He makes solid points. “Okay, but I still feel weird asking for it.”
Lo hooks his fingers in the waist of my jeans, eyeing the sliver of skin that peeks beneath my blouse. “Then don’t,” he tells me, his hand spindling across the small of my back. “If you want me to choose when we do it, I can. But I didn’t want to take that from you.”
His hand rises up my spine and he skillfully unclasps my bra. I stagger back in surprise, heat blooming on every part of me. He hooks his arm underneath mine, putting me in a lock so I can’t squirm away. Our bodies touch from top to bottom, his hard chest against my soft. I can barely breathe.
Lo presses his lips to my temple and then he whispers, “Do you trust me?”
I swallow hard, trying to focus.Do I trust him?“Yes,” I say. “But…you can’t wait too long.” My words tumble out, more frantic than I anticipated. “It has to be more than two times and spaced out. When I get stressed, I may need more and?—”
His lips find mine, shutting me up. My shoulders droop and I melt almost instantly. He loosens his hold so my arms can fly around his neck. We’re dancing. And yet, our feet don’t move, but I feel lighter than air, suspended above the clouds while performing the waltzBeauty and the Beaststyle.
Gradually, he breaks the kiss and keeps his forehead to mine. I sway from the aftereffects. My lips on his. The surprise of it all.
“You’re not losing anything,” Lo tries to assure me. “You’re gaining spontaneity. How did that feel?”
I open my mouth but can’t form the words.
His grin widens, satisfied. “That good, huh?”
“Mmm-hmm.” I’ve resorted to mumbles.
“You could be doing dishes in the kitchen,” he whispers, his lips tickling my ear, “and I could come right up and....”
His hand slides down my back and below my jeans, in between my thighs...
I’m sold.
I remove my shirt, my bra already unclipped. And he easily lifts me up and places me on the counter. I see something in his eyes—a desire that I hadn’t noticed before. It’s filled with determination, as though convincing me that he’s enough.
I hope and pray and wish that he is. Only time will tell.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The smellof garlic bread and tomato sauce stimulates my hunger. I wiggle in my seat and tug on the hem of my black cocktail dress that rides up my thighs. Since college, the nicest place I’ve dined at is a pub that serves expensive cheeses and pistachios. The only instances when I read menus with a minimum hundred buck taste-testing course are during family dinner parties, my mother forcing me into high heels and pinching my arm to smile.
The incredulous stares are not helping me feel any more welcome. Middle-aged and elderly aristocrats shoot judgmental glares our way, waiting for us to dine-and-dash at any moment. Lo must sense the unkind speculation from our ages. Wrinkles have permanently creased his forehead.
He made the reservation a week ago, citing that we need to have our first “real” date. I sip my wine slowly. When he ordered us the house Merlot, I held in my surprise. He hasn’t had wine—what he refers to as “subservient” alcohol—in months. And even though Nola drove us to La Rosetta, Lo rarely orders alcohol for me. Of any kind.
Now an official couple, I thought I’d stop overanalyzing his gestures, but I start thinking way too much, mostly about the differences in our relationship. Sometimes I wish for a remote control to pause my brain. Just for a moment of peace.
The waiter returns with a basket of “premium” bread. Those were his words when he talked about the loaf, and he looked all snotty about it too. Maybe he expected our eyes to widen in realization that we were at anexpensiverestaurant—withpremiumbread and pricy ravioli, a place not built for young adults with ones or twos beginning their age.
“Are you ready to order?” he asks with sucked in cheeks, reminding me a little too much of my mother.
I bounce between Capellini alla Checca and Filletto di Branzino. Pasta or sea bass? Lo notices my indecision and says, “Give us a few more minutes.”
The waiter shifts his weight. Uh-oh. I know that look. He’s about to get mean. “This isn’t a Mexican restaurant where you can eat free chips and then leave. The bread costs money.”Oh, the premium bread costs money! Who would have thought?“You have to order eventually.”
Lo snaps his menu closed and he spreads his hands out on the table, gripping the sides. He looks about ready to flip the damn thing over.His father would,I realize. The thought steals my breath. I don’t want to compare them. Ever. “I said ‘give us a few more minutes.’ Did I ever insinuate that I wouldn’t pay?”
“Lo,” I warn, his knuckles whitening.Please don’t flip the table.
The waiter glances at Lo’s hands and then the manager finds his way to our table. Eyes from other linen-lined booths and candle-set tables have drifted over to us, staring at the spectacle.
“Is there a problem?” the manager asks, slightly older than the waiter, both dressed in uniform blacks.
“No,” Lo answers first, peeling his fingers off the table. He takes out his wallet. “We’d like a bottle of your most expensive champagne to go. We’ll be leaving after that.” He hands the manager his black American Express card.
