The restaurant wasn’t the issue.Café de Pariswas charming. All dark wood and amber lighting, the kind of place that made you feel like you’d stepped into a 1950s film noir. The problem was Ella. Sun-pinked nose, hair escaping its tie, yellow tank top hugging her in ways that should’ve been illegal. And that smell: soap and river water and something citrusy she’d probably spritzed on just to mess with him.
They were tucked into a corner booth, just far enough inside to seem private. A long mirror on the wall doubled the room, but all Nate could think about was the distance between them. The way her knee hovered just inches from his.
Ella had picked the place. “Good food,” she’d said. “But easy.”
This was not easy. This was a goddamn minefield.
She snapped her compact shut, tucking it back into her purse. “So? Presentable, or do I still resemble a drowned rat?”
Nate swallowed. “You, uh, look like you enjoyed all the river had to offer.”
“Hell yeah, I did.”
His gaze flicked down as she leaned back against the red leather banquette. The thin fabric of her top did nothing to hide the outline of her nipples. A sudden shiver traced his spine. Air conditioning, he told himself. Definitely the air conditioning.
A waiter appeared, and wine was ordered. The moment he left, Ella leaned forward, fingers curling against the table. “I’m still buzzing from those rapids, though. Is that normal? Or am I having a delayed panic response?”
“Not sure those ripples qualify as rapids.”
Her mouth fell open. “Excuse you.”
“They were aggressive puddles at best.”
“I nearly died.”
“You floated. While screaming.”
“I did not scream.”
“You absolutely did.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I yelped. It’s different, and you’re enjoying this.”
“I enjoyed remaining upright in my tube.”
The wine arrived. She took a sip and let out a soft “mmph,” eyes closing for a beat. Then her lashes lifted, caught him watching, and her smile turned knowing. “Ask me why we’re here,” she challenged.
Nate exhaled. “Is it the ambiance?”
She thunked her glass down. “Café de Paris butter.”
“The what now?”
“This,” she declared, rapping her knuckles on the table, “is where it all began. That butter sauce on every steakhouse menu? This is its ancestral home.”
“But we’re not in Paris.”
She bobbed her shoulders. “Irrelevant.”
The waiter drifted closer. Ella didn’t bother with the menu. “Deux entrecôtes, sauce Café de Paris,” she said, smooth as silk. “Cuisson saignante. Avec frites, s’il vous plaît.”
Nate crossed his arms. “I take it you just ordered us steaks?”
“Uh-huh”
“What if I wanted the chicken?”
“You don’t.”
