At the bar he ordered a selection of food to take out: tacos filled with tuna and seared scallops, fried clams in brioche rolls, clam chowder with oyster crackers.
“Wow,” she said as it was sealed into takeout boxes. It was the first proper smile he’d received from her this afternoon.
“Wait till you taste it,” he told her, slotting the boxes into the bike’s storage box.
“We’re not eating here?”
He smirked. “ATV, remember?” She glanced warily at it and he laughed as he jumped on. “You’ve trusted me so far. Be a shame to have to eat these in the car park instead of on the beach.”
She gave him a narrow-eyed stare, and he imagined her working out if the lure of a scenic picnic was worth the extra trip on the bike. Finally she put her helmet back on and climbed onto the back, those hands sliding round his waist again.
A short while later he was riding along the sand of Smith’s Point, the deep blue of the Atlantic on his right, the windswept dunes on his left. He came to a stop and helped her off, removing his helmet before helping her stow hers.
Her eyes scanned the scenery and she exhaled softly. “Fine, I concede. This place is stunning.”
He grabbed the blanket he’d brought, spread it on the sand, and lifted out the takeout boxes. “Your lunch is served, ma’am.”
She dropped nimbly onto the blanket, sat cross-legged, and opened a box containing the clam chowder. He handed her one of the crackers to dip into it.
“God, that’s so good.” A noise that was part moan and part laugh escaped her. “Guess I was right to trust you with the food and the bike.”
“You can thank Felix for the food. He told me this place was great for seafood and Baja California–style fish tacos.” He watched her tongue slide across her lips and felt an answering response between his legs.
“He’s the guy who told you off the other day?”
Jesus. It was enough to kill his semi. Every time he thought he’d made progress, she brought him down to earth with an almighty bang. “Thanks for the reminder.”
“Sorry.” Her face fell. “That was belittling. I didn’t mean it to sound that way.”
“No problem. We can’t escape the facts. You’re a hotshot city high-flier and I’m a chef still learning his trade.” He took a bite of the scallop taco, hoping he didn’t sound defensive. “So what is it you do in the city?”
She winced. “You must think me very arrogant.”
“No.” Damn, he was handling this all wrong. “You’re not arrogant, you’re confident. Sure of yourself.” He waited till her eyes met his. “It’s a huge turn-on.” Surprise shot across her face and quickly turned to skepticism, so he winked. “You’re welcome to find out if I’m telling the truth.”
Her gaze dropped to his lap but then she hastily averted her eyes, letting out a huff of annoyance. “I can’t believe I fell for that.” She dipped another cracker into the chowder. “To answer your question, I’m a portfolio manager. It basically means I manage funds on behalf of institutional investors, making investment decisions on when and what to buy and sell.”
His knowledge of financial markets was limited to the ISA he’d set up in the hope that one day he’d be able to start saving some money. “You clearly love it. Why?”
She smiled. “People are usually more interested in how many hours I have to work and how much I earn.”
“You enjoy it, so those questions are irrelevant.” Noticing she’d finished eating the chowder, he pushed the fried clams toward her. “Try these. And before you give me the evil eye, that wasn’t me telling you what to do, it was me making a suggestion. Fried clams are a Cape Cod tradition. I had them last time I was here and dreamed about them that night.”
A smile twitched around her mouth. “You dream about food? Interesting.”
“I did.” His gaze pressed hers. “My dreams have changed the past few nights.”
She gave a sharp intake of breath before lowering her gaze and reaching for the fried clams brioche. Presumably to distract from the fact he’d basically admitted he was having erotic dreams about her.
“Okay, that’s delicious,” she stated finally, her tongue licking a crumb from the corner of her mouth and making everything inside him tighten.
“You’re not going to ask what I’m dreaming about now?”
“No.” Her eyes remained on the brioche and she swallowed. And swallowed again.
Interesting. “You were telling me why you love your job.”
She shot him a look of gratitude at the change in topic. “I’ve always had a thing for numbers. I enjoy making sense of them, analyzing them, interpreting trends. The challenge of it.”
