Warning:This scent is designed to make your panties drop within seconds. Proceed with caution.
Holding a single white daisy, he flashes me a smirk.
“Hey,” he says, voice smooth. “I’m here for my blind date. You must be Noia.”
My brain short-circuits. “What?”
He lifts a brow. “You agreed to have dinner with me tonight, said you’d be wearing a red dress?”
The flowy, red wrap around dress with the too high slit and the seriously low neckline actually makes me feel alive again—sexy. But the way he’s eyeing me right now, I feel exposed—like he can read my thoughts through every visible inch of my skin—but in all the bestways.
“I understand you’re a writer,” he adds, brushing by me as he steps inside. “Romance novels, right? Bet you’ve got a thing for slow-burn and broody, dangerous, complicated men.”
“Oh. My. God,” I mutter, closing the door. “You’re being serious right now, aren’t you?”
Ryder texted me when he was on his way home and told me to wait upstairs until he texted me to come down, surprising me when he knocked on the front door.
He shrugs and walks into the candlelit living room like he didn’t light all those damn candles himself.
There’s soft jazz playing in the background and a couple of plates and wine glasses have been set out on the small table by the window. He even laid out cloth napkins. Where he managed to find those, I have no fucking clue.
This guy has this wooing thing pretty down pat.
“I figured we might as well make the most of what we’re doing. Make it fun.”
“You’re deranged.”
He flashes a grin. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
I cross my arms under my breasts, which pushes them up even more. “And what is the goal tonight exactly?”
Ryder’s gaze flicks down to my chest and he slowly licks his lips before quickly looking away. He shrugs again, uncorking the chilled bottle and pouring the wine. “We’re at a crossroads with your writer’s block. So tonight, we’re going to pretend we’re strangers.”
He hands me a glass.
I hesitate. “What if I don’t want to play along?”
He takes a slow sip from his glass. “Then I sit here and snuggle with Goonie all night instead. He’s way less emotionally constipated.”
Goonie meows loudly from the kitchen in agreement.
Traitor.
My eyes volley between the wine, Ryder, and the flicker of candlelight dancing across his face.
Screw it.
“Fine.” I take the glass and down half of it. “Let’s play.”
We sit across from each other and he makes small talk asking me what I do for a living other than writing. I play along and make up a story about how I design greeting cards for emotionally repressed men. He pretends to be a retired stunt double who teaches yoga to senior citizens.
Our knees bump under the table and we laugh as we talk. At one point, he reaches out to brush a crumb from the corner of my mouth with his thumb.
“So, Noia,” he says, tilting his head, keeping his voice low and full of warmth. “Tell me something you’ve never told anyone before.”
I twirl my wine glass, trying not to drown in the way he’s looking at me and make up some more shit. I mean, it’s a fake date after all.
After dinner,we clear the table and he changes the music. With the candles half-melted, he holds out his hand.
