Maeve stifles a laugh behind her palm while I rub my chest and try to recover from the unexpected impact of calling her my wife.
She whispers in my ear. “I thought we came to tour the place.”
“Touring the restaurant counts.” I let her go first as the maître d’ leads us up a short flight of steps to a more intimate seating area in the quiet, luxurious dining room.
Once we’re alone with our menus and water, Maeve flicks her hair over her shoulder. “Mr. Jameson, are you trying to wine and dine me?”
I give her a genuine smile. “How else do you expect me to charm the dress off you?”
She swats my arm, playfully feigning offense.
Not that I’m joking. Sleeping with Maeve could scarcely be called a hardship. I find myself entranced by her charms more often than not.
If I’m not careful, I’ll forget why I’m here.
Better focus, Kellin.
With every drink, Maeve grows a little more carefree. Sip by sip, her lips loosen, providing me with my chance to sneak past her lowered defenses and question her about her father.
But instead, I lose myself in the ecstasy flashing across her face as she samples gourmet appetizers. I wonder if this is what life with someone like Maeve would be like.
I know this isn’t real. A fairy tale at best. But the experience mesmerizes me all the same.
Sitting side by side in an intimate booth. Laughing. Sharing soft touches and champagne. She feeds me bites of chocolate cake and brushes crumbs from my mouth with her fingers.
Her dark gaze lingers on my lips, like she’s tempted to eat me next.
The danger is how much I want that to happen.
At one point, her head rests on my right shoulder, and her left hand settles on my right quad. The simple, warm, showy gesture is meant to encourage the waitstaff to keep spoiling a couple celebrating a new anniversary.
But the tingling electricity that zips up my leg, to my groin, is very real.
I shift in the chair. We need to get out of here. If we don’t leave soon, I might reserve a room at this place and lead her upstairs within the hour. That can’t happen.
Not yet.
Not before I maximize this opportunity to pump her for information.
I squandered my first chances, too distracted by her pretty face and plump lips.
I won’t waste the next ones.
Once dinner’s over, I guide her out into the thumping heartbeat of Santa Monica. At least on the streets I won’t be as easily led astray, mission be damned.
Maeve sways as she walks, just a little. Happy from the champagne.
Without warning, she laces her fingers through mine. The Santa Monica pier opens up ahead of us.
She points with a grin, clearly tipsy. “Next stop!”
“The pier?”
“Better.”
I don’t know what she means until she drags me through the evening crowds and procures two tickets to ride the Ferris wheel.
“Let’s go!”
