I cock my head. “We talk all the time.”
Brady’s lips make a poutymaybe, maybe not.“Yeah, but it’s always pre- or post-coitus.”
“That’s only because you can’t keep your hands to yourself.”
He arches an eyebrow. “You kissed me first.”
Fair. I don’t regret it for a second. “Because you wouldn’t shut up.”
The server returns with drinks, pouring my wine with a certain amount of flair that probably impresses the people here on a two-week tour of Canada that includes day trips to Montreal, Niagara Falls, Banff, and Vancouver, but I find it a bit fussy.
Brady’s sangria is—
“Oh my God,” he says when the server steps away.
“Are you supposed to bathe in it?” I say.
The glass is barely smaller than Brady’s head. He has to pick it up with both hands to manage it, and only the striped paper straw in the goblet saves him from spilling it all down the front of his shirt. Bits of fruit roll lazily around the bottom, and maybe they’re meant to be dessert, because Brady will need that long to drink the sangria.
He lifts the glass, grip wobbling slightly as he holds it toward me. “Cheers.”
I lift my wine. “Cheers.”
“To our first date,” he says with a smile.
I make sure to hold his gaze as I say, “First of many, I hope.”
His smile grows as he sips his drink. My heart patters beneath my collarbone, and I have to take a longer swallow of my wine.
We order too much food, but it all looks too good not to try. Sardines, shrimp, paella, clams, bone marrow.
“You’re going to have to roll me home if we eat all that,” Brady says, running his hands over his stomach.
I shrug. “You can sleep at my place.”
Now his smile sharpens into something mischievous. “Yeah?”
“Why not?”
“You could go to yoga with me tomorrow!”
“No way,” I groan. “I will never subject myself to that again.”
“Why?” He pouts. “You were really good. I couldn’t keep my eyes off you. I got—” His mouth clacks shut, and he lifts his fishbowl glass, tipping it up precariously so it hides half his face.
My lips curl. “You got what?”
He glares at me from behind his sangria before he carefully sets it back down and leans across the table, waiting until I lean in too.
“I got hard just watching you,” he says softly, which isn’t very soft at all, because the restaurant is busy.
A polite throat is cleared, and we both lurch back to find a server standing there with several plates of food. He sets them down, describing each one down to the parsley emulsion with precision. If he heard what Brady said, he doesn’t let on.
But I did. And somehow, the idea of Brady, aroused and with nowhere to go, is so hot I barely taste the first bites of my food. I remember him, the way he was crouched on the floor. Knowing he was hard for me and couldn’t do anything about it...
“Something wrong?” Brady says, eyebrow arched.
“Eat faster,” I say.
