As I slipped past him to my narrow coat closet, I caught a whiff of cold on his skin, a scent I’d loved all my life. I tugged on my ski jacket, since it was hanging half off the hanger from being hastily put away earlier, and pulled out my favorite pair of knee-high snow boots with the stacked heel. When I stood from the chair in the corner where I’d sat to tug them on, Wyatt let out a low whistle.
“You dressed to torture me, didn’t you?”
I glanced down at my outfit, half of which was now beneath my jacket. “You didn’t say where we were going, so I hope casual works.”
“Absolutely killing me.” A groan accompanied his words, and I hid a grin. Gesturing to the door, he said, “We’d better go before I change my mind about feeding you.”
My first response was to go with changing his mind. A loud gurgling in my stomach put paid to that idea though. “Sorry. I spent the afternoon skiing. I’d barely stepped through the door when you texted.”
A laugh barked out of him. “Dinner it is.” A fond expression filled his light green eyes. “You’re always so in control. I’ve never seen you flustered.” He grinned. “It’s cute.”
Narrowing my eyes, I said, “Cute, my ass.”
He leaned back to give said ass a once-over, and his smile morphed into something positively wolfish. “Your cute ass is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. I especially like seeing it naked. But we’ve already established that has to wait.”
Though he moved to usher me ahead of him out the door, I turned to lock it and ran smack into the wall of his chest. Wrapping his arm around me, he hugged me close for a second and let me go with a wink, making me think he’d planned the entire maneuver. After I successfully locked the door, he threw his arm across my shoulders and hustled me along the sidewalk to where he’d parked his behemoth of a truck at the end of the parking lot.
“Where are we having dinner?”
“I want to impress you, but from what Jamaica tells me, that’s going to be hard to do.” His careful driving on the slick roads allowed me to relax a bit in my seat.
“What does Jamaica tell you?”
The side-eye he shot me told me I needed to tone down a notch—or six.
“I’m not that hard to please.”
“My dad played a couple years in the NFL. No doubt that’s why he has two sons on football scholarships.” Pride showed in his grin before it dropped off his handsome face. “But in those days, linemen didn’t get paid like skill players. He invested his money in his business and built a good life. We’ve never done without, but we aren’t super loaded either.” We stopped at a red light and he glanced my way. “You don’t flaunt it, which is classy, but from what Jamaica says, you could eat at Copper every night of the week and never dent your bank account.”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I muttered, “Sometimes, Jamaica talks too much.” Daring a glance over my shoulder, I said, “It’s my dad’s money, not mine. I have an academic scholarship, same as Jamaica, and with the exception of the internship I did with Chessly’s dad this past week, I only apply for paid internships.” My gaze strayed to the front of the truck when the light turned green. “I use as little of my dad’s money as possible.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Wyatt’s face light up. “Awesome. Then I have a chance of impressing you after all.”
A few minutes later, he’d expertly parked his ride in the postage stamp-size lot of a trendy bistro where it was nearly impossible to snag a reservation. Like a flash, he was out the door and around the front of the truck to my side to open my door for me.
“Seriously? You’re feeding me at Le Coup de Gras? How did you swing a reservation in forty minutes?”
With a waggle of his brows, he said, “Stick with me, kid. I have mad connections.”
Slinging his arm over my shoulders again, he hustled me through the snow flurries to the warm interior of the tiny eatery. Flames danced merrily in a rock fireplace. A group of people sat on the couches in front of it, their drinks resting on side tables, while a charcuterie board held pride of place on a coffee table in the middle. Small bistro tables for two or four people edged the room, each separated from the other by a painted fabric screen or a grouping of tall potted plants. The host stand separated the interior from the frigid weather beyond the door.
“I have a reservation for Baxter,” Wyatt said and aimed a beaming smile at me.
The host consulted the book, glanced up, and said, “Right this way.”
After the host seated us next to a window near the fireplace, at the only open table in the place, I set my menu aside and stared Wyatt down. “Seriously, how did you get a reservation here on such short notice?”
With a shrug, he said, “The owner played football with my dad when they were in the pros. He told me anytime I had a special date, he’d have a table for me.” His eyes held mine. “Tonight I finally had a special date.”
I put my hand up. “Wait.” Tilting my head, I asked, “Are you saying you’ve never brought anyone here before?”
“Nope. Ray’s been on my ass for four years to bring someone here, and tonight I did.” Something serious lurked in those arresting green eyes, and my stomach did a somersault.
I picked up my menu and stared unseeingly at what was on offer for dinner. “No pressure for a first date at all,” I mumbled.
He put his hand on top of the menu and gently tugged it down flush with the tabletop. “If you’re feeling pressure, then I’m doing this all wrong, Piper.” Even at low restaurant volume, his deep voice rumbled through me, his words touching me in all the hidden places no one else had ever touched.
“It smells amazing in here, and I’m starving.”
