“I’m Peter, by the way.” His voice is low, like he’s sharing a secret right here in the open.
I look up again, and damn, Ireallylike how that feels. When our eyes meet, I place my hand in his. “Elizabeth.” I give him my full first name—a conscious choice I make on these trips to the city when I want to let loose.
It’s impossible to ignore the heat filling my veins as we touch. I’ve felt this before, this instant connection. It’s what Iuse weekends like this for: to meet someone I can connect with for one night, and then I go back to Balsam Bay and live my life without fear of running into anyone I’ve slept with. With that thought, I send up a silent prayer that this guy is not from the South Shore. I doubt it. He looks more like someone who’s visiting, with those expensive brown leather loafers and how vague he was about traffic earlier. A Haligonian would have given a specific street name.
“You good with joining me for dinner, Elizabeth?” And there it is: he says dinner, not supper. He’s not a Maritimer at all. But what lands softly and covers me like a warm blanket is the way he says my name. A name I decided to avoid as a child because it sounded too old for a girl as cool as me. So, at the age of twelve, I decided to switch to Billie. My best friend’s little sister tried to make Lizzie stick, but other than my dad, no one calls me anything other than Billie. My classmates all agreed it suited me better since I was such a tomboy, anyway. By high school, when I’d come out as bisexual, some people used the nickname to try to upset me. I became Bi-Billie to some, but when I embraced the new name rather than reject it, the novelty quickly wore off.
But now, this guy says my full name and suddenly it feels sexy, sophisticated, grown up. It feels like all the things I’ve always been told I’m not, and I like it. Whether that’s how he sees me or not, for a moment, it’s what I feel, and that means… everything.
He patiently waits for my answer, likely thinking I’m mulling over whether or not I want to eat with him, but the answer is easy.
“Oh, yeah. I’m good,” I say with my hand still in his. He breathes out a sigh, and it lands softly on my arm as he gives my hand a gentle squeeze, before releasing me.
I turn to our waiting host, and the heat from his hand returns to my back, higher this time, so we’re skin-to-skin. I like that,too. I’m starting to wonder how many more things I’m going to like tonight.
CHAPTER 2
HELL’S HOTTEST PEPPERS.
DARCY
A twelve out of ten.
A complete knockout.
The woman who just agreed to have dinner with me iscompletelyout of my league. Elizabeth. The name suits her. She’s a classic beauty, but also something… more. I can’t put my finger on it yet.
Apparently, shooting my shot was the right call when I saw her looking for an escape from whatever hell she was enduring at the bar.
I clocked her the moment I sat down to wait for a table, and when she turned away from the woman next to her for the third time, I requested that my table for one be changed to a double.
I can’t believe my fucking luck, and I hope she can’t feel the tremble of my hand on her back. As soon as we reach our table, the host moves to pull out her chair, but when I glare at him, he casually clears his throat and mumbles something about our server being with us shortly.
As I push Elizabeth’s chair in, her scent floats up. It’s entirely unexpected, the fruity, sweet aroma, but it instantly makes me smile. She smells like summer.
Across from me, she watches with pursed lips and curious eyes, our menus untouched. “Where are you from?”
I laugh at the question, which makes her shoulders relax and her lips turn up into a soft smile.
“Shit. What gave me away? Do I haveTorontostamped on my forehead, or something?” I ask, not at all surprised she knows I’m not from here since people in Halifax seem to have some sort of outsider radar no one can see.
“We’re not having dinner. We’re having supper,” she responds matter-of-factly, still smiling. “I know other provinces tend to use both, but out here, it’s supper. Always.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Of course. How could I forget? Just like here, people sit on acoach, not a couch, and live in ahoasenot a house, right?” Her eyebrows lift, and she eyes me unblinkingly. “Shit,” I mutter. “Sorry, is that like completely offensive? I swear I didn’t mean it to be. I think it’s interesting, dialects changing from one province to another.”
Just as I’m about to start sweating, her lips curve into the widest smile I’ve seen from her so far, and she laughs. It’s a husky sound at first that morphs into something melodic. She reaches for her menu while I remain still, watching her nose crinkling and her eyes sparkling.
“You’re funny, Peter,” she says, still laughing and meeting my eyes. “And you’re right.” She winks at me before looking down at her now-open menu, not clarifying whether I’m right about the pronunciations or the fact that what I said was offensive. I feel equal parts relieved and turned on at her response. She’s easy to talk to, that much is already clear.
“And you, Elizabeth, are you from here?”
“Not Halifax specifically, no. Nova Scotia, yes. I live about an hour away. I was here for a work thing and made a long weekend out of it.” She shrugs, closing her menu and setting it next to her. Our server arrives then, pouring us water and introducing himself as Jace. When he asks what we’d like to drink, I wait for Elizabeth to go first.
“I’d love a Caesar, please.”
Jace smiles politely, turning to me. “I’ll have the same,” I respond, though I don’t know why, because I donotdo spicy, and there’s a good chance for that with this drink. Whatever. Maybe it won’t be that bad.
My eyes roam over the menu, in search of anything that sounds remotely appetizing. I haven’t felt hungry lately. Not really. I don’t know whether it’s the meds or the general weight that always seems to settle deep in my gut, but eating doesn’t appeal to me these days.
