racing again.
There’s a line of people, two deep, out the door.
“This way.” Dread bypasses everyone waiting and walks straight up to the hostess stand.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the hostess says, her smile polite but firm. “There’s currently a ninety-minute wait for a table.”
“Caleb Reeves,” he says. “Should be on the list.”
Caleb Reeves?
I file his name away so I can look him up on the Google machine later.
The hostess’s eyes widen slightly, and she quickly scrolls through her tablet. Her expression changes like a switch being flipped. “Oh, yes, of course, Mr. Reeves. I’m terribly sorry about the confusion. Right this way, sir.”
She leads us through the restaurant, past all the people waiting inside, to a section in the back with large, private booths.
“Wow,” I whisper, sliding across the bench.
“Scooch, baby.”
I look at the inch of space beside me and the completely open bench on the other side. “What?”
“Slide over.”
I move farther over, and to my surprise, Dread slides in right beside.
The hostess slides our menus in front of us with a smile. “Your server will be right with you.”
Dread’s arm drapes casually across the back of the booth behind me, and I try to focus on the menu instead of the warmth radiating from his body.
In less than a minute, our waitress arrives. She’s a pretty blonde with a bright smile. “Can I get you folks something to drink?”
“I’ll have a bourbon, neat,” Dread says, then looks at me.
“Just water, please,” I say, not wanting to spend money on overpriced cocktails.
Dread frowns. “Get whatever you want, baby. This is on me.”
“I’m fine with water,” I insist, even as my eyes drift to the cocktail menu.
“She’ll have a glass of the Cabernet,” Dread tells the waitress, who nods and walks away.
I narrow my eyes at him. “I can order for myself, you know.”
He chuckles. “I know. But you kept looking at the wine list.”
I can’t argue with that. I was looking.
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, and then Dread shifts to look at me more directly. “So, what’s the deal with your kids’ father?”
