The driver of the car service I’d hired for the evening spotted us exiting the building and immediately jumped out of the driver’s side to open the rear door. I waited for Aspen to get situated, then strode around the boot to the other side. Ten minutes later, the car stopped in front of a cozy bistro in downtown Manhattan.
I’d visited here before. Not only did it have the right vibe, but the owner was extraordinarily discreet. He greeted us at the entrance and swept us to a table tucked away in a corner. Candles flickered against dark walls and crisp white tablecloths, and the music was at the right volume to allow conversation while also affording privacy from the next table overhearing our conversation.
Aspen slid along the booth, her complexion radiant. A server brought over a bottle of mineral water and two ice-filled glasses. I declined his offer to pour it for us. As Aspen perused the menu, I twisted the cap off the water and filled her glass, then my own. I couldn’t stop looking at her.
“You’re staring,” she said without looking up.
“Observing,” I corrected. “Making sure I take in all the important details.”
“Such as?”
“The way you nibble your lip when you’re concentrating and tuck your hair behind your ear, only to immediately release it. And how you’re trying not to smile because I noticed.”
She did smile then. “Are you always this smooth?”
“Just warming up, Spitfire.”
“I don’t think that nickname works any longer.”
“How so?”
“You doused the flames with your abundance of charm.”
Fuck, I liked this woman. “I’m sure those flames can surge back to life at a moment’s notice.”
Her sexy grin made me want to do things to her that would get me barred from ever visiting this restaurant again. “Oh, they can.”
“Then, we’ll keep the nickname.”
The evening swept by in a flash. Over her mushroom risotto and my steak frites, I realized I hadn’t felt this comfortable around anyone in a long time. As our plates were cleared away, and she declined the offer of dessert, I refilled our water glasses, took a deep breath, and went for it.
“I want to talk to you about Presley.”
She leaned back in her chair, sipping her water. “What about him?”
“He’ll tell you his version, I’m sure, but I had a little word in his shell-like after you left us earlier.”
“Shell-like?”
“Sorry. British slang for ear.”
“Ah. Every day is a school day. What did you say?”
“I told him you weren’t available.”
She blinked once, twice, a third time, each sweep of her lids slower than the last. “Excuse me?”
“He’s got a crush on you.”
Disbelief, or maybe incredulity, crossed her face. “He’s twenty-one.”
“So?”
“I’m twenty-eight. That’s seven years between us.”
“And I’m thirty-five, which is seven years between us.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
