Greg stares back at me, a crooked line etched across his brow. A second later his brows shoot up, and his head jerks backward.
“The number of roses a man gives…”
“Bingo,” I say. “They aren’t buying roses, chocolates, and diamonds for a peck on the cheek.” The heat rising in my belly shifts from nervous energy to a passionate rebuke of dating men who do indeed expect things in return for their “effort.” “They aren’t buying dental floss panties and lacy lingerie for a woman’s comfort.”
Greg splits his focus between me and the tables around us. I follow his gaze, but no one’s gasping for breath. Hell, even if they were, I wouldn’t care. Every woman in the restaurant would probably agree with me.
“Tell me how you really feel,” Greg finally says. “That’s a lot to unpack.”
And that’s not even the half of it.
The server picks that moment to return with the little leather folder tucked under her arm. She slides it onto the edge of the table with a polite smile. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Greg and I reach for it at the same time. My fingers land first. His hand slides over mine quicker than my next heartbeat.And boy is that heartbeat a doozy. It slams into my chest like it’s trying to land the first punch.
I stare at his hand. Broad enough to cover my knuckles with his thumb brushing the side of my index finger. My breath catches before I can stop it. The table feels too small, the air thicker than before.
I lift my eyes slowly, not sure why my body is cataloging the nerves splintering up my arm like a sparking power line in a lightning storm. I find him watching me with an intensity that snaps straight through my chest and settles low in my stomach. His pupils grow dark around the edges, laser focused on mine.
His jaw flexes and his fingers barely move as they gently hold mine in place. I swallow, caught in his slow, heated look. And my brain vacates the premises.
The server clears her throat. Greg blinks. And I struggle to form words.
“Let me get this,” Greg says, already reaching for the wallet in his back pocket.
My fingers curl around the leather folder and I slide my hand free from his. “My treat. I asked you out, remember.”
He eyes me for half a second before sliding his hand back to his side of the table. He nods as I fish my credit card out of my wallet and hand it to the server. We stare at each other, locked in silence as she runs the card through a mobile device.
As soon as she hands the card back and leaves the table, Greg leans forward again. This time he lowers his voice enough I have to lean in to hear.
“Tell me how this works. Is dinner first base or second?”
Greg
She blinks. Once. Twice. My eyes stay locked on her face as I try to keep a straight face. Her lips part as if she’s about to say something, but words fail her. Likely a first for a feisty woman like her.
The air between us hums and crackles with enough electricity to light a city block. And then I see it—the flash of recognition in her eyes. The corner of her mouth twitches, then lifts into a slow, deliberate grin. And I can’t look away.
We both know what just happened and I’m not backing down.
She leans back against the booth, fingers curling around her purse strap. “I have a three-date rule,” she says lightly, but her eyes stay sharp, tracking my reaction.
My brow lifts a fraction. If she thinks she hasn’t gotten a rise out of me, she has… in more places than one.
“First date’s a handshake,” she says, ticking it off on her fingers. “Second date… maybe a kiss.”
I shift, waiting, anticipating, but she says nothing. The pause stretches and her grin deepens, pleased with herself.
“And the third date?” I ask, my chest tightening.
Her eyes flicker, full of mischief. “To be determined.”
She slides from the booth in one fluid motion and shrugs into her coat. I slide out of the booth as fast as I can unfold my legs and follow her.
“I rarely make it to third-date status.” She snatches the paper heart from the table and flashes me a look over her shoulder.
It lands somewhere between a challenge and an invitation. And that does something very inconvenient to me.
