“Ruby.”
We stare at each other, and something in the air shifts, heavy, warm, electric.
The server appears with menus.
“Would you like wine?” she asks.
Before I can answer, Jaxon glances at me. “Red or white?”
“I, red. I guess.”
He nods once. “A bottle of the Château Belloy.”
The server practically bows. “Excellent choice.”
When she walks away, I whisper, “Do you just… know fancy wines?”
“No,” he says. “I know what I like.”
“And you think I’ll like it too?”
“I know you will.”
I look down at my hands. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
“You’re very unsure of yourself,” he replies.
My stomach tightens. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s true.”
“Still not fair.”
The wine arrives. The server pours it like she’s performing a sacred ritual. I take a sip, and, dammit, it's delicious.
Jaxon watches my reaction.
Then says quietly, “Told you.”
I place the glass down too quickly. “Okay, ground rules.”
“Is this a negotiation?”
“YES.”
He leans back, arms comfortably resting on the chair, expression unreadable but very interested. “Go on.”
“One,” I say, “this is not a date.”
He tilts his head. “It is, though.”
“It’s NOT.”
“It feels like one.”
“Stop making it feel like one!”
His mouth twitches. “I can’t help that.”
