SAM
Fourteen hours.
That’s how long it’s been since I kissed Olivia. Since I’ve seen her.
Pathetic, maybe, but it seems longer. The night dragged, the morning worse.
It was only a kiss on the cheek, but stopping there took everything I had. Walking away left me hard, restless, and haunted by the way she smiled against my skin.
I have a ton of work to get through before stealing a few hours for lunch with her. If only my mind would cooperate. I can’t concentrate on invoices, menu changes, or supplier calls without her face intruding, the way her laugh curls low in her throat, and the way she looks at me as if she’s trying not to.
She’s under my skin, and she’s not even mine.
I’m not sure what our date will bring; I haven’t let myself think that far ahead. But I do know this—lunch won’t be enough. The distance won’t matter. I already know I’ll want more.
By eleven-thirty, she’s waiting in the hotel lobby, impossible to miss. Her glossy espresso-colored hair tumbles in soft waves, framing her face in a way that makes my chest tighten.
She’s in a pale-pink jersey top that clings just enough to torture me, jeans that fit like a second skin, and black ankle boots that somehow make her legs look longer. The Ray-Bans perched on her head complete the look—sweet and sexy without even trying.
“Hey there.” My lips brush her cheek, and the second my skin meets hers, heat streaks through me. A lit match.
She smells like vanilla and spring rain. I want to linger.
“Hi.” Her greeting is a sigh that vibrates between us.
I take her hand and we fall into step easily, like we’ve done it a hundred times. We stroll along the streets of downtown Montreal, and not long after leaving the hotel, her phone rings and we stop for her to check. She glances at the screen, frowns, and sends the call to voicemail before tucking it back into her bag.
“Everything okay?”
She nibbles her bottom lip—a nervous habit, maybe—and shakes her head. “Yes. It was nothing. Where are we going?”
“One of my favorite places. Do you like Portuguese?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never had it.”
“You’re in for a treat. The food is out of this world. I thought it would be a great place to enjoy the afternoon and get to know each other.”
When we step into the restaurant, she quiets, taking in the cozy space and flickering candlelight. I ask our server for sparkling wine as we’re seated. The air smells of grilled seafood, garlic, and lemon.
Her gaze travels over the brick walls and warm wood tones, then to me. “You’re passionate about food, aren’t you?”
“Yes. It’s who I am.”
“I can tell.”
I chuckle, clinking our glasses once the server pours the wine. Then she waits to take our order.
“Can I order for you?” I rush to explain, not wanting her to think I’m a control freak or anything like that. “Only because I know this menu as well as my own and I want you to experience the best dishes.”
“I don’t usually let men order for me.” Her eyes gleam, teasing but genuine. “But yes, I trust you.”
“You do?”
She nods, and something about that small gesture lends itself to intimacy.
“Sam,” the owner—a friend of mine—calls from across the restaurant.
We both turn and before I can say anything, he’s upon us, hugging me, shaking my hand, and introducing himself to Olivia. In his usual gregarious manner, he dominates the conversation and orders for both of us. Of course, who better than the owner to order for you, but today he’s cramping my style, and try as I might, he doesn’t get the hint.
