My mom used to assure me of all those things when she was alive, but I haven't had a person to act as my own personal cheerleader for a long time. And sometimes my insecurities get the better of me.
Damon gives my hand a gentle squeeze before resting my palm on his thigh. My fingers twitch against the fabric, getting a feel of his muscular thigh that feels more like a tree trunk. My mouth is dry as I glance over at this handsome man. It almost seems like a dream that he's taking me out on a date.
"What are you thinking about?" he asks.
I roll his question around in my mind for a while before I decide to answer him honestly. "I'm just wondering why you bid on this date with me last night. Why you're paying to take me out when I'm sure you have your pick of all the women in New York City."
"I don't want any of the other women in New York City," he says, glancing at me. "The moment I saw you in the coffee shop, Victoria, I knew I wanted you. Imagine my surprise when I saw you last night at the fundraiser and found out I could win a date with you.” He places his hand over mine tenderly, and I revel in the feel of his skin against mine. “I knew if I won, you couldn’t turn me down.”
Swallowing hard, I manage to smile. Damon’s words affect me way too much, causing little butterflies to take flight in my stomach any time he speaks. I want to tell him that I wouldn’t have turned him down if he’d asked me out, but I can’t even muster the courage to flirt right now. I’m hoping that the first-date jitters will wear off soon and that I can carry on a full conversation without making myself look like a complete idiot.
We arrive atLa Petite Chaumière, a fancy five-star French restaurant, a short time later. Damon hands over the keys to his expensive and sleek SUV to the valet before leading me inside.
The restaurant is extremely busy for Saturday night, but the people in charge of the charity had a standing reservation made ahead of our date. The place is beautiful with fine art hanging from the walls and fancy, crystal chandeliers dripping from the ceilings. I’ve never been here before, but I’ve been to a ton of restaurants just like it. I’m sure a bottle of wine costs more than most people’s rent, and they have a special sommelier to serve it in expensive crystal glasses.
We’re led to a table in the corner of the restaurant, and Damon pulls out my chair. I sit down, and he pushes me in before taking a seat across from me.
The menus are resting on top of the freshly-pressed, charcoal gray, linen tablecloth. I pick one up and scan over it. It’s all in French, of course. Growing up with many private tutors when I was a child, French was one of the languages I longed to learn.
And so, when the waiter comes, I tell him in perfectly accented French exactly what I want.
Damon cocks a brow at that, and I give him a confident smile. But then, when the young man turns to him, Damon spouts off the same lovely language perfectly.
The waiter nods and takes our menus before leaving us alone.
“You know French,” I say, allowing the surprise in my tone to leak through.
“As do you,” he offers.
“My father insisted that I learn three languages when I was younger. French was more of a passion than a punishment for me, though.” I can remember Mrs. Rossi teaching me how to bake and also helping me with my French lessons. She was fluent in a lot of languages, and she would make me repeat everything she said like a little parrot. She spoke the language beautifully, and I always wanted to be just like her when I grew up.
Damon looks down at the table, not meeting my eyes as he says, “My mother spoke French frequently. I don’t know it as fluently as most, but I can make ordering a meal at a place like this look cool.” He flashes me his signature smirk as he meets my gaze.
He looks so devastatingly handsome that I break our connection first, fiddling with my linen napkin on the table. He spoke of his mother in past tense. She must have died, but I don’t want to pry and ask him any details he’s not willing to give me yet. It’s too fast, too soon, and I don’t want to ruin our date with personal inquisitions.
The appetizer we ordered comes, and it looks like a green blob on the plate. Damon frowns, and I must be making the same expression on my face, because he asks, “Is that actually food?”
I laugh. “It’s supposed to be a fancy spinach dip.”
He sits back in his chair, not even attempting to try it. “I’m not used to places like this,” he confesses.
That truly surprises me. The way he dresses in three-piece tailored suits, drives an expensive SUV and drops almost a hundred grand at a charity gala like it’s nothing makes me think that he would beveryused to places like this.
“Well, where would you have taken me on our first date if you would have been able to choose?” I ask out of sheer curiosity.
He starts to speak, but quickly snaps his lips shut.
“What?” I prompt, wanting to know what he was about to say.
“It’s stupid,” he huffs with a shake of his head, causing a lock of his dark hair to fall in front of his green eyes.
“I’m sure it’s not stupid. Just tell me.”
Sighing, he says, “There’s this little place on the corner of Lexington and seventy-ninth…”
“Dino’s Pizza?” I blurt out.
I can see the look of surprise on his face, and his brows furrow as he asks, “You’ve been to Dino’s?”
