Chapter Eleven
I couldn’t explain the surge of pleasure that jolted through me when I climbed out of my car and saw Torre waiting for me in front of the restaurant. Believing we were on the outs after I left his apartment, I’d thrown myself back into my usual evenings of clubs and gallery openings, and while plenty of people caught my eye, a few minutes in their company, listening to them name-drop or to their clumsy attempts at seduction left me not intrigued or excited, but instead bored and anxious to leave.
Press told me I was growing old. I told him to fuck off.
“Sounds like you have something—or maybe someone—on your mind?”
“Who?” But I knew.
“Don’t you know? Maybe you’re not only losing your sex drive, but your memory.”
I hung up on his laughter.
“Torre.”
He glanced up from his phone, and the full-blown smile he gave me knocked me speechless. How could I have forgotten his face? Fire burned behind those big brown eyes, and his lips curved in a smile that highlighted the creases of twin dimples in his cheeks. I wanted to run my tongue over the tantalizing cleft of his chin.
“Frisco, hi.” He slipped the phone into his pocket.
I didn’t stop to think, leaning in for a kiss. The thrust of his strong jaw hit my mouth instead of his lips, and he backed away.
“Don’t trust yourself?” I smirked.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he responded with a smile.
“I’ll leave that for you to do. Later.” My gaze roamed over him. The god-awful suit he was wearing should be taken off and burned. I’d be happy to do the first.
He shook his head. “Do you think of anything else except pleasure?”
“Should I? Should anyone? What else is there in life that’s worthwhile?” I was genuinely curious. “Life is meant to be lived, not merely worked through. If things aren’t pleasurable, why would I put myself through the bother?”
His eyes narrowed as he frowned. “I hope you’re kidding.”
“Well, this conversation isn’t pleasurable, that’s for sure. Let’s go inside before we lose our reservation.” As if I did this dating thing every day, I rested my hand on the small of his back, and though he shot me an uneasy look, he remained silent.
I’d chosen one of the old-time New York steakhouses I thought Torre would enjoy. I’d reviewed it a year ago and found it a stalwart favorite. Once we were seated at a corner table, he relaxed and ordered a beer, while I had my usual Negroni.
“I haven’t been to a steakhouse in years. I looked up reviews for it, and they all mentioned the artichokes with lemon butter and the truffled mashed potatoes.”
One of those was my review.
“Oh?” I had to ask. “Do you follow reviews as a matter of course?”
The waitress appeared with our drinks, and we ordered the artichokes.
“I do. I have some favorite reviewers.” He named some, and I prided myself on maintaining a neutral face.
“I’m sure they’re well qualified.”
“Absolutely. I appreciate how they’re never unnecessarily unkind. Unlike that Martinelli fromUltimate NYC, whom I can’t stand. Even seeing his name makes my blood boil.”
I sipped my drink.Not bad. Could use a bit more vermouth.“Why?”
“His reviews read like he’s on a personal path to destroy most restaurants. He’s rude and nitpicky and pompous.”
Damn.“Sounds like a terrible person.”
“He must be. He’s like a rich snob who’s never had to work for anything and floats through life, stabbing hard-working people in the heart and cutting them down.”
