I lowered my voice. "Are you sure you should say things like that on camera?"
As if playing a game with me, Crimson leaned in and lowered his voice to match mine. "I'm a dragon, Taylor. This is my home. I can say and do whatever I want."
Something about the way he said that sent a shiver down my spine.
In a regular tone, he added, "Oh, and by the way, the microphones areveryhigh quality. They pick up whispers just as well as shouts."
I blushed slightly and pulled back. "Good to know," I mumbled.
When the waiter swung back around, we put in our food orders. He also dropped off a bubbly red drink for Crimson, and a fresh water for me.
"Sparkling wine?" I asked.
"Not quite. Something a little... closer to your heart."
I didn't get what he meant until I remembered my pink shirt. "Ah. Cranberry soda."
"That's right. I can get that shirt dry cleaned for you, by the way."
I shrugged. "It's fine. It's not normally my color, but I kind of like it pink now."
"Nonsense. Any color would look good on you."
Was he flirting with me or just being nice? I couldn't tell. Dodging his comment, I took a sip of my water.
"No wine for you, either," Crimson commented. "I recall you saying you don't drink."
"You remembered."
He smirked. "Yes. Even though you didn't remember my taste for cranberry soda."
I gave him a half-smile. "Sorry, I don't go around remembering every dragon's favorite soft drink."
A flicker of something—jealousy?—flashed across Crimson's eyes.
"You know other dragons?" he asked.
"No. You're the first I've met."
That seemed to calm him down. "Ah."
The waiter brought our food. I ordered a light meal so I didn't pig out on TV. The savory melted cheese crepe was doused in a creamy mushroom sauce, making my mouth water. Crimson's dish was a seared fish steak, likely fresh from the ocean. The tiger within me licked his lips at the scent of grilled flesh.
"Smells amazing," I said looking at his plate.
Without missing a beat, Crimson sliced a piece of his fish and offered it to me. I froze. He didn't put it on my plate—he expected me to take it straight from his fork.
Which meant putting my mouth on it. Which he would then put in hisownmouth.
Crimson expectantly arched a brow, radiating smug energy. That asshole. He knew we'd be indirectly kissing on film.
The longer I hesitated, the dumber I felt. An indirect kiss? What was I, a teenager? What did it matter if we ate from the same fork? We were two adult men on a date, for gods' sake.
I bit down on his fork, then sat back. The smoky flavor of fish exploded on my tongue. It smelled good, but I didn't expect it to tastethatincredible. Without thinking, I let out a small moan.
Shit.
Crimson's eyes widened. A glassy hungriness shone in them—and it wasn't directed at the food.
