“Sounds delicious.” And it does. My stomach growls.
But this whole scenario is awkward.
I force a smile, aware that I’m wearing a nerdy tee and soft linen pants that are wrinkled from travel and that I’m not anywhere near this man’s league. My hair is scraped into a bun, I don’t have any makeup on, and if I look the way I feel, I resemble something that’s been wadded up and thrown in a trash can.
Maybe he’s taking pity on me.
Ugh. How embarrassing. That’s the last thing I want. Does the hotel have professional hot guys they pay to be nice to sad, lonely women who have just been emotionally steamrolled by cheating exes?
“Tell me what you’re thinking.”
He’s staring into my soul. It sounds like a cliché, but it’s the only way I can explain what he’s doing. Seeing me. No one has ever looked at me the way this man does, and I’m not going to lie. It’s every bit as intoxicating as the lemon drop was.
“Is this part of your job?” I ask.
He grins, clearly amused. “No.”
“Then why do you want to have dinner with a complete stranger?”
“You look like you could use some company.”
I glance down. “Is it my shirt?”
“Of course not.” He pauses. “English teacher?”
“This isn’t a date,” I inform him, not really wanting to talk about myself or my profession.
Because Christian was very much a part of that, and I’m not opening up that Pandora’s box of shit.
Alessio shrugs. “I never said it was.”
Now I feel stupid. Of course it’s not a date. Did I think a smoldering sex god like Alessio would want to date a wrinkled, dejected, unemployed former creative writing professor? If I did, I blame it on the vodka. And lack of sleep.
“I just meant that I don’t really want to talk about myself,” I elaborate.
Our server returns with our drinks, and I chug my water as politely as possible, desperate to hydrate.
“Suits me fine,” he says smoothly. “I don’t really want to talk about myself either. Let’s talk about tonight instead.”
Tonight.
My clit pulses to life even though there is no reason for it other than the fact that I’m sitting at a table with the sexiest man I’ve ever seen.
Great. Apparently traveling on three hours of sleep makes me into a sex-craving fiend. Odd, because I did travel quite a bit with Christian, and I don’t recall ever feeling this way.
“Are you off for the rest of the night?” I ask, tracing the condensation on my cool glass.
“I was never on.”
“And yet you were tending bar.”
He gives me a smug look. “You’re breaking the rules, Ms. Brontë.”
It takes me a second to realize what he’s talking about. One, we aren’t supposed to be discussing ourselves. Two, he’s mistaken Jane Austen for Emily Brontë.
“It’s Jane Austen.”
“I thought you said your name was Isla.”
