I shiver and whip him a look. “How did you know that?”
“You just told me.” He pulls out my chair for me, then sits and orders us wine.
I take my time examining the menu just to give myself something to do. This man has me completely off balance and he knows it. One minute a sweet kiss, and thenext a crude remark. I’m going to get whiplash after twenty-four hours with this man. My neck will be broken by the time our six-month agreement is over.
Is this what I’ve been missing by not bothering to date or hook up for one-night stands? Sure, I’ve had my share of kisses and fumbling gropes from boys who thought they were men. But the simple touch of someone’s mouth against mine has never elicited such a reaction as this one.
I’ve always been a little ambivalent about intimacy if I’m being honest. I had a few high school boyfriends, but it was never anything serious or long term, and the thought of hooking up with a random person for fun never appealed to me. Most of my friends had no problems with it, and while I enjoyed listening to their crazy stories, it’s not something I pictured for myself. I just don’t know if I’m the kind of person who can have sex without emotional attachment.
I glance at my date across the table. I guess I’m going to find out soon enough.
“Do you enjoy French cuisine?” He asks this in a calm voice, as if he’s perfectly fine after that kiss. It’s not fair that I’m the only one affected.
Silently, I remind myself that we are in a fake relationship. That this is all for show. I shouldn’t be this shook up after one small kiss.
“I haven’t had the best experiences with it,” I admit. “When I was a kid, my dad took us to this really expensive French place right when it opened, but we had all the stereotypical dishes that aren’t appealing to eight-year-olds. Like escargot and frog legs and beef tartare. I haven’t really had the desire to try it again since then.”
“There’s a lot more to it than snails and raw beef,” he says, lips twitching. “I’ll order for you.”
Even though I don’t read a word of French, I continue looking at the menu. He snags a finger over the top and draws the menu down.
“You can put this down now.”
I do as he says. “It just feels like everybody is staring at me.”
“That’s because they are,” he says.
The back of my neck tingles. If I turn around, I’ll see a million pairs of eyes on me, and if I focus hard enough, I can hear more whispering. I wonder if people have been snapping photos of us with their phones. Who needs a nip slip? Apparently, my presence in the restaurant is scandalous enough.
“It’s never easy hearing people say negative things about you,” he goes on, “but you’ll get used to it. Hold your head high and ignore them. I won’t have my date acting like a skittish pony.”
He says this as if he has experience being in my shoes. I haven’t Googled Nate Windemere but maybe I should. What kind of skeletons does he have in his closet? What kind of dirt on him might possibly have made its way into the local tabloids?
There is actually an entire website dedicated to the spiciest scandals and downfalls of New York City’s elite class. I didn’t know it existed until my father’s crimes were brought to light. It was stupid, but I scrolled through it and was aghast to find that my family had an entire section dedicated just to us that went back years before my father was arrested. It mostly consisted of eyewitnesses whooverheard my parents fighting at dinner, or speculation over how much my mother spent at certain boutiques throughout the city. An entirely new page was created just for the Ponzi scheme. I imagine my photographs from this evening are going to be all over that website any second now.
Maybe I’ll Google later and see what I can dig up about the Windemeres.
The waiter returns with wine and appetizers. As soon as he leaves, Nate picks up an oyster and brings it to my lips.
“Suck,” he says darkly.
My eyes meet his. “Not without lemon.”
“Suck. It. Now.”
A pleasant shiver runs through me. We’ve just crossed into entirely new territory.
Opening my mouth, I wrap my lips around the shell and pull the meat and juice into my mouth. He watches me like a hawk, gaze never leaving mine as I chew.
“Good girl.”
A deep ache spears right through the center of me as I watch him select another oyster. This time, he adds a few drops of lemon juice from a wedge on the plate.
“I like to watch you suck.”
“Jesus.” The word ripples out of me and his eyes gleam with amusement. I take the second oyster and then breathe a small sigh of relief as he has one for himself. I had no idea a man could get me so hot by talking like that.
I have most definitely been missing out.
