The long-haired asshole from the market rested one hand on the empty chair.
“Can I help you?” This conversation would be short because that was as polite as Nick was going to be.
The guy squinted at him, and then he smiled, and—dammit, Nick was back in that moment at the market, where this man had been an attractive stranger whose face and body would make the last few minutes of Nick’s morning bearable. The smile was a good one, a quirk to one side saying something was funny and this guy was going to tell Nick the joke.
“I hope I didn’t interrupt your call,” Bun-Guy said.
“I’m waiting for someone.” Let him think Nick was moments away from a very important dinner.
“Yeah, about that.” The smile grew, bringing a sick feeling to life in the pit of Nick’s stomach. “Your name’s not Nick, is it?”
He pressed his lips tight.
No.
No, no.
The guy pointed at himself. “Because my name is Oliver and . . .” More of that smile. That goddamn smile. “I think I might be your date.”
* * *
Horror spread over Nick’s face. It would have been hilarious to watch if not for Oliver’s own lingering dismay.
When he’d walked into the restaurant, he’d seen the man whose car Oliver had called the tow truck on. That little confrontation had not been his finest moment. As he’d given his name to the hostess, she'd told him his date was already waiting, but Oliver ignored her, choosing to scan the space in the increasingly futile hope his date might be someone, anyone, other than the dark-haired stranger.
It wasn’t.
His mother taught him to be a gentleman. Otherwise, he would have run. But he couldn’t be the jerk who stood someone up, even a blind date so obviously doomed from the start.
Fortunately, Oliver had lots of experience dealing with people who didn’t want him in the room. One of the perks of being a lawyer—or a former lawyer, at least. He’d have to play this by ear, but he’d do his best to smooth things over.
Nick was on the phone as Oliver approached.
“Excuse me.”
Oliver had noticed Nick’s eyes at the market, the irises so dark they were nearly black. Last Saturday, they’d burned with enough anger to obliterate a weaker man on the spot.
Just like then, Oliver could barely tear his gaze away from them.
Nick’s features, already stern from his phone call, hardened as he gazed up at Oliver.
“Can I help you?” His voice held no understanding of their situation, only cold irritation.
Oliver plowed on, trying to go for blandly polite. “I hope I didn’t interrupt your call.”
“I’m waiting for someone.”
Oliver nearly showed off his best jazz hands.Surprise.
“Yeah, about that.” He bit at the inside of his lip. “Your name’s not Nick, is it?” It had to be. No other guy in the whole restaurant was within a decade of Oliver’s age, and the little information he’d been able to glean from Seb and Martin indicated Nick couldn’t be more than forty.
Realization dawned on Nick’s face. The frown softened, the features going slack. His lips parted. Then the tip of Nick’s tongue peeked out as he licked at his bottom lip and swallowed heavily.
Letting the poor guy hang for another second would have been fun, but Oliver was already starting at a deficit. Allowing Nick the upper hand by rediscovering some of the anger that sparked in his eyes as he’d pressed into Oliver’s space at the market was not the best game plan. So he pasted on his bestisn’t this a funny coincidencesmile and poked a finger at his chest.
“Because my name’s Oliver, and I think I might be your date.”
Before his height could become intimidating, he sank into the open chair. He kept his hands on the table where Nick could see them and cocked an eyebrow in a silent prompt to say something.
